THE

PHILOSOPHY

OF

THE PLAYS OF SHAKSPERE

UNFOLDED. 

BY DELIA BACON. 

WITH

A PREFACE

BY

NATHANIAL HAWTHORNEAUTHOR OF 'THE SCARLET LETTER, ' ETC

 Aphorisms representing A KNOWLEDGE _broken_ do invite men to inquire further LORD BACON

You find not the apostophes, and so miss the accent. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST

Untie the spell. --PROSPERO

LONDON:GROOMBRIDGE AND SONSPATERNOSTER ROW. 1857

AMES PRESSNEW YORK

HARVARDUNIVERSITYLIBRARYDEC 6, 1972

Reprinted from a copy in the collectionof the Harvard College LibraryReprinted from the edition of 1857, LondonFirst AMS EDITION published 1970Manufactured in the United States of America

International Standard Book Number: 0-404-00443-1

Library of Congress Card Catalog Number: 73-113547

AMS PRESS, INC. NEW YORK, N. Y. 10003

TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION. 

I. The Proposition

II. The Age of Elizabeth, and the Elizabethan Men of Letters

III. Extracts from the Life of Raleigh. --Raleigh's School

IV. Raleigh's School, continued. --The New Academy

 * * * * *

BOOK I

[The HISTORICAL KEY to the ELIZABETHAN ART of TRADITION, which formedthe FIRST BOOK of this Work as it was originally prepared for thePress, is reserved for separate publication. ]

THE ELIZABETHAN ART OF DELIVERY AND TRADITION. 

PART I. 

MICHAEL DE MONTAIGNE'S 'PRIVATE AND RETIRED ARTS. '

I. Ascent from Particulars to the 'Highest Parts of Sciences, ' by theEnigmatic Method illustrated

II. Further Illustration of 'Particular Methods ofTradition. '--Embarrassments of Literary Statesmen

III. The Possibility of great anonymous Works, --or Works publishedunder an _assumed name_, --conveying under rhetorical Disguises thePrincipal Sciences, --re-suggested and illustrated

PART II. 

THE BACONIAN RHETORIC, OR THE METHOD OF PROGRESSION. 

I. THE 'BEGINNERS. '--['Particular Methods of Tradition. '-- The Double Method of 'Illustration' and 'Concealment']

II. INDEX to the 'Illustrated' and 'Concealed Tradition' of the Principal and Supreme Sciences. --THE SCIENCE OF POLICY

III. THE SCIENCE OF MORALITY. Section I. The Exemplar of Good

IV. THE SCIENCE OF MORALITY. Section II. The Husbandry thereunto, or the Cure and Culture of the Mind. --APPLICATION

V. THE SCIENCE OF MORALITY. --ALTERATION

VI. Method of Convoying the Wisdom of the Moderns

 * * * * *

BOOK II. 

ELIZABETHAN 'SECRETS OF MORALITY AND POLICY'; OR, THE FABLES OF THENEW LEARNING. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

I. The DesignII. The Missing Books of the Great Instauration or 'Philosophy itself'

PART I. 

LEAR'S PHILOSOPHER;

[OR, THE LAW OF THE 'SPECIAL AND RESPECTIVE DUTIES, ' DEFINED AND'ILLUSTRATED' IN TABLES OF 'PRESENCE' AND 'ABSENCE. ']

I. Philosophy in the PalaceII. Unaccommodated ManIII. The King and the BeggarIV. The Use of EyesV. The Statesman's Note-Book--and the Play

PART II. 

JULIUS CAESAR AND CORIOLANUS. 

THE SCIENTIFIC CURE OF THE COMMON-WEAL;

OR, 'THE COMMON DUTY OF EVERY MAN AS A MAN, OR MEMBER OF A STATE, ' DEFINEDAND ILLUSTRATED IN 'NEGATIVE INSTANCES' AND 'INSTANCES OF PRESENCE. '

JULIUS CAESAR;

OR, THE EMPIRICAL TREATMENT IN DISEASES OF THE COMMON-WEAL EXAMINED. 

I. The Death of Tyranny; or, the Question of the PrerogativeII. Caesar's Spirit

CORIOLANUS. 

THE QUESTION OF THE CONSULSHIP; OR, THE SCIENTIFIC CURE OF THECOMMON-WEAL PROPOUNDED. 

I. The Elizabethan HeroismII. Criticism of the Martial GovernmentIII. 'Insurrections Arguing'IV. Political RetrospectV. The Popular ElectionVI. The Scientific Method in PoliticsVII. Volumnia and her BoyVIII. Metaphysical AidIX. The Cure. --Plan of Innovation. --New Definitions. X. The Cure. --Plan of Innovation. --New Constructions. XI. The Cure. --Plan of Innovation. --'The Initiative'XII. The Ignorant Election revoked. --A 'Wrestling Instance'. XIII. Conclusion

PREFACE. 

This Volume contains the argument, drawn from the Plays usuallyattributed to Shakspere, in support of a theory which the author of ithas demonstrated by historical evidences in another work. Having neverread this historical demonstration (which remains still in manuscript, with the exception of a preliminary chapter, published long ago in anAmerican periodical), I deem it necessary to cite the author's ownaccount of it:--

'The Historical Part of this work (which was originally the principalpart, and designed to furnish the historical key to the greatElizabethan writings), though now for a long time completed and readyfor the press, and though repeated reference is made to it in thisvolume, is, for the most part, omitted here. It contains a true andbefore unwritten history, and it will yet, perhaps, be published as itstands; but the vivid and accumulating historic detail, with whichmore recent research tends to enrich the earlier statement, anddisclosures which no invention could anticipate, are waiting now to besubjoined to it. 

'The INTERNAL EVIDENCE of the assumptions made at the outset is thatwhich is chiefly relied on in the work now first presented on thissubject to the public. The demonstration will be found complete onthat ground; and on that ground alone the author is willing, anddeliberately prefers, for the present, to rest it. 

'External evidence, of course, will not be wanting; there will beenough and to spare, if the demonstration here be correct. But theauthor of the discovery was not willing to rob the world of this greatquestion; but wished rather to share with it the benefit which thetrue solution of the Problem offers--the solution prescribed by thosewho propounded it to the future. It seemed better to save to the worldthe power and beauty of this demonstration, its intellectual stimulus, its demand on the judgment. It seemed better, that the world shouldacquire it also in the form of criticism, instead of being stupifiedand overpowered with the mere force of an irresistible, external, historical proof. Persons incapable of appreciating any other kind ofproof, --those who are capable of nothing that does not 'directly fallunder and strike _the senses_' as Lord Bacon expresses it, --will havetheir time also; but it was proposed to present the subject first tominds of another order. '

In the present volume, accordingly, the author applies herself to thedemonstration and development of a system of philosophy, which haspresented itself to her as underlying the superficial and ostensibletext of Shakspere's plays. Traces of the same philosophy, too, sheconceives herself to have found in the acknowledged works of LordBacon, and in those of other writers contemporary with him. All agreein one system; all these traces indicate a common understanding andunity of purpose in men among whom no brotherhood has hitherto beensuspected, except as representatives of a grand and brilliant age, when the human intellect made a marked step in advance. 

The author did not (as her own consciousness assures her) eitherconstruct or originally seek this new philosophy. In many respects, ifI have rightly understood her, it was at variance with herpre-conceived opinions, whether ethical, religious, or political. Shehad been for years a student of Shakspere, looking for nothing in hisplays beyond what the world has agreed to find in them, when she beganto see, under the surface, the gleam of this hidden treasure. It wascarefully hidden, indeed, yet not less carefully indicated, as with apointed finger, by such marks and references as could not ultimatelyescape the notice of a subsequent age, which should be capable ofprofiting by the rich inheritance. So, too, in regard to Lord Bacon. The author of this volume had not sought to put any but the ordinaryand obvious interpretation upon his works, nor to take any other viewof his character than what accorded with the unanimous judgment uponit of all the generations since his epoch. But, as she penetrated moreand more deeply into the plays, and became aware of those innerreadings, she found herself compelled to turn back to the 'Advancementof Learning' for information as to their plan and purport; and LordBacon's Treatise failed not to give her what she sought; thus addingto the immortal dramas, in her idea, a far higher value than theirwarmest admirers had heretofore claimed for them. They filled out thescientific scheme which Bacon had planned, and which needed only theseprofound and vivid illustrations of human life and character to makeit perfect. Finally, the author's researches led her to a point whereshe found the plays claimed for Lord Bacon and his associates, --not ina way that was meant to be intelligible in their own periloustimes, --but in characters that only became legible, and illuminated, as it were, in the light of a subsequent period. 

The reader will soon perceive that the new philosophy, as heredemonstrated, was of a kind that no professor could have venturedopenly to teach in the days of Elizabeth and James. The concludingchapter of the present work makes a powerful statement of the positionwhich a man, conscious of great and noble aims, would then haveoccupied; and shows, too, how familiar the age was with all methods ofsecret communication, and of hiding thought beneath a masque ofconceit or folly. Applicably to this subject, I quote a paragraph froma manuscript of the author's, not intended for present publication:--

'It was a time when authors, who treated of a scientific politics andof a scientific ethics internally connected with it, naturallypreferred this more philosophic, symbolic method of indicating theirconnection with their writings, which would limit the indication tothose who could pierce within the veil of a philosophic symbolism. Itwas the time when the cipher, in which one could write '_omnia peromnia_, ' was in such request, and when 'wheel ciphers' and 'doubles'were thought not unworthy of philosophic notice. It was a time, too, when the phonographic art was cultivated, and put to other uses thanat present, and when a '_nom de plume_' was required for otherpurposes than to serve as the refuge of an author's modesty, orvanity, or caprice. It was a time when puns, and charades, andenigmas, and anagrams, and monograms, and ciphers, and puzzles, werenot good for sport and child's play merely; when they had need to beclose; when they had need to be solvable, at least, only to those who_should_ solve them. It was a time when all the latent capacities ofthe English language were put in requisition, and it was flashing andcrackling, through all its lengths and breadths, with puns and quips, and conceits, and jokes, and satires, and inlined with philosophicsecrets that opened down "into the bottom of a tomb"--that opened intothe Tower--that opened on the scaffold and the block. '

I quote, likewise, another passage, because I think the reader willsee in it the noble earnestness of the author's character, and maypartly imagine the sacrifices which this research has cost her:--

'The great secret of the Elizabethan age did not lie where anysuperficial research could ever have discovered it. It was not leftwithin the range of any accidental disclosure. It did not lie on thesurface of any Elizabethan document. The most diligent explorers ofthese documents, in two centuries and a quarter, had not found it. Nofaintest suspicion of it had ever crossed the mind of the most recent, and clear-sighted, and able investigator of the Baconian remains. Itwas buried in the lowest depths of the lowest deeps of the deepElizabethan Art; that Art which no plummet, till now, has eversounded. It was locked with its utmost reach of traditionary cunning. It was buried in the inmost recesses of the esoteric Elizabethanlearning. It was tied with a knot that had passed the scrutiny andbaffled the sword of an old, suspicious, dying, military government--aknot that none could cut--a knot that must be untied. 

'The great secret of the Elizabethan Age was inextricably reserved bythe founders of a new learning, the prophetic and more nobly giftedminds of a new and nobler race of men, for a research that should testthe mind of the discoverer, and frame and subordinate it to that sosleepless and indomitable purpose of the prophetic aspiration. It was"the device" by which they undertook to live again in the ages inwhich their achievements and triumphs were forecast, and to come forthand rule again, not in one mind, not in the few, not in the many, butin all. "For there is no throne like that throne in the thoughts ofmen, " which the ambition of these men climbed and compassed. 

'The principal works of the Elizabethan Philosophy, those in which thenew method of learning was practically applied to the noblestsubjects, were presented to the world in the form of AN ENIGMA. It wasa form well fitted to divert inquiry, and baffle even the research ofthe scholar for a time; but one calculated to provoke the philosophiccuriosity, and one which would inevitably command a research thatcould end only with the true solution. That solution was reserved forone who would recognise, at last, in the disguise of the greatimpersonal teacher, the disguise of a new learning. It waited for thereader who would observe, at last, those thick-strewn scientificclues, those thick-crowding enigmas, those perpetual beckonings fromthe "theatre" into the judicial palace of the mind. It was reservedfor the student who would recognise, at last, the mind that wasseeking so perseveringly to whisper its tale of outrage, and "thesecrets it was forbid. " It waited for one who would answer, at last, that philosophic challenge, and say, "Go on, I'll follow thee!" It wasreserved for one who would count years as days, for the love of thetruth it hid; who would never turn back on the long road ofinitiation, though all "THE IDOLS" must be left behind in its stages;who would never stop until it stopped in that new cave of Apollo, where the handwriting on the wall spells anew the old Delphic motto, and publishes the word that "_unties_ the spell. "

On this object, which she conceives so loftily, the author hasbestowed the solitary and self-sustained toil of many years. Thevolume now before the reader, together with the historicaldemonstration which it pre-supposes, is the product of a most faithfuland conscientious labour, and a truly heroic devotion of intellect andheart. No man or woman has ever thought or written more sincerely thanthe author of this book. She has given nothing less than her life tothe work. And, as if for the greater trial of her constancy, hertheory was divulged, some time ago, in so partial and unsatisfactory amanner--with so exceedingly imperfect a statement of its claims--as toput her at great disadvantage before the world. A single article fromher pen, purporting to be the first of a series, appeared in anAmerican Magazine; but unexpected obstacles prevented the furtherpublication in that form, after enough had been done to assail theprejudices of the public, but far too little to gain its sympathy. Another evil followed. An English writer (in a 'Letter to the Earl ofEllesmere, ' published within a few months past) has thought it notinconsistent with the fair-play, on which his country prides itself, to take to himself this lady's theory, and favour the public with itas his own original conception, without allusion to the author's priorclaim. In reference to this pamphlet, she generously says:--

'This has not been a selfish enterprise. It is not a personal concern. It is a discovery which belongs not to an individual, and not to apeople. Its fields are wide enough and rich enough for us all; and hethat has no work, and whoso will, let him come and labour in them. Thefield is the world's; and the world's work henceforth is in it. Sothat it be known in its real comprehension, in its true relations tothe weal of the world, what matters it? So that the truth, which isdearer than all the rest--which abides with us when all others leaveus, dearest then--so that the truth, which is neither yours nor mine, but yours _and_ mine, be known, loved, honoured, emancipated, mitred, crowned, adored--_who_ loses anything, that does not find it. ' 'Andwhat matters it, ' says the philosophic wisdom, speaking in theabstract, 'what name it is proclaimed in, and what letters of thealphabet we know it by?--what matter is it, so that they _spell_ thename that is _good_ for ALL, and _good_ for _each_, '--for that is theREAL name here?

Speaking on the author's behalf, however, I am not entitled to imitateher magnanimity; and, therefore, hope that the writer of the pamphletwill disclaim any purpose of assuming to himself, on the ground of aslight and superficial performance, the result which she has attainedat the cost of many toils and sacrifices. 

And now, at length, after many delays and discouragements, the workcomes forth. It had been the author's original purpose to publish itin America; for she wished her own country to have the glory ofsolving the enigma of those mighty dramas, and thus adding a new andhigher value to the loftiest productions of the English mind. Itseemed to her most fit and desirable, that America--having received somuch from England, and returned so little--should do what remained tobe done towards rendering this great legacy available, as its authorsmeant it to be, to all future time. This purpose was frustrated; andit will be seen in what spirit she acquiesces. 

'The author was forced to bring it back, and contribute it to theliterature of the country from which it was derived, and to which itessentially and inseparably belongs. It was written, every word of it, on English ground, in the midst of the old familiar scenes andhousehold names, that even in our nursery songs revive the dearancestral memories; those "royal pursuivants" with which ourmother-land still follows and retakes her own. It was written in theland of our old kings and queens, and in the land of _our own_PHILOSOPHERS and POETS also. It was written on the spot where theworks it unlocks were written, and in the perpetual presence of theEnglish mind; the mind that spoke before in the cultured few, and thatspeaks to-day in the cultured many. And it is now at last, after solong a time--after all, as it should be--the English press that printsit. It is the scientific English press, with those old gags (wherewithour kings and queens sought to stop it, ere they knew what it was)champed asunder, ground to powder, and with its last Elizabethanshackle shaken off, that restores, "in a better hour, " the torn andgarbled science committed to it, and gives back "the bread cast on itssure waters. "'

There remains little more for me to say. I am not the editor of thiswork; nor can I consider myself fairly entitled to the honor (which, if I deserved it, I should feel to be a very high as well as aperilous one) of seeing my name associated with the author's on thetitle-page. My object has been merely to speak a few words, whichmight, perhaps, serve the purpose of placing my countrywoman upon aground of amicable understanding with the public. She has a vastpreliminary difficulty to encounter. The first feeling of every readermust be one of absolute repugnance towards a person who seeks to tearout of the Anglo-Saxon heart the name which for ages it has helddearest, and to substitute another name, or names, to which thesettled belief of the world has long assigned a very differentposition. What I claim for this work is, that the ability employed inits composition has been worthy of its great subject, and wellemployed for our intellectual interests, whatever judgment the publicmay pass upon the questions discussed. And, after listening to theauthor's interpretation of the Plays, and seeing how wide a scope sheassigns to them, how high a purpose, and what richness of innermeaning, the thoughtful reader will hardly return again--not wholly, at all events--to the common view of them and of their author. It isfor the public to say whether my countrywoman has proved her theory. In the worst event, if she has failed, her failure will be morehonorable than most people's triumphs; since it must fling upon theold tombstone, at Stratford-on-Avon, the noblest tributary wreath thathas ever lain there. 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE PLAYS OF SHAKSPERE. 

 * * * * *

INTRODUCTION. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE PROPOSITION. 

'One time will owe another. '--_Coriolanus_. 

This work is designed to propose to the consideration, not of thelearned world only, but of all ingenuous and practical minds, a newdevelopment of that system of practical philosophy from which THESCIENTIFIC ARTS of the Modern Ages proceed, and which has alreadybecome, just to the extent to which it has been hitherto opened, thewisdom, --the universally approved, and practically adopted, Wisdom ofthe _Moderns_. 

It is a development of this philosophy, which was deliberatelypostponed by the great Scientific Discoverers and Reformers, in whoseScientific Discoveries and Reformations our organised advancements inspeculation and practice have their origin;--Reformers, whosescientific acquaintance with historic laws forbade the idea of anyimmediate and sudden cures of the political and social evils whichtheir science searches to the root, and which it was designed toeradicate. 

The proposition to be demonstrated in the ensuing pages is this: Thatthe new philosophy which strikes out from the Court--from _the Court_of that despotism that names and gives form to the ModernLearning, --which comes to us from the Court of the last of the Tudorsand the first of the Stuarts, --that new philosophy which we havereceived, and accepted, and adopted as a practical philosophy, notmerely in that grave department of learning in which it comes to usprofessionally _as_ philosophy, but in that not less importantdepartment of learning in which it comes to us in the disguise ofamusement, --in the form of fable and allegory and parable, --theproposition is, that this Elizabethan philosophy is, in these twoforms of it, --not two philosophies, --not two Elizabethan philosophies, not two new and wondrous philosophies of nature and practice, not twonew Inductive philosophies, but one, --one and the same: that it isphilosophy in both these forms, with its veil of allegory and parable, and without it; that it is philosophy applied to much more importantsubjects in the disguise of the parable, than it is in the openstatement; that it is philosophy in both these cases, and notphilosophy in one of them, and a brutish, low-lived, illiterate, unconscious spontaneity in the other. 

The proposition is that it proceeds, in both cases, from a reflectivedeliberative, eminently deliberative, eminently conscious, _designing_mind; and that the coincidence which is manifest not in the designonly, and in the structure, but in the detail to the minutest pointsof execution, is _not_ accidental. 

It is a proposition which is demonstrated in this volume by means ofevidence derived principally from the books of this philosophy--booksin which the safe delivery and tradition of it to the future wasartistically contrived and triumphantly achieved:--the books of a new'school' in philosophy; books in which the connection with the schoolis not always openly asserted; books in which the true names of theauthors are not always found on the title-page;--the books of aschool, too, which was compelled to have recourse to translations insome cases, for the safe delivery and tradition of its new learning. 

The facts which lie on the surface of this question, which areinvolved in the bare statement of it, are sufficient of themselves tojustify and command this inquiry. 

The fact that these two great branches of the philosophy ofobservation and practice, both already _virtually_ recognised asthat, --the one openly, subordinating the physical forces of nature tothe wants of man, changing the face of the earth under our eyes, leaving behind it, with its new magic, the miracles of Oriental dreamsand fables;--the other, under its veil of wildness and spontaneity, under its thick-woven veil of mirth and beauty, with its inductedprecepts and dispersed directions, insinuating itself into all ourpractice, winding itself into every department of human affairs;speaking from the legislator's lips, at the bar, from thepulpit, --putting in its word every where, always at hand, alwayssufficient, constituting itself, in virtue of its own irresistibleclaims and in the face of what we are told of it, the oracle, thegreat practical, mysterious, but universally acknowledged, oracle ofour modern life; the fact that these two great branches of the modernphilosophy make their appearance in history at the same moment, thatthey make their appearance in the same company of men--in that samelittle courtly company of Elizabethan Wits and Men of Letters that therevival of the ancient learning brought out here--this is the factthat strikes the eye at the first glance at this inquiry. 

But that this is none other than that same little clique ofdisappointed and defeated politicians who undertook to head andorganize a popular opposition against the government, and werecompelled to retreat from that enterprise, the best of of themeffecting their retreat with some difficulty, others failing entirelyto accomplish it, is the next notable fact which the surface of theinquiry exhibits. That these two so illustrious branches of the modernlearning were produced for the ostensible purpose of illustrating andadorning the tyrannies which the men, under whose countenance andprotection they are produced, were vainly attempting, or had vainlyattempted to set bounds to or overthrow, is a fact which might seem ofitself to suggest inquiry. When insurrections are suppressed, when'the monstrous enterprises of rebellious subjects are overthrown, thenFAME, who is _the posthumous sister of the giants_, --the sister of_defeated_ giants springs up'; so a man who had made some politicalexperiments himself that were not very successful, tells us. 

The fact that the men under whose patronage and in whose service 'Willthe Jester' first showed himself, were men who were secretlyendeavouring to make political capital of that new and immense motivepower, that not yet available, and not very easily organised politicalpower which was already beginning to move the masses here then, andalready threatening, to the observant eye, with its portentousmovement, the foundations of tyranny, the fact, too, that these menwere understood to have made use of the stage unsuccessfully as ameans of immediate political effect, are facts which lie on thesurface of the history of these works, and unimportant as it may seemto the superficial enquirer, it will be found to be anything butirrelevant as this inquiry proceeds. The man who is said to havecontributed a thousand pounds towards the purchase of the theatre andwardrobe and machinery, in which these philosophical plays were firstexhibited, was obliged to stay away from the first appearance ofHamlet, in the perfected excellence of the poetic philosophic design, in consequence of being immured in the Tower at that time for anattempt to overthrow the government. This was the ostensible patronand friend of the Poet; the partner of his treason was the ostensiblefriend and patron of the Philosopher. So nearly did these philosophicminds, that were 'not for an age but for all time, ' approach eachother in _this_ point. But the _protégé_ and friend and well-nighadoring admirer of the _Poet_, was also the _protégé_ and friend andwell-nigh adoring admirer of the Philosopher. The fact that these twophilosophies, in this so close juxta-position, always in contact, playing always into each other's hands, never once heard of eachother, know nothing of each other, is a fact which would seem at thefirst blush to point to the secret of these 'Know-Nothings, ' who aremen of science in an age of popular ignorance, and therefore have a'secret'; who are men of science in an age in which the questions ofscience are 'forbidden questions, ' and are therefore of necessity'Know-Nothings. '

As to Ben Jonson, and the evidence of his avowed admiration for theauthor of these plays, from the point of view here taken, it issufficient to say in passing, that this man, whose natural abilitiessufficed to raise him from a position hardly less mean and obscurethan that of his great rival, was so fortunate as to attract theattention of some of the most illustrious personages of that time; menwhose observation of natures was quickened by their necessities; menwho were compelled to employ 'living instruments' in theaccomplishment of their designs; who were skilful in detecting thequalities they had need of, and skilful in adapting means to ends. This dramatist's connection with the stage of course belongs to thishistory. His connection with the author of these Plays, and with theplayer himself, are points not to be overlooked. But the literaryhistory of this age is not yet fully developed. It is enough to sayhere, that he chanced to be honored with the patronage of _three_ ofthe most illustrious personages of the age in which he lived. He had_three_ patrons. One was Sir Walter Raleigh, in whose service he was;one was the Lord Bacon, whose well nigh idolatrous admirer he appearsalso to have been; the other was _Shakspere_, to whose favor heappears to have owed so much. With his passionate admiration of theselast two, stopping only 'this side of idolatry' in his admiration forthem both, and being under such deep personal obligations to themboth, why could he not have mentioned some day to the author of theAdvancement of Learning, the author of Hamlet--Hamlet who also 'lackedadvancement?' What more natural than to suppose that these twophilosophers, these men of a learning so exactly equal, might havesome sympathy with each other, might like to meet each other. Till hehas answered that question, any evidence which he may have to producein apparent opposition to the conclusions here stated will not be ofthe least value. 

These are questions which any one might properly ask, who had onlyglanced at the most superficial or easily accessible facts in thiscase, and without any evidence from any other source to stimulate theinquiry. These are facts which lie on the surface of this history, which obtrude themselves on our notice, and demand inquiry. 

That which lies immediately below this surface, accessible to anyresearch worthy of the name is, that these two so new extraordinarydevelopments of the modern philosophy which come to us without any_superficially_ avowed connexion, which come to us as _branches_ oflearning merely, do in fact meet and unite in one stem, 'which has aquality of entireness and continuance throughout, ' even to the mostdelicate fibre of them both, even to the 'roots' of their trunk, 'andthe strings of those roots, ' which trunk lies below the surface ofthat age, buried, carefully buried, for reasons assigned; and that itis the sap of this concealed trunk, this new trunk of sciences, whichmakes both these branches so vigorous, which makes the flowers and thefruit both so fine, and so unlike anything that we have had from anyother source in the way of literature or art. 

The question of the authorship of the great philosophic poems whichare the legacy of the Elizabethan Age to us, is an incidental questionin this inquiry, and is incidentally treated here. The discovery ofthe authorship of these works was the necessary incident to that morethorough inquiry into their nature and design, of which the viewscontained in this volume are the result. At a certain stage of thisinquiry, --in the later stages of it, --that discovery becameinevitable. The primary question here is one of universal immediatepractical concern and interest. The solution of this literary problem, happens to be involved in it. It was the necessary prescribed, pre-ordered incident of the reproduction and reintegration of theInductive Philosophy in its application to its 'principal' and'noblest subjects, ' its 'more chosen subjects. '

The HISTORICAL KEY to the Elizabethan Art of Tradition, which formedthe first book of this work as it was originally prepared for thepress, is not included in the present publication. It was the part ofthe work first written, and the results of more recent researchrequire to be incorporated in it, in order that it should representadequately, in that particular aspect of it, the historical discoverywhich it is the object of this work to produce. Moreover, thedemonstration which is contained in this volume appeared to constituteproperly a volume of itself. 

Those who examine the subject from this ground, will find the externalcollateral evidence, the ample historical confirmation which is athand, not necessary for the support of the propositions advanced here, though it will, of course, be inquired for, when once this ground ismade. 

The embarrassing circumstances under which this great system ofscientific practice makes its appearance in history, have not yet beentaken into the account in our interpretation of it. We have alreadythe documents which contain the theory and rule of the moderncivilisation, which is the civilisation of science in our hands. Wehave in our hands also, newly lit, newly trimmed, lustrous with thegenius of our own time, that very lamp with which we are instructed tomake this inquiry, that very light which we are told we must bring tobear upon the obscurities of these documents, that very light in whichwe are told, we must unroll them; for they come to us, as theinterpreter takes pains to tell us, with an 'infolded' science inthem. That light of '_times_, ' that knowledge of the conditions underwhich these works were published, which is essential to the trueinterpretation of them, thanks to our contemporary historians, isalready in our hands. What we need now is to explore the secrets ofthis philosophy with it, --necessarily secrets at the time it wasissued--what we need now is to open these books of a new learning init, and read them by it. 

In that part of the work above referred to, from which some extractsare subjoined for the purpose of introducing intelligibly thedemonstration contained in this volume, it was the position of theElizabethan Men of Letters that was exhibited, and the conditionswhich prescribed to the founders of a new school in philosophy, whichwas none other than the philosophy of practice, the form of theirworks and the concealment of their connection with them--conditionswhich made the secret of an Association of 'Naturalists' applyingscience in that age to the noblest subjects of speculative inquiry, and to the highest departments of practice, a life and death secret. The _physical_ impossibility of publishing at that time, anythingopenly relating to the questions in which the weal of men is mostconcerned, and which are the primary questions of the science of man'srelief, the opposition which stood at that time prepared to crush anyenterprise proposing openly for its end, the common interests of manas man, is the point which it was the object of that part of the workto exhibit. It was presented, not in the form of general statementmerely, but in those memorable particulars which the falsified, suppressed, garbled history of the great founder of this schoolbetrays to us; not as it is exhibited in contemporary documentsmerely, but as it is carefully collected from these, and from the_traditions_ of 'the next ages. '

That the suppressed Elizabethan Reformers and Innovators were men sofar in advance of their time, that they were compelled to haverecourse to literature for the purpose of instituting a gradualencroachment on popular opinions, a gradual encroachment on theprejudices, the ignorance, the stupidity of the oppressed andsuffering masses of the human kind, and for the purpose of making overthe practical development of the higher parts of their science, toages in which the advancements they instituted had brought the commonmind within hearing of these higher truths; that these were men whoseaims were so opposed to the power that was still predominantthen, --though the 'wrestling' that would shake that predominance, wasalready on foot, --that it became necessary for them to conceal theirlives as well as their works, --to veil the true worth and nobility ofthem, to suffer those ends which they sought as means, means whichthey subordinated to the noblest uses, to be regarded in their own ageas their _ends_; that they were compelled to play this great game insecret, in their own time, referring themselves to posthumous effectsfor the explanation of their designs; postponing their honour to agesable to discover their worth; this is the proposition which is derivedhere from the works in which the tradition of this learning isconveyed to us. 

But in the part of this work referred to, from which the ensuingextracts are made, it was the life, and not merely the writings of thefounders of this school which was produced in evidence of this claim. It was the life in which these disguised ulterior aims show themselvesfrom the first on the historic surface, in the form of greatcontemporaneous events, events which have determined and shaped thecourse of the world's history since then; it was the life in whichthese intents show themselves too boldly on the surface, in which theypenetrate the artistic disguise, and betray themselves to theantagonisms which were waiting to crush them; it was the life whichcombined these antagonisms for its suppression; it was the life anddeath of the projector and founder of the liberties of the New World, and the obnoxious historian and critic of the tyrannies of the Old, itwas the life and death of Sir Walter Raleigh that was produced as theHistorical Key to the Elizabethan Art of Tradition. It was the Man ofthe Globe Theatre, it was the Man in the Tower with his twoHemispheres, it was the modern 'Hercules and his load too, ' that madein the original design of it, the Frontispiece of this volume. 

 'But stay I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced and made a _constellation_ there. Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with _rage Or influence_, chide or cheer the drooping stage, Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night, And despairs day, but for thy Volume's light. 

 ['To draw no envy _Shake-spear_ on thy name, Am I _thus ample_ to thy book and fame. '--BEN JONSON. ]

The machinery that was necessarily put in operation for the purpose ofconducting successfully, under those conditions, any honourable ordecent enterprise, presupposes a forethought and skill, a faculty fordramatic arrangement and successful plotting in historic materials, happily so remote from anything which the exigencies of our time haveever suggested to us, that we are not in a position to read at aglance the history of such an age; the history which lies on thesurface of such an age when such men--men who are men--are at work init. These are the _Elizabethan_ men that we have to interpret here, because, though they rest from their labours, their works do followthem--the Elizabethan _Men_ of _Letters_; and we must know what thattitle means before we can read them or their works, before we can'_untie_ their _spell_. '

CHAPTER II. 

THE AGE OF ELIZABETH, AND THE ELIZABETHAN MEN OF LETTERS. 

 'The times, in many cases, give great light to _true_ interpretations. ' _Advancement of Learning_. 

 'On fair ground I could beat forty of them. '

 'I could myself Take up a brace of the best of them, yea _the two tribunes_. '

 'But now 'tis odds beyond arithmetic, And _manhood_ is called _foolery_ when it stands Against a falling fabric. '--_Coriolanus_. 

The fact that the immemorial liberties of the English PEOPLE, and thatidea of human government and society which they brought with them tothis island, had been a second time violently overborne and suppressedby a military chieftainship, --one for which the unorganised popularresistance was no match, --that the English People had been a secondtime 'conquered'--for that is the word which the Elizabethan historiansuggests--less than a hundred years before the beginning of theElizabethan Age, is a fact in history which the great Elizabethanphilosopher has contrived to send down to us, along with hisphilosophical works, as the key to the reading of them. It is a factwith which we are all now more or less familiar, but it is one whichthe Elizabethan Poet and Philosopher became acquainted with undercircumstances calculated to make a much more vivid impression on thesensibilities than the most accurate and vivacious narratives andexpositions of it which our time can furnish us. 

That this second conquest was unspeakably more degrading than thefirst had been, inasmuch as it was the conquest of a chartered, constitutional liberty, recovered and established in acts that hadmade the English history, recovered on battle-fields that were fresh, not in oral tradition only; inasmuch as it was effected in violationof that which made the name of Englishmen, that which made theuniversally recognised principle of the national life; inasmuch, too, as it was an _undivided_ conquest, the conquest of _the singlewill_--the will of the 'one only man'--not unchecked of commons only, unchecked by barons, unchecked by the church, unchecked by _council_of any kind, the pure arbitrary absolute will, the pure idiosyncrasy, the crowned demon of the _lawless_, irrational will, unchained andarmed with the sword of the common might, and clothed with thedivinity of the common right; that _this_ was a conquest unspeakablymore debasing than the conquest 'commonly so called, '--this, whichleft no nobility, --which clasped its collar in open day on theproudest Norman neck, and not on the Saxon only, which left only onenation of slaves and bondmen--that _this_ was a _subjugation_--thatthis was a government which the English nation had not before beenfamiliar with, the men whose great life-acts were performed under itdid not lack the sensibility and the judgment to perceive. 

A more _hopeless_ conquest than the Norman conquest had been, it mightalso have seemed, regarded in some of the aspects which it presentedto the eye of the statesman then; for it was in the division of theformer that the element of freedom stole in, it was in the parliamentsof that division that the limitation of the feudal monarchy had begun. 

But still more fatal was the aspect of it which its effects on thenational character were continually obtruding then on the observanteye, --that debasing, deteriorating, demoralising effect which such agovernment must needs exert on _such_ a nation, a nation ofEnglishmen, a nation with such memories. The Poet who writes underthis government, with an appreciation of the subject quite as livelyas that of any more recent historian, speaks of 'the face of men' as a'motive'--a _motive_ power, a revolutionary force, which ought to besufficient of itself to raise, if need be, an armed opposition to sucha government, and sustain it, too, without the compulsion of an oathto reinforce it; at least, this is one of the three motives which heproduces in his conspiracy as motives that ought to suffice to supplythe power wanting to effect a change in such a government. 

 'If not _the face_ of _men_, The sufferance of our _souls, the time's abuse_, -- _If these be motives weak, break of betimes. _'

There is no use in attempting a change where such motives are weak. 

 'Break off _betimes_, And every man hence to his idle bed. '

That this political degradation, and its deteriorating and corruptinginfluence on the national character, was that which presented itselfto the politician's eye at that time as the most fatal aspect of thequestion, or as the thing most to be deprecated in the continuance ofsuch a state of things, no one who studies carefully the best writingsof that time can doubt. 

And it must be confessed, that this is an influence which shows itselfvery palpably, not in the degrading hourly detail only of which thenoble mind is, in such circumstances, the suffering witness, and thesecretly protesting suffering participator, but in those large eventswhich make the historic record. The England of the Plantagenets, thatsturdy England which Henry the Seventh had to conquer, and not itspertinacious choice of colours only, not its fixed determination tohave the choosing of the colour of its own 'Roses' merely, but itsinveterate idea of the sanctity of '_law_' permeating all themasses--that was a very different England from the England which Henrythe Seventh willed to his children; it was a very different England, at least, from the England which Henry the Eighth willed to _his_. 

That some sparks of the old fire were not wanting, however, --that thenation which had kept alive in the common mind through so manygenerations, without the aid of books, the memory of that 'ancestor'that 'made its laws, ' was not after all, perhaps, without afuture--began to be evident about the time that the history of 'thatlast king of England who was the ancestor' of the English Stuart, wasdedicated by the author of the Novum Organum to the Prince of Wales, afterwards Charles I. , not without a glance at these portents. 

Circumstances tending to throw doubt upon the durability of thisinstitution--circumstances which seemed to portend that this monstrousinnovation was destined on the whole to be a much shorter-lived onethan the usurpation it had displaced--had not been wanting, indeed, from the first, in spite of those discouraging aspects of the questionwhich were more immediately urged upon the contemporary observer. 

It was in the eleventh century; it was in the middle of the Dark Ages, that the Norman and his followers effected their successful landingand lodgement here; it was in the later years of the fifteenthcentury, --it was when the bell that tolled through Europe for acentury and a half the closing hour of the Middle Ages, had alreadybegun its peals, that the Tudor 'came in by battle. '

That magnificent chain of events which begins in the middle of thefifteenth century to rear the dividing line between the Middle Agesand the Modern, had been slow in reaching England with itsconvulsions: it had originated on the continent. The great work of therestoration of the learning of antiquity had been accomplished there:Italy, Germany, and France had taken the lead in it by turns; Spainhad contributed to it. The scientific discoveries which the genius ofModern Europe had already effected under that stimulus, withoutwaiting for the New Organum, had all originated on the continent. Thecriticism on the institutions which the decaying Roman Empire hadgiven to its Northern conquerors, --that criticism which necessarilyaccompanied the revival of _learning_ began there. Not yet recoveredfrom the disastrous wars of the fifteenth century, suffering from thediabolical tyranny that had overtaken her at that fatal crisis, England could make but a feeble response as yet to these movements. They had been going on for a century before the influence of thembegan to be visible here. But they were at work here, notwithstanding:they were germinating and taking root here, in that frozen winter of anation's discontent; and when they did begin to show themselves on thehistoric surface, --here in this ancient soil of freedom, --in thisnatural retreat of it, from the extending, absorbing, consolidatingfeudal tyrannies, --here in this 'little world by itself'--this nurseryof the genius of the North--with its chief races, with its union ofraces, its 'happy breed of men, ' as our Poet has it, who notes allthese points, and defines its position, regarding it, not with anarrow English partiality, but looking at it on his Map of the World, which he always carries with him, --looking at it from his 'Globe, 'which has the Old World and the New on it, and the Past and theFuture, --'a precious stone set in the silver sea, ' he calls it, 'in agreat pool, a _swan's nest_':--when that seed of all ages did at lastshow itself above the ground here, here in this nursery of hope forman, it would be with quite another kind of fruit on its boughs, fromany that the continent had been able to mature from it. 

It was in the later years of the sixteenth century, in the latter halfof the reign of Elizabeth, that the Printing press, and the revivedLearning of Antiquity, and the Reformation, and the discovery ofAmerica, the new revival of the genius of the North in art andliterature, and the Scientific Discoveries which accompanied thismovement on the continent, began to combine their effects here; and itwas about that time that the political horizon began to exhibit to thestatesman's eye, those portents which both the poet and thephilosopher of that time, have described with so much iteration andamplitude. These new social elements did not appear to promise intheir combination here, stability to the institutions which Henry theSeventh, and Henry the Eighth had established in this island. 

The genius of Elizabeth conspired with the anomaly of her position tomake her the steadfast patron and promoter of these movements, --worthygrand-daughter of Henry the seventh as she was, and opposed onprinciple, as she was, to the ultimatum to which they were visibly andstedfastly tending; but, at the same time, her sagacity and prudenceenabled her to ward off the immediate result. She secured herthrone, --she was able to maintain, in the rocking of those movements, her own political and spiritual supremacy, --she made gain and capitalfor absolutism out of them, --the inevitable reformation she herselfassumed, and set bounds to: whatever new freedom there was, was stillthe freedom of her will; she could even secure the throne of hersuccessor: it was mischief for Charles I. That she was nursing. Theconsequence of _all_ this was--_the Age of Elisabeth_. 

That was what this Queen meant it should be literally, and that waswhat it was apparently. But it so happened, that her will and humourson some great questions jumped with the time, and her dire necessitiescompelled her to lead the nation on its own track; or else it wouldhave been too late, perhaps, for that exhibition of the monarchicalinstitution, --that revival of the heroic, and _ante_-heroic ages, which her reign exhibits, to come off here as it did at that time. 

It is this that makes the point in this literary history. This is thekey that unlocks the secret of the Elizabethan Art of Delivery andTradition. Without any material resources to sustain it--strong in thenational sentiments, --strong in the moral forces with which the pastcontrols the present, --strong in that natural abhorrence of changewith which nature protects her larger growths, --that principle whichtyranny can test so long with impunity--which it can test withimpunity, till it forgets that this also has in nature itslimits, --strong in the absence of any combination of opposition, tothe young awakening England of that age, that now hollow image of thepast, that phantom of the military force that had been, which seemedto be waiting only the first breath of the popular will to dissolveit, was as yet an armed and terrific reality; its iron was on everyneck, its fetter was on every step, and all the new forces, andworld-grasping aims and aspirations which that age was generating wereheld down and cramped, and tortured in its chains, dashing their eaglewings in vain against its iron limits. 

As yet all England cowered and crouched, in blind servility, at thefoot of that terrible, but unrecognised embodiment of its own power, armed out of its own armoury, with the weapons that were turnedagainst it. So long as any yet extant national sentiment, orprejudice, was not yet directly assailed--so long as that arbitrarypower was yet wise, or fortunate enough to withhold the blow whichshould make the individual sense of outrage, or the feeling of a classthe common one--so long as those peaceful, social elements, yet waitedthe spark that was wanting to unite them--so long 'the laws ofEngland' might be, indeed, at a Falstaff's or a Nym's or a Bardolph's'commandment, ' for the Poet has but put into 'honest Jack's' mouth, aboast that worse men than he, made good in his time--so long, thefaith, the lives, the liberties, the dearest earthly hopes, ofEngland's proudest subjects, her noblest, her bravest, her best, hermost learned, her most accomplished, her most inspired, might be atthe mercy of a woman's caprices, or the sport of a fool's sheer willand obstinacy, or conditioned on some low-lived 'favorites' whims. _Solong_: And how long was that?--who does not know how long itwas?--that was long enough for the whole Elizabethan Age to happen in. In the reign of Elizabeth, and in the reign of her successor, andlonger still, that was the condition of it--till its last act wasfinished--till its last word was spoken and penned--till its last mutesign was made--till all its celestial inspiration had returned to theGod who gave it--till all its Promethean clay was cold again. 

This was the combination of conditions of which the ElizabethanLiterature was the result. The Elizabethan Men of Letters, theorganisers and chiefs of the modern civilization were the result ofit. 

These were men in whom the genius of the North in its happiest unionof developments, under its choicest and most favourable conditions ofculture, in its yet fresh, untamed, unbroken, northern vigour, was atlast subjected to the stimulus and provocation which the ancientlearning brings with it to the northern mind--to the now unimaginablestimulus which, the revival of the ancient art and learning broughtwith it to the mind of Europe in that age, --already secure, in its ownindigenous development, already advancing to its own great maturityunder the scholastic culture--the meagre Scholastic, and the richRomantic culture--of the Mediaeval Era. The Elizabethan Men of Lettersare men who found in those new and dazzling stores of art andliterature which the movements of their age brought in all theirfreshly restored perfection to them, only the summons to their ownslumbering intellectual activities, --fed with fires that old Easternand Southern civilizations never knew, nurtured in the depths of anature whose depths the northern antiquity had made; they were men whofound in the learning of the South and the East--in the art andspeculation that had satisfied the classic antiquity--only thedefinition of their own nobler want. 

The first result of the revival of the ancient learning in this islandwas, a report of its 'defects. ' The first result of that revival herewas a map--a universal map of the learning and the arts which theconditions of man's life require--a new map or globe of learning onwhich lands and worlds, undreamed of by the ancients, are traced. 'Amap or globe' on which 'the principal and supreme sciences, ' thesciences that are _essential_ to the human kind, are put down among'the parts that lie fresh and waste, and not converted by the industryof man. ' The first result of the revival of learning here was 'a plot'for the supply of these deficiencies. 

The Elizabethan Men of Letters were men, in whom the revival of 'theWisdom of the Ancients, ' which in its last results, in its most selectand boasted conservations had combined in vain to save antiquity, found the genius of a happier race, able to point out at a glance thedefect in it; men who saw with a glance at those old books what wasthe matter with them; men prepared already to overlook from the newheight of criticism which this sturdy insular development of thepractical genius of the North created, the remains of that lostcivilization--the splendours rescued from the wreck of empires, --thewisdom which had failed so fatally in practice that it must needscross from a lost world of learning to the barbarian's new one, tofind pupils--that it must needs cross the gulf of a thousand years inlearning--such work had it made of it--ere it could revive, --thewisdom rescued from the wreck it had piloted to ruin, _not_ toenslave, and ensnare, and doom new ages, and better races, with itsfutilities, but to be hung up with its immortal beacon-light, to shewthe track of a new learning, to shew to the contrivers of the chart ofnew ages, the breakers of that old ignorance, that old arrogant wordybarren speculation. For these men were men who would not fish up thechart of a drowned world for the purpose of seeing how nearly theycould conduct another under different conditions of time and races tothe same conclusion. And they were men of a different turn of mindentirely from those who lay themselves out on enterprises having thattendency. The result of this English survey of learning was thesanctioned and organised determination of the modern speculation tothose new fields which it has already occupied, and its organised, butsecret determination, to that end of a true learning which the need ofman, in its whole comprehension in _this_ theory of it, constitutes. 

But the men with whom this proceeding originates, the Elizabethan Menof Letters, were, in their own time, 'the Few. ' They were the chosenmen, not of an age only, but of a race, 'the noblest that ever livedin the tide of times;' men enriched with the choicest culture of theirage, when that culture involved not the acquisition of the learning ofthe ancients only, but the most intimate acquaintance with all thoserecent and contemporaneous developments with which its restoration onthe Continent had been attended. Was it strange that these men shouldfind themselves without sympathy in an age like that?--an age in whichthe masses were still unlettered, callous with wrongs, manacled withblind traditions, or swaying hither and thither, with the breath of acommon prejudice or passion, or swayed hither and thither by thechangeful humours and passions, or the conflicting dogmas and conceitsof their rulers. That is the reason why the development of that agecomes to us as a _Literature_. That is why it is on the surface of it_Elizabethan_. That is the reason why the leadership of the modernages, when it was already here in the persons of its chiefinterpreters and prophets, could get as yet no recognition of itsright to teach and rule--could get as yet nothing but _paper_ to printitself on, nothing but a _pen_ to hew its way with, nor that, withoutdeath and danger dogging it at the heels, and threatening it, at everyturn, so that it could only wave, in mute gesticulation, its signalsto the future. It had to affect, in that time, bookishness and wiryscholasticism. It had to put on sedulously the harmless old monkishgown, or the jester's cap and bells, or any kind of a tatterdemalionrobe that would hide, from head to heel, the waving of its purple. '_Motley's_ the only wear, ' whispers the philosopher, peering throughhis privileged garb for a moment. King Charles II. Had not more to doin reserving _himself_ in an evil time, and getting safely over to theyear of his dominion. 

Letters were the only ships that could pass those seas. But it makes anew style in literature, when such men as these, excluded from theirnatural sphere of activity, get driven into books, cornered intoparagraphs, and compelled to unpack their hearts in letters. There isa new tone to the words spoken under such compression. It is a tonethat the school and the cloister never rang with, --it is one that thefancy dealers in letters are not able to deal in. They are such wordsas Caesar speaks, when he puts his legions in battle array, --they aresuch words as were heard at Salamis one morning, when the breeze beganto stiffen in the bay; and though they be many, never so many, andthough they be musical, as is Apollo's lute, that Lacedemonian ring isin each one of them. There is great business to be done in them, andtheir haste looks through their eyes. In the sighing of the lover, inthe jest of the fool, in the raving of the madman, and not inHoratio's philosophy only, you hear it. 

The founders of the new science of nature and practice were menunspeakably too far above and beyond their time, to take its bone andmuscle with them. There was no language in which their doctrines couldhave been openly conveyed to an English public at that time withoutfatal misconception. The truth, which was to them arrayed with theforce of a universal obligation, --the truth, which was to themreligion, would have been, of course, in an age in which a single, narrow-minded, prejudiced Englishwoman's opinions were accepted as theultimate rule of faith and practice, 'flat atheism. ' What was withthem loyalty to the supremacy of reason and conscience, would havebeen in their time madness and rebellion, and the majority would havestarted at it in amazement; and all men would have joined hands, inthe name of truth and justice, to suppress it. The only thing thatcould be done in such circumstances was, to _translate_ their doctrineinto the language of their time. They must take the current terms--thevague popular terms--as they found them, and restrict and enlargethem, and inform them with their new meanings, with a hint to 'men ofunderstanding' as to the sense in which they use them. That is the keyto the language in which their books for the future were written. 

But who supposes that these men were so wholly super-human, so devoidof mortal affections and passions, so made up of 'dry light, ' thatthey could retreat, with all those regal faculties, from the naturalsphere of _their_ activity to the scholar's cell, to make themselvesover in books to a future in which their mortal natures could have noshare, --a future which could not begin till all the breathers of theirworld were dead? Who supposes that the 'staff' of Prospero was thefirst choice of these chiefs?--these 'heads of the State, ' appointedof nature to the Cure of the Common-Weal. 

The leading minds of that age are not minds which owed theirintellectual superiority to a disproportionate development of certainintellectual tendencies, or to a dwarfed or inferior endowment ofthose natural affections and personal qualifications which tend tolimit men to the sphere of their particular sensuous existence. Themind of this school is the representative mind, and all men recogniseit as that, because, in its products, that nature which is in all men, which philosophy had, till then, scorned to recognise, which theabstractionists had missed in their abstractions, --that nature ofwill, and sense, and passion, and inanity, is brought out in its truehistorical proportions, not as it exists in books, not as it exists inspeech, but as it exists in the actual human life. It is the mind inwhich this historical principle, this motivity which is not reason, isbrought in contact with the opposing and controlling element as it hadnot been before. In all its earth-born Titanic strength and fulness, it _is_ dragged up from its secret lurking-places, and confronted withits celestial antagonist. In all its self-contradiction and coweringunreason, it is set face to face with its celestial umpire, andsubjected to her unrelenting criticism. There are depths in thismicrocosm which _this_ torch only has entered, silences which thisspeaker only has broken, cries which he only knows how to articulate. 

'The soundest disclosing and expounding of men is by their _natures_and _ends_, ' so the one who is best qualified to give us informationon this question tells us, --by their natures _and_ ends; 'the weakersort by their natures, and the _wisest_ by their ends'; and '_thedistance_' of this wisest sort 'from the _ends_ to which they aspire, 'is that 'from which one may take measure and scale of the rest oftheir actions and desires. '

The first end which these Elizabethan Men of Letters grasped at, thething which they pursued with all the intensity and concentration of amaster passion, was--_power_, political power. They wanted to ruletheir own time, and not the future only. 'You are hurt, because you donot reign, ' is the inuendo which they permit us to apply to them asthe key to their proceedings. 'Such men as this are never at heart'sease, ' Caesar remarks in confidence to a friend, 'whiles they behold agreater than themselves. ' 'Come on my right hand, for this ear isdeaf, ' he adds, 'and tell me truly what thou think'st of him. ' Theseare the kind of men that seek instinctively 'predominance, ' not in aclique or neighbourhood only, --they are not content with a domesticreflection of their image, they seek to stamp it on the state and onthe world. These Elizabethan Men of Letters were men who sought fromthe first, with inveterate determination, to rule their own time, andthey never gave up that point entirely. In one way or another, directly or indirectly, they were determined to make their influencefelt in that age, in spite of the want of encouragement which theconditions of that time offered to such an enterprise. But they soughtthat end not instinctively only, but with the stedfastness of arational, scientifically enlightened purpose. It was an enterprise inwhich the intense motivity of that new and so 'conspicuous'development of the particular and private nature, which lies at theroot of such a genius, was sustained by the determination of that notless superior development of the nobler nature in man, by the motivityof the intellect, by the sentiment which waits on _that_, by themotive of 'the larger whole, ' which is, in this science of it, 'theworthier. '

We do not need to apply the key of times to those indirectlyhistorical remains in which the real history, the life and soul of atime, is always best found, and in which the history of such a time, if written at all, must necessarily be inclosed; we do not need tounlock these works to perceive the indications of suppressed movementsin that age, in which the most illustrious men of the age wereprimarily concerned, the history of which has not yet fullytranspired. We do not need to find the key to the cipher in which thehistory of that time is written, to perceive that there was to havebeen a change in the government here at one time, very different fromthe one which afterwards occurred, if the original plans of these menhad succeeded. It is not the Plays only that are full of thatfrustrated enterprise. 

These were the kind of men who are not easily baffled. They changedtheir tactics, but not their ends; and the enterprises which wereconducted with so much secresy under the surveillance of the Tudor, began already to crown themselves as certainties, and compare their'olives of endless age' with the spent tombs of brass' and 'tyrant'scrests, ' at that sure prospect which, a change of dynasties at thatmoment seemed to open, --at least, to men who were in a position thento estimate its consequences. 

That _this_, at all events, was a state of things that was not goingto endure, became palpable about that time to the philosophic mind. The transition from the rule of a sovereign who was mistress of 'thesituation, ' who understood that it was a popular power which she waswielding--the transition from the rule of a Queen instructed in thepolicy of a tyranny, inducted by nature into its arts, to the policyof that monarch who had succeeded to her throne, and whose 'CREST'began to be reared here then in the face of the insulted revivingEnglish nationality, --this transition appeared upon the whole, uponcalmer reflection, at least to the more patient minds of that age, allthat could reasonably at that time be asked for. No better instrumentfor stimulating and strengthening the growing popular sentiment, androusing the latent spirit of the nation, could have been desired bythe Elizabethan politicians at that crisis, 'for the great labour waswith the people'--that uninstructed power, which makes the sure basisof tyrannies--that power which Mark Antony takes with him soeasily--the ignorant, tyrannical, humour-led masses--the masses thatstill roar their Elizabethan stupidities from the immortal groups ofCoriolanus and Julius Caesar. We ourselves have not yet overtaken thechief minds of this age; and the gulf that separated them from thoseoverpowering numbers in their own time, to whose edicts they werecompelled to pay an external submission, was broad indeed. Thedifficulty of establishing an understanding with this power was thedifficulty. They wanted that 'pulpit' from which Brutus and MarkAntony swayed it by turns so easily--that pulpit from which MarkAntony showed it Caesar's mantle. They wanted some organ ofcommunication with these so potent and resistless rulers--some 'chair'from which they could repeat to them in their own tongue the story oftheir lost institutions, and revive in them the memory of '_the kings_their ancestors'--some school in which they could collect them andinstruct them in the scientific doctrine of the _commons_, thedoctrine of the common-_weal_ and its divine supremacy. They wanted aschool in which they could tell them stories--stories of variouskinds--such stories as they loved best to hear--Midsummer stories, orWinter's tales, and stories of their own battle-fields--they wanted aschool in which they could teach the common people _History_ (and notEnglish history only), with illustrations, large as life, and a magiclantern to aid them, --'visible history. '

But to wait till these slow methods had taken effect, would be, perhaps, to wait, not merely till their estate in the earth was done, but till the mischief they wished to avert was accomplished. And thusit was, that the proposal 'to go the beaten track of getting arms intotheir hands under colour of Caesar's designs, and _because the peopleunderstood them not_, ' came to be considered. To permit the newdynasty to come in without making any terms with it, without insistingupon a definition of that indefinite power which the Tudors hadwielded with impunity, and without challenge, would be to makeneedless work for the future, and to ignore criminally theresponsibilities of their own position, so at least some Englishstatesmen of that time, fatally for their favour with the new monarch, were known to have thought. 'To proceed by process, ' to check bygradual constitutional measures that overgrown and monstrous power inthe state, was the project which these statesmen had most at heart. But that was a movement which required a firm and enlightened popularsupport. Charters and statutes were dead letters till that could behad. It was fatal to attempt it till that was secured. Failing in thatpopular support, if the statesman who had attempted that movement, ifthe illustrious chief, and chief man of his time, who headed it, didsecretly meditate other means for accomplishing the same end--whichwas to limit the prerogative--such means as the time offered, and ifthe evidence which was wanting on his trial _had been_ produced inproof of it, who that knows what that crisis was would undertake toconvict him on it now? He was arrested on suspicion. He was a man whohad undertaken to set bounds to the absolute will of the monarch, andtherefore he was a dangerous man. [He (Sir Walter Raleigh), togetherwith the Lord Chobham, Sir J. Fortescue, and _others_, would haveobliged the king to _articles_ before he was admitted to the throne, and thought the number of his countrymen should belimited. --_Osborne's Memorials of King James_. ] The charges that weremade against him on that shameless trial were indignantly repelled. 'Do you mix, me up with these spiders?' (alluding, perhaps, moreparticularly to the Jesuit associated with him in this charge). 'Doyou think I am a Jack Cade or a Robin Hood?' he said. But though theevidence on this trial is not only in itself illegal, and byconfession perjured, but the _report_ of it comes to us with afalsehood on the face of it, and is therefore not to be taken withoutcriticism; that there was a movement of some kind meditated about thattime, by persons occupying chief places of trust and responsibility inthe nation--a movement not favourable to the continuance of 'thestanding departments' in the precise form in which they thenstood--that the project of an administrative reform had not, at least, been wholly laid aside--that there was something which did not fullycome out on that trial, any one who looks at this report of it will beapt to infer. 

It was a project which had not yet proceeded to any overt act; therewas no legal evidence of its existence produced on the trial; butsuppose there were here, then, already, men 'who loved the_fundamental part of state_, ' more than in such a crisis 'they_doubted_ the change of it'--men 'who preferred a noble life before along'--men, too, '_who were more discreet_' than they were'_fearful_, ' who thought it good practice to 'jump a body with adangerous medicine _that was sure of death_ without it;' suppose there_was_ a movement of that kind arrested here then, and the evidence ofit were produced, what Englishman, or who that boasts the Englishlineage to-day, can have a word to say about it? Who had a betterright than those men themselves, those statesmen, those heroes, whohad waked and watched for their country's weal so long, who had foughther battles on land and sea, and planned them too, not in the tentedfield and on the rocking deck only, but in the more 'deadly breach' ofcivil office, whose _scaling_-ladders had entered even the tyrant'scouncil chamber, --who had a better right than those men themselves tosay whether they would be governed by a government of laws, or by thewill of the most despicable 'one-only-man power, ' armed with sword andlash, that ever a nation of Oriental slaves in their politicalimbecility cowered under? Who were better qualified than those menthemselves, instructed in detail in all the peril of that crisis, --menwho had comprehended and weighed with a judgment which has left nosuccessor to its seat, all the conflicting considerations and claimswhich that crisis brought with it, --who better qualified than these todecide on the measures by which the hideous nuisances of that timeshould be abated; by which that axe, that sword, that rack, thatstake, and all those burglar's tools, and highwayman's weapons, shouldbe taken out of the hands of the mad licentious crew with which anevil time had armed them against the common-weal--those weapons oflawless power, which the people had vainly, for want of leaders, refused before-hand to put into their hands. Who better qualified thanthese natural chiefs and elected leaders of the nation, to decide onthe dangerous measures for suppressing the innovation, which the Tudorand his descendants had accomplished in that ancient sovereignty oflaws, which was the sovereignty of this people, which even the Normanand the Plantagenet had been taught to acknowledge? Who betterqualified than they to call to an account--'the thief, ' the 'cut-purseof the empire and the rule, ' who 'found the precious diadem _on ashelf_, and stole and put it in his pocket'?

['Shall the blessed _Sun_ of _Heaven_ prove a micher, and _eatblackberries_'? A question _not_ to be asked! Shall the blessed 'Sonof England' prove a thief, and take purses? A question _to be asked_. 'The _poor_ abuses of the time want _countenance_. '

 _Lear_. Take that from me, my friend, who have the power to _seal the accuser's_ lips. ]

Who better qualified could be found to head the dangerous enterprisefor the deliverance of England from that shame, than the chief in whomher Alfred arose again to break from her neck a baser than the Danishyoke, to restore her kingdom and found her new empire, to give herdomains, that the sun never sets on, --her Poet, her Philosopher, herSoldier, her Legislator, the builder of her Empire of the Sea, herfounder of new 'States. '

But then, of course, it is only by the rarest conjunction ofcircumstances, that the movements and plans which such a state ofthings gives rise to, can get any other than the most opprobrious nameand place in history. Success is their only certificate of legitimacy. To attempt to overthrow a government still so strongly planted in theendurance and passivity of the people, might seem, perhaps, to someminds in these circumstances, a hopeless, and, _therefore_, a criminalundertaking. 

'That _opportunity_ which then they had to take from us, to resume, wehave again, ' might well have seemed a sufficient plea, so it couldhave been made good. But it is not strange that some few, even then, should find it difficult to believe that the national ruin was yet soentire, that the ashes of the ancient nobility and commons of Englandwere yet so cold, as that a system of despotism like that which wasexercised here then, could be permanently and securely fastened overthem. It is not strange that it should seem to these impossible thatthere should not be enough of that old English spirit which, only ahundred years before, had ranged the people in armed thousands, indefence of LAW, against absolutism, enough of it, at least, to welcomeand sustain the overthrow of tyranny, when once it should presentitself as a fact accomplished, instead of appealing beforehand to acourage, which so many instances of vain and disastrous resistance hadat last subdued, and to a spirit which seemed reduced at last, to themere quality of the master's will. 

That was a narrow dominion apparently to which King James consignedhis great rival in the arts of government, but that rival of hiscontrived to rear a 'crest' there which will outlast 'the tyrants, 'and 'look fresh still' when tombs that artists were at work on then'are spent. ' 'And when a soldier was his theme, my name--my _name_[namme de plume] was nor far off. ' King James forgot how many weaponsthis man carried. He took one sword from him, he did not know thatthat pen, that harmless goose-quill, carried in its sheath another. Hedid not know what strategical operations the scholar, who was 'an oldsoldier' and a politician also, was capable of conducting under suchconditions. Those were narrow quarters for 'the Shepherd of theOcean, ' for the hero of the two hemispheres, to occupy so long; but itproved no bad retreat for the chief of this movement, as he managedit. It was in that school of Elizabethan statesmanship which had itscentre in the Tower, that many a scholarly English gentleman cameforth prepared to play his part in the political movements thatsucceeded. It was out of that school of statesmanship that JohnHampden came, accomplished for his part in them. 

The papers that the chief of the Protestant cause prepared in thatliterary retreat to which the Monarch had consigned him, by means ofthose secret channels of communication among the better minds which hehad established in the reign of Elizabeth, became the secret manual ofthe revolutionary chiefs; they made the first blast of the trumpetthat summoned at last the nation to its feet. 'The famous Mr. Hamden'(says an author, who writes in those 'next ages' in which so manytraditions of this time are still rife) '_a little before_ the civilwars was at the charge of transcribing three thousand four hundred andfifty-two sheets of Sir Walter Raleigh's MSS. , as the amanuensishimself _told me_, who had his _close chamber_, his fire and _candle_, with an _attendant to deliver him the originals_ and _take his copiesas fast as he could write them_. ' That of itself is a pretty littleglimpse of the kind of machinery which the Elizabethan literaturerequired for its 'delivery and tradition' at the time, or near thetimes, in which it was produced. That is a view of 'an Interior''before the civil wars. ' It was John Milton who concluded, on lookingover, a long time afterwards, one of the unpublished papers of thisstatesman, that it was his duty to give it to the public. 'Havinghad, ' he says, 'the MS. Of this treatise ["The Cabinet Council"]written by Sir Walter Raleigh, many years in my hands, and finding itlately by chance among other books and papers, upon reading thereof, Ithought it _a kind of injury to withhold longer_ the work of soeminent an author from the public; it being both answerable in styleto other works of his already extant, as far as _the subject_ wouldpermit, and given me for a true copy by a learned man at his death, who had collected several such pieces. '

'_A kind of injury_. '--That is the thought which would naturally takepossession of any mind, charged with the responsibility of keepingback for years this man's writings, especially his choicestones--papers that could not be published then on account of thesubject, or that came out with the leaves uncut, labouring with therestrictions which the press opposed then to the issues of such amind. 

That great result which the chief minds of the Modern Ages, under theinfluence of the new culture, in that secret association of them wereable to achieve, that new and all comprehending science of life andpractice which they made it their business to perfect and transmit, could not, indeed, as yet be communicated directly to the many. Thescientific doctrines of the new time were necessarily limited in thatage to the few. But another movement corresponding to that, simultaneous in its origin, related to it in its source, was also inprogress here then, proceeding hand in hand with this, playing itsgame for it, opening the way to its future triumph. This was thatmovement of the new time, --this was that consequence, not of therevival of learning only, but of the growth of the northern mind whichtouched everywhere and directly the springs of government, and made'bold power look pale, ' for this was the movement in 'the many. '

This was the movement which had already convulsed the continent; thiswas the movement of which Raleigh was from the first the soldier; thiswas 'the cause' of which he became the chief. It was as a youth ofseventeen, bursting from those old fastnesses of the Middle Ages thatcould not hold him any longer, shaking off the films of Aristotle andhis commentators, that he girded on his sword for the greatworld-battle that was raging already in Europe then. It was into thethickest of it, that his first step plunged him. For he was one ofthat company of a hundred English gentlemen who were waiting but forthe first word of permission from Elizabeth to go as volunteers to theaid of the Huguenots. This was the movement which had at last reachedEngland. And like these other continental events which were so slow intaking effect in England when it did begin to unfold here at last;there was a taste of 'the island' in it, in this also. 

It was not on the continent only, that Raleigh and other Englishstatesmen were disposed to sustain this movement. It was not possibleas yet to bring the common mind openly to the heights of those greatdoctrines of life and practice which the Wisdom of the Moderns alsoembodies, but the new teachers of that age knew how to appreciate, asthe man of science only can fully appreciate, the worth of thosemotives that were then beginning to agitate so portentously so large aportion of the English people. The Elizabethan politicians nourishedand patronised in secret that growing faction. The scientificpolitician hailed with secret delight, hailed as the partner of hisown enterprise, that new element of political power which the changingtime began to reveal here then, that power which was already beginningto unclasp on the necks of the masses, the collar of the absolutewill--that was already proclaiming, in the stifled undertones of 'thatgreater part which carries it, ' another supremacy. They gave in secretthe right hand of a joyful fellowship to it. At home and abroad thegreat soldier and statesman, who was the first founder of the ModernScience, headed that faction. He fought its battles by land and sea;he opened the New World to it, and sent it there to work out itsproblem. 

It was the first stage of an advancement that would not rest till itfound its true consummation. That infinity which was speaking in itsconfused tones, as with the voice of many waters, was resolved intomusic and triumphal marches in the ear of the Interpreter. It gavetoken that the nobler nature had not died out under the rod oftyranny; it gave token of the earnestness that would not be appeaseduntil the ends that were declared in it were found. 

But at the same time, this was a power which the wise men of that agewere far from being willing to let loose upon society then in thatstage of its development; very far were they from being willing to putthe reins into its hands. To balance the dangers that were threateningthe world at that crisis was always the problem. It was a very narrowline that the policy which was to save the state had to keep to then. There were evils on both sides. But to the scientific mind thereappeared to be a choice in them. The measure on one side had beentaken, and it was in all men's hearts, but the abysses on the other noman had sounded. 'The danger of stirring things, '--the dangers, too, of that unscanned swiftness that too late _ties leaden pounds to hisheels_ were the dangers that were always threatening the Elizabethanmovement, and defining and curbing it. The wisest men of that timeleaned towards the monarchy, the monarchy that was, rather than theanarchy that was threatening them. The _will_ of the one rather thanthe _wills_ of the many, the head of the one rather than 'themany-headed. ' To effect the change which the time required without'wrenching all'--without undoing the work of ages--without setting atlarge from the restraints of reverence and custom the chained tiger ofan unenlightened popular will, this was the problem. The wiseststatesmen, the most judicious that the world has ever known were here, with their new science, weighing in exactest scales those issues. Wemust not quarrel with their concessions to tyranny on the one hand, nor with their determination to effect changes on the other, until weare able to command entirely the position they occupied, and theopposing dangers they had always to consider. We must not judge themtill they have had their hearing. What freedom and what hope there isof it upon the earth to-day, is the legacy of their perseverance andendurance. 

They experienced many defeats. The hopes of youth, the hopes ofmanhood in turn grew cold. That the 'glorious day' which 'flatteredthe mountain tops' of their immortal morning with its sovereign eyewould never shine on them; that their own, with all its unimaginedsplendours obscured so long, would go down hid in those same 'baseclouds, ' that for them the consummation was to 'peep about to findthemselves dishonourable graves' was the conviction under which theirlater tasks were achieved. It did not abate their ardour. They did notstrain one nerve the less for that. 

Driven from one field, they showed themselves in another. Driven fromthe open field, they fought in secret. 'I will bandy with thee infaction, I will o'errun thee with policy, I will kill thee a hundredand fifty ways, ' the Jester who brought their challenge said. TheElizabethan England rejected the Elizabethan Man. She would have noneof his meddling with her affairs. She sent him to the Tower, and tothe block, if ever she caught him meddling with them. She buried himalive in the heart of his time. She took the seals of office, she tookthe sword, from his hands and put a pen in it. She would have of him aMan of Letters. And a Man of Letters he became. A Man of Runes. Heinvented new letters in his need, letters that would go farther thanthe sword, that carried more execution in them than the great seal. Banished from the state in that isle to which he was banished, hefound not the base-born Caliban only, to _instruct_, and train, andsubdue to his ends, but an Ariel, an imprisoned Ariel, waiting to bereleased, able to conduct his masques, able to put his girdles roundthe earth, and to 'perform and point' to his Tempest. 

'Go bring the RABBLE, o'er whom I give thee _power_, here to thisplace, ' was the New Magician's word. 

[Here is another version of it. 

'When Sir Nicholas Bacon, the Lord Keeper, lived, every room inGorhambury was served with a pipe of water from the pond distant abouta mile off. In the lifetime of Mr. Anthony Bacon the water ceased, andhis lordship coming to the inheritance could not recover the waterwithout infinite charge. When he was Lord Chancellor, he built VerulamHouse _close by the pond yard, for a place of privacy_ when he wascalled upon to dispatch any urgent business. And being asked why hebuilt there, his lordship answered that, seeing _he could not carrythe water to_ his House, he _would carry his House_ to the water. ]

This is not the place for the particulars of this history or for thebarest outline of them. They make a volume of themselves. But thisglimpse of the circumstances under which the works were composed whichit is the object of this volume to open, appeared at the last momentto be required, in the absence of the Historical Key which the properdevelopment of them makes, to that Art of Delivery and Tradition bymeans of which the secrets of the Elizabethan Age have been conveyedto us. 

CHAPTER III. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE LIFE OF RALEIGH. --RALEIGH'S SCHOOL

 'Our court shall be a little Academe, Still and contemplative in _living_ Art. ' 'What is the _end_ of study? let me know. '

 _Love's Labour's Lost_. 

But it was not on the New World wholly, that this man of many toilscould afford to lavish the revenues which the Queen's favour broughthim. It was not to that enterprise alone that he was willing todedicate the _eclat_ and influence of his rising name. There was workat home which concerned him more nearly, not less deeply, to whichthat new influence was made at once subservient; and in that therewere enemies to be encountered more formidable than the Spaniard onhis own deck, or on his own coast, with all his war-weapons anddefences. It was an enemy which required a strategy more subtle thanany which the exigencies of camp and field had called for. 

The fact that this hero throughout all his great public career--sofull of all kinds of excitement and action--enough, one would say, toabsorb the energies of a mind of any ordinary human capacity--thatthis soldier whose name had become, on the Spanish coasts, what thename of '_Coeur de Lion_' was in the Saracen nursery, that thisforeign adventurer who had a fleet of twenty-three ships sailing atone time on his errands--this legislator, for he sat in Parliament asrepresentative of his native shire--this magnificent courtier, who hadraised himself, without any vantage-ground at all, from a positionwholly obscure, by his personal achievements and merits, to a place inthe social ranks so exalted; to a place in the state so _near_that--which was chief and absolute--the fact that this many-sided manof deeds, was all the time a literary man, not a scholar merely, buthimself an Originator, a Teacher, the Founder of a School--this is theexplanatory point in this history--this is the point in it whichthrows light on all the rest of it, and imparts to it its truedignity. 

For he was not a mere blind historical agent, driven by fierceinstincts, intending only their own narrow ends, without any facultyof comprehensive survey and choice of intentions; impelled by thirstof adventure, or thirst of power, or thirst of gold, to the executionof his part in the great human struggle for conservation andadvancement; working like other useful agencies in the ProvidentialScheme--like 'the stormy wind fulfilling his pleasure. '

There is, indeed, no lack of the instinctive element in this heroic'composition;' there is no stronger and more various and completedevelopment of it. That '_lumen siccum_' which his great contemporaryis so fond of referring to in his philosophy, that _dry light_ whichis so apt, he tells us, in most men's minds, to get 'drenched' alittle sometimes, in 'the humours and affections, ' and distorted andrefracted in their mediums, did not always, perhaps, in its practicaldeterminations, escape from that accident even in the philosopher'sown; but in this stormy, world-hero, there was a latent volcano ofwill and passion; there was, in his constitution, 'a complexion' whichmight even seem to the bystanders to threaten at times, by its'o'ergrowth, ' the 'very pales and forts of reason'; but the intellectwas, notwithstanding, in its due proportion in him; and it was themajestic intellect that triumphed in the end. It was the large andmanly comprehension, 'the large discourse looking before and after, 'it was the overseeing and active principle of 'the larger whole, ' thatpredominated and had the steering of his course. It is the commonhuman form which shines out in him and makes that manly demonstration, which commands our common respect, in spite of those particulardefects and o'ergrowths which are apt to mar its outline in the besthistorical types and patterns of it, we have been able to get as yet. It was the intellect, and the sense which belongs to _that_ in itsintegrity--it was the truth and the feeling of its obligation, whichwas sovereign with him. For this is a man who appears to have beenoccupied with the care of the common-weal more than with anythingelse; and that, too, under great disadvantages and impediments, andwhen there was no honour in caring for it truly, but that kind ofhonour which he had so much of; for this was the time precisely whichthe poet speaks of in that play in which he tells us that the end ofplaying is 'to give to the very age and body of the time _its form andpressure_. ' This was the time when 'virtue of vice _must pardon beg_, and curb and beck for leave to do it good. ' It was the relief of man'sestate, or the Creator's glory, that he busied himself about; that wasthe end of his ends; or if not, then was he, indeed, no hero at all. For it was the doctrine of his own school, and 'the first humanprinciple' taught in it, that men who act without reference to thatdistinctly _human_ aim, without that _manly_ consideration and_kind_-liness of purpose, can lay no claim either to divine or humanhonours; that they are not, in fact, men, but failures; specimens ofan unsuccessful attempt in nature, at an advancement; or, as his greatcontemporary states it more clearly, 'only a nobler kind of vermin. '

During all the vicissitudes of his long and eventful public life, Raleigh was still persistently a scholar. He carried his books--his'trunk of books' with him in all his adventurous voyages; and theywere his 'companions' in the toil and excitement of his campaigns onland. He studied them in the ocean-storm; he studied them in his tent, as Brutus studied in his. He studied them year after year, in the dimlight which pierced the deep embrasure of those walls with whichtyranny had thought to shut in at last his world-grasping energies. 

He had had some chance to study 'men and manners' in that strange andvarious life of his, and he did not lack the skill to make the most ofit; but he was not content with that narrow, one-sided aspect of lifeand human nature, to which his own individual personal experience, however varied, must necessarily limit him. He would see it undergreater varieties, under all varieties of conditions. He would knowthe history of it; he would 'delve it to the root. ' He would know howthat particular form of it, which he found on the surface in his time, had come to be the thing he found it. He would know what it had beenin other times, in the beginning, or in that stage of its developmentin which the historic light first finds it. He was a man who wishedeven to know what it had been in _the Assyrian_, in _the Phenician_, in _the Hebrew_, in _the Egyptian_; he would see what it had been in_the Greek_, and in _the Roman_. He was, indeed, one of that clique ofElizabethan Naturalists, who thought that there was no more curiousthing in nature; and instead of taking a Jack Cade view of thesubject, and inferring that an adequate knowledge of it comes bynature, as reading and writing do in that worthy's theory ofeducation, it was the private opinion of this school, that there wasno department of learning which a scholar could turn his attention to, that required a more severe and thorough study and experiment, andnone that a man of a truly _scientific_ turn of mind would find betterworth his leisure. And the study of antiquity had not yet come to bethen what it is now; at least, with men of this stamp. Such men didnot study it to discipline their minds, or to get a classic finish totheir style. The books that such a man as this could take the troubleto carry about with him on such errands as those that he travelled on, were books that had in them, for the eager eyes that then o'er-ranthem, the world's 'news'--the world's story. They were full of thefresh living data of his conclusions. They were notes that the masterminds of all the ages had made for him; invaluable aid and sympathythey had contrived to send to him. The man who had been arrested inhis career, more ignominiously than the magnificent Tully had been in_his_, --in a career, too, a thousand times more noble, --by a Caesar, indeed, but _such_ a Caesar;--the man who had sat for years with theexecutioner's block in his yard, waiting only for a scratch of theroyal pen, to bring down upon him that same edge which the poorCicero, with all his truckling, must feel at last, --such a one wouldlook over the old philosopher's papers with an apprehension of theirmeaning, somewhat more lively than that of the boy who reads them fora prize, or to get, perhaps, some classic elegancies transfused intohis mind. 

During the ten years which intervene between the date of Raleigh'sfirst departure for the Continent and that of his beginning favour athome, already he had found means for ekeing out and perfecting thatliberal education which Oxford had only begun for him, so that it wasas a man of rarest literary accomplishments that he made his brilliant_debût_ at the English Court, where the new Elizabethan Age of Letterswas just then beginning. 

He became at once the centre of that little circle of highborn witsand poets, the elder wits and poets of the Elizabethan age, that werethen in their meridian there. Sir Philip Sidney, Thomas LordBuckhurst, Henry Lord Paget, Edward Earl of Oxford, and some others, are included in the contemporary list of this courtly company, whosedoings are somewhat mysteriously adverted to by a critic, who refersto the condition of 'the Art of Poesy' at that time. '_The gentlemanwho wrote the late Shepherds' Calendar_' was beginning then to attractconsiderable attention in this literary aristocracy. 

The brave, bold genius of Raleigh flashed new life into that littlenucleus of the Elizabethan development. The new '_Round Table_, ' whichthat newly-beginning age of chivalry, with its new weapons anddevices, and its new and more heroic adventure had created, was notyet 'full' till he came in. The Round Table grew rounder with thisknight's presence. Over those dainty stores of the classic ages, overthose quaint memorials of the elder chivalry, that were spread out onit, over the dead letter of the past, the brave Atlantic breeze camein, the breath of the great future blew, when the turn came for thisknight's adventure; whether opened in the prose of its statistics, orset to its native music in the mystic melodies of the bard who wasthere to sing it. The Round Table grew spheral, as he sat talking byit; the Round Table dissolved, as he brought forth his lore, andunrolled his maps upon it; and instead of it, --with all its fresh yetliving interests, tracked out by land and sea, with the greatbattle-ground of the future outlined on it, --revolved the round world. '_Universality_' was still the motto of these Paladins; but 'THEGLOBE'--the Globe, with its TWO hemispheres, became henceforth theirdevice. 

The promotion of Raleigh at Court was all that was needed to make himthe centre and organiser of that new intellectual movement which wasthen just beginning there. He addressed himself to the task as if hehad been a man of literary tastes and occupations merely, or as ifthat particular crisis had been a time of literary leisure with him, and there were nothing else to be thought of just then. The relationof those illustrious literary partners of his, whom he found alreadyin the field when he first came to it, to that grand development ofthe English genius in art and philosophy which follows, ought notindeed to be overlooked or slightly treated in any thorough history ofit. For it has its first beginning here in this brilliant assemblageof courtiers, and soldiers, and scholars, --this company of Poets, andPatrons and Encouragers of Art and Learning. Least of all should therelation which the illustrious founder of this order sustains to thelater development be omitted in any such history, --'the prince andmirror of all chivalry, ' the patron of the young English Muse, whoseuntimely fate keeps its date for ever green, and fills the air of thisnew 'Helicon' with immortal lamentations. The shining foundations ofthat so splendid monument of the later Elizabethan genius, which hasparalyzed and confounded all our criticism, were laid here. Theextraordinary facilities which certain departments of literatureappeared to offer, for evading the restrictions which this new poeticand philosophic development had to encounter from the first, alreadybegan to attract the attention of men acquainted with the uses towhich it had been put in antiquity, and who knew what gravity of aim, what height of execution, that then rude and childish English Play hadbeen made to exhibit under other conditions;--men fresh from the studyof those living and perpetual monuments of learning, which the geniusof antiquity has left in this department. But the first essays of thenew English scholarship in this untried field, --the first attempts atoriginal composition here, derive, it must be confessed, their chiefinterest and value from that memorable association in which we findthem. It was the first essay, which had to be made before thosefinished monuments of art, which command our admiration on their ownaccount wholly, could begin to appear. It was 'the tuning of theinstruments, that those who came afterwards might play the better. ' Wesee, of course, the stiff, cramped hand of the beginner here, insteadof the grand touch of the master, who never comes till his art hasbeen prepared to his hands, --till the details of its execution havebeen mastered for him by others. In some arts there must begenerations of essays before he can get his tools in a condition foruse. Ages of prophetic genius, generations of artists, who dimly sawafar off, and struggled after his perfections, must patiently chip anddaub their lives away, before ever the star of his nativity can beginto shine. 

Considering what a barbaric age it was that the English mind wasemerging from then; and the difficulties attending the first attemptto create in the English literature, anything which should bear anyproportion to those finished models of skill which were then dazzlingthe imagination of the English scholar in the unworn gloss of theirfresh revival here, and discouraging, rather than stimulating, therude poetic experiment;--considering what weary lengths of essay thereare always to be encountered, where the standard of excellence is sofar beyond the power of execution; we have no occasion to despise thefirst bold attempts to overcome these difficulties which the goodtaste of this company has preserved to us. They are just such works aswe might expect under those circumstances;--yet full of the pedantriesof the new acquisition, overflowing on the surface with the learningof the school, sparkling with classic allusions, seizing boldly on theclassic original sometimes, and working their new fancies into it;but, full already of the riant vigour and originality of theElizabethan inspiration; and never servilely copying a foreignoriginal. The English genius is already triumphant in them. Their verycrudeness is not without its historic charm, when once their trueplace in the structure we find them in, is recognised. In the laterworks, this crust of scholarship has disappeared, and gone below thesurface. It is all dissolved, and gone into the clear intelligence;--it has all gone to feed the majestic current of that new, all-subduing, all-grasping originality. It is in these earlier performances that thestumbling-blocks of our present criticism are strewn so thickly. Nobody can write any kind of criticism of the 'Comedy of Errors, 'for instance, without recognizing the Poet's acquaintance with theclassic model, [See a recent criticism in 'The Times. ']--withoutrecognizing the classic treatment. 'Love's Labour's Lost, ' 'TheTaming of the Shrew, ' the condemned parts of 'Henry the VI. , ' andgenerally the Poems which are put down in our criticism as doubtful, or as the earlier Poems, are just those Poems in which the Poet'sstudies are so flatly betrayed on the surface. Among these are playswhich were anonymously produced by the company performing at theRose Theatre, and other companies which English noblemen foundoccasion to employ in their service then. These were not so much asproduced at the theatre which has had the honor of giving its name toother productions, bound up with them. We shall find nothing to objectto in that somewhat heterogeneous collection of styles, which even asingle Play sometimes exhibits, when once the history of thisphenomenon accompanies it. The Cathedrals that were built, or re-builtthroughout, just at the moment in which the Cathedral Architecture hadattained its ultimate perfection, are more beautiful to the eye, perhaps, than those in which the story of its growth is told from therude, massive Anglo-Saxon of the crypt or the chancel, to the lastrefinement of the mullion, and groin, and tracery. But the antiquary, at least, does not regret the preservation. And these crude beginningshere have only to be put in their place, to command from the critic, at least, a similar respect. For here, too, the history reports itselfto the eye, and not less palpably. 

It may seem surprising, and even incredible, to the modern critic, that men in this position should find any occasion to conceal theirrelation to those quite respectable contributions to the literature ofthe time, which they found themselves impelled to make. The fact thatthey did so, is one that we must accept, however, on uncontradictedcotemporary testimony, and account for it as we can. The critic whopublished his criticisms when 'the gentleman who wrote the lateShepherd's Calendar' was just coming into notice, however inferior toour modern critics in other respects, had certainly a betteropportunity of informing himself on this point, than they can have atpresent. 'They have writ excellently well, ' _he_ says of this companyof Poets, --this 'courtly company, ' as he calls them, --' they have writexcellently well, _if their doings could be found out and made publicwith the rest_. ' _Sir Philip Sidney, Raleigh, _ and the gentleman whowrote the late Shepherd's Calendar, are included in the list of Poetsto whom this remark is applied. It is Raleigh's verse which isdistinguished, however, in this commendation as the most 'lofty, insolent, and passionate;' a description which applies to theanonymous poems alluded to, but is not particularly applicable tothose artificial and tame performances which he was willing toacknowledge. And this so commanding Poet, who was at the same time anaspiring courtier and meddler in affairs of state, and who chose, forsome mysterious reason or other, to forego the honours which those whowere in the secret of his literary abilities and successes, --the verybest judges of poetry in that time, too, were disposed to accordhim, --and we are not without references to cases in antiquitycorresponding very nearly to this; and which seemed to furnish, atleast, a sufficient precedent for this proceeding;--this so successfulpoet, and courtier, and great man of his time, was already in aposition to succeed at once to that chair of literary patronage whichthe death of Sir Philip Sidney had left vacant. Instinctivelygenerous, he was ready to serve the literary friends whom he attractedto him, not less lavishly than he had served the proud Queen herself, when he threw his gay cloak in her obstructed path, --at least, he wasnot afraid of risking those sudden splendours which her favour wasthen showering upon him, by wearying her with petitions on theirbehalf. He would have risked his new favour, at least with his'Cynthia, '--that twin sister of Phoebus Apollo, --to make her thepatron, if not the inspirer of the Elizabethan genius. 'When will youcease to be a beggar, Raleigh?' she said to him one day, on one ofthese not infrequent occasions. 'When your Majesty ceases to be a mostgracious mistress, ' was this courtier's reply. It is recorded of her, that 'she loved to hear his reasons to her demands. '

But though, with all his wit and eloquence, he could not contrive tomake of the grand-daughter of Henry the Seventh, a Pericles, or anAlexander, or a Ptolemy, or an Augustus, or an encourager of anythingthat did not appear to be directly connected with her own particularends, he did succeed in making her indirectly a patron of the literaryand scientific development which was then beginning to add to herreign its new lustre, --which was then suing for leave to lay at herfeet its new crowns and garlands. Indirectly, he did convert her intoa patron, --a second-hand patron of those deeper and more subtlemovements of the new spirit of the time, whose bolder demonstrationsshe herself had been forced openly to head. Seated on the throne ofHenry the Seventh, she was already the armed advocate of Europeanfreedom;--Raleigh had contrived to make her the legal sponsor for theNew World's liberties; it only needed that her patronage should besystematically extended to that new enterprise for the emancipation ofthe human life from the bondage of ignorance, from the tyranny ofunlearning, --that enterprise which the gay, insidious Elizabethanliterature was already beginning to flower over and cover with itsdevices, --it only needed _that_, to complete the anomaly of herposition. And that through Raleigh's means was accomplished. 

He became himself the head of a little _Alexandrian_ establishment. His house was a home for men of learning. He employed men in literaryand scientific researches on his account, whose business it was toreport to him their results. He had salaried scholars at his table, toimpart to him their acquisitions, Antiquities, History, Poetry, Chemistry, Mathematics, scientific research of all kinds, came underhis active and persevering patronage. Returning from one of his visitsto Ireland, whither he had gone on this occasion to inspect a_seignorie_ which his 'sovereign goddess' had then lately conferredupon him, he makes his re-appearance at court with that so obscurepersonage, the poet of the 'Faery Queene, ' under his wing;--that samegentleman, as the court is informed, whose bucolics had alreadyattracted so much attention in that brilliant circle. By a happycoincidence, Raleigh, it seems, had discovered this Author in theobscurity of his clerkship in Ireland, and had determined to make useof his own influence at court to push his brother poet's fortunesthere; but his efforts to benefit this poor bard _personally_, do notappear to have been attended at any time with much success. Themysterious literary partnership between these two, however, whichdates apparently from an earlier period, continues to bring forthfruit of the most successful kind; and the 'Faery Queene' is not theonly product of it. 

All kinds of books began now to be dedicated to this new and somunificent patron of arts and letters. His biographers collect hispublic history, not from political records only, but from the eulogiesof these manifold dedications. _Ladonnier_, the artist, publishes hisSketches of the New World through his aid. Hooker dedicates hisHistory of Ireland to him; Hakluyt, his Voyages to Florida. A work 'On_Friendship_' is dedicated to him; another 'On Music, ' in which art hehad found leisure, it seems, to make himself a proficient; and as tothe poetic tributes to him, --some of them at least are familiar to usalready. In that gay court, where Raleigh and his haughty rivals werethen playing their deep games, --where there was no room for Spenser'smuse, and the worth of his 'Old Song' was grudgingly reckoned, --the'rustling in silks' is long since over, but the courtier's place inthe pageant of the 'Faery Queene' remains, and grows clearer with thelapse of ages. That time, against which he built so perseveringly, andfortified himself on so many sides, will not be able to diminish there'one dowle that's in his plume. ' [He was also a patron of Plays andPlayers in this stage of his career, and entertained private partiesat his house with very _recherché_ performances of that kindsometimes. ]

In the Lord Timon of the Shakspere piece, which was rewritten from an_Academic_ original after Raleigh's consignment to the Tower, --in thatfierce satire into which so much Elizabethan bitterness is condensed, under the difference of the reckless prodigality which is stereotypedin the fable, we get, in the earlier scenes, some glimpses of this'Athenian' also, in this stage of his career. 

But it was not as a _Patron_ only, or chiefly, that he aided the newliterary development. A scholar, a scholar so earnest, soindefatigable, it followed of course that he must be, in one form oranother, an Instructor also; for that is still, under all conditions, the scholar's destiny--it is still, in one form or another, hisbusiness on the earth. But with that temperament which was includedamong the particular conditions of his genius, and with those specialand particular endowments of his for another kind of intellectualmastery, he could not be content with the pen--with the Poet's, or theHistorian's, or the Philosopher's pen--as the instrument of his mentaldictation. A Teacher thus furnished and ordained, seeks, indeed, naturally and instinctively, a more direct and living and effectivemedium of communication with the audience which his time is able tofurnish him, whether 'few' or many, whether 'fit' or unfit, than thebook can give him. He must have another means of 'delivery andtradition, ' when the delivery or tradition is addressed to those whomhe would associate with him in his age, to work with him as one man, or those to whom he would transmit it in other ages, to carry it on toits perfection--those to whom he would communicate his own highestview, those whom he would inform with his patiently-gathered lore, those whom he would _instruct_ and move with his new inspirations. Forthe truth has become a personality with him--it is his nobler self. Hewill live on with it. He will live or die with it. 

For such a one there is, perhaps, no institution ready in his time toaccept his ministry. No chair at Oxford or Cambridge is waiting forhim. For they are, of course, and must needs be, the strong-holds ofthe past--those ancient and venerable seats of learning, 'thefountains and nurseries of all the humanities, ' as a CambridgeProfessor calls them, in a letter addressed to Raleigh. The principleof these larger wholes is, of course, instinctively conservative. Their business is to know nothing of the new. The new intellectualmovement must fight its battles through without, and come offconqueror there, or ever those old Gothic doors will creak on theirreluctant hinges to give it ever so pinched an entrance. When it hasonce fought its way, and forced itself within--when it has got at lastsome marks of age and custom on its brow--then, indeed, it will standas the last outwork of that fortuitous conglomeration, to be defendedin its turn against all comers. Already the revived classics had beenable to push from their chairs, and drive into corners, and shut upfinally and put to silence, the old Aristotelian Doctors--the Seraphicand Cherubic Doctors of their day--in their own ancient halls. Itwould be sometime yet, perhaps, however, before that study of the deadlanguages, which was of course one prominent incident of the firstrevival of a dead learning, would come to take precisely the sameplace in those institutions, with their one instinct of conservationand 'abhorrence of change, ' which the old monastic philosophy hadtaken in its day; but that change once accomplished, the old monasticphilosophy itself, religious as it was, was never held more sacredthan this profane innovation would come to be. It would be some timebefore those new observations and experiments, which Raleigh and hisschool were then beginning to institute, experiments and inquirieswhich the universities would have laughed to scorn in their day, wouldcome to be promoted to the Professor's chair; but when they did, itwould perhaps be difficult to convince a young gentleman liberallyeducated, at least, under the wings of one of those 'ancient andvenerable' seats of learning, now gray in Raleigh's youthfulWest--ambitious, perhaps, to lead off in this popular innovation, where Saurians, and Icthyosaurians, and Entomologists, andChonchologists are already hustling the poor Greek and Latin Teachersinto corners, and putting them to silence with their growingterminologies--it would perhaps be difficult to convince one who hadgone through the prescribed course of treatment in one of these'nurseries of humanity, ' that the knowledge of the domestic habits andsocial and political organisations of insects and shell-fish, or eventhe experiments of the laboratory, though never so useful and properin their place, are not, after all, the beginning and end of a humanlearning. It was no such place as that that this department of thescience of nature took in the systems or notions of its ElizabethanFounders. They were 'Naturalists, ' indeed; but that did not imply, with _their_ use of the term, the absence of the natural common humansense in the selection of the objects of their pursuits. 'It is a partof science to make _judicious_ inquiries and wishes, ' says the speakerin chief for this new doctrine of nature; speaking of the particularand special applications of it which he is forbidden to make openly, but which he instructs, and prepares, and charges his followers tomake for themselves. 

One of those innovations, one of those movements in which the newground of ages of future culture is first chalked out--a movementwhose end is not yet, whose beginning we have scarce yet seen--wasmade in England, not very far from the time in which Sir WalterRaleigh, began first to convert the eclat of his rising fortunes athome, and the splendour of his heroic achievements abroad, and allthose new means of influence which his great position gave him, to theadvancement of those deeper, dearer ambitions, which the predominanceof the nobler elements in his constitution made inevitable with him. Even then he was ready to endanger those golden opinions, waiting tobe worn in their newest gloss, not cast aside so soon, and new-wonrank, and liberty and life itself, for the sake of putting himselfinto his true intellectual relations with his time, as a philosopherand a beginner of a new age in the human advancement. For 'spirits arenot finely touched but to fine issues. '

If there was no Professor's Chair, if there was no Pulpit or Bishop'sStall waiting for him, and begging his acceptance of its perquisites, he must needs institute a chair of his own, and pay for leave tooccupy it. If there was no university with its appliances within hisreach, he must make a university of his own. The germ of a new'universality' would not be wanting in it. His library, or hisdrawing-room, or his 'banquet, ' will be Oxford enough for him. He willbegin it as the old monks began theirs, with their readings. Where theteacher is, there must the school be gathered together. And a schoolin the end there will be: a school in the end the true teacher willhave, though he begin it, as the barefoot Athenian began his, in thestall of the artisan, or in the chat of the Gymnasium, amid thecompliments of the morning levee, or in the woodland stroll, or in themidnight revel of the banquet. 

When the hour and the man are indeed met, when the time is ripe, andone _truly sent_, ordained of that Power which _chooses_, not oneonly--what uncloaked atheism is that, to promulgate in an age likethis!--_not_ the Teachers and Rabbis of _one race_ only, but _all thesuccessful_ agents of human advancement, the initiators of new eras ofman's progress, the inaugurators of new ages of the relief of thehuman estate and the Creator's glory--when such an one indeed appears, there will be no lack of instrumentalities. With some verdanthill-side, it may be, some blossoming knoll or 'mount' for his'chair, ' with a daisy or a lily in his hand, or in a fisherman's boat, it may be, pushed a little way from the strand, he will begin newages. 

The influence of Raleigh upon his time cannot yet be fully estimated;because, in the first place, it was primarily of that kind whichescapes, from its subtlety, the ordinary historical record; and, inthe second place, it was an influence at the time _necessarilycovert_, studiously disguised. His relation to the new intellectualdevelopment of his age might, perhaps, be characterised as _Socratic_;though certainly not because he lacked the use, and the most masterlyuse, of that same weapon with which his younger contemporary broughtout at last, in the face of his time, the plan of the GreatInstauration. In the heart of the new establishment which themagnificent courtier, who was a 'Queen's delight, ' must now maintain, there soon came to be a little 'Academe. ' The choicest youth of thetime, 'the Spirits of the Morning Sort, ' gathered about him. It wasthe new philosophic and poetic genius of the age that he attracted tohim; it was on that philosophic and poetic genius that he left hismark for ever. 

He taught them, as the masters taught of old, in dialogues--in wordsthat could not then be written, in words that needed the master'smodulation to give them their significance. For the new doctrine hadneed to be clothed in a language of its own, whose inner meaning onlythose who had found their way to its inmost shrine were able tointerpret. 

We find some contemporary and traditional references to this school, which are not without their interest and historical value, as tendingto show the amount of influence which it was supposed to have exertedon the time, as well as the acknowledged necessity for concealment inthe studies pursued in it. The fact that such an Association_existed_, that it _began with Raleigh_, that young men of distinctionwere attracted to it, and that in such numbers, and under suchconditions, that it came to be considered ultimately as a '_School_, 'of which he was the head-master--the fact that the new experimentalscience was supposed to have had its origin in this association, --thatopinions, differing from the received ones, were also secretlydiscussed in it, --that _anagrams_ and other devices were made use offor the purpose of infolding the _esoteric_ doctrines of the school inpopular language, so that it was possible to write in this languageacceptably to the vulgar, and without violating preconceived opinions, and at the same time instructively to the initiated, --all thisremains, even on the surface of statements already accessible to anyscholar, --all this remains, either in the form of contemporarydocuments, or in the recollections of persons who have apparently hadit from the most authentic sources, from persons who profess to know, and who were at least in a position to know, that such was theimpression at the time. 

But when the instinctive dread of innovation was already so keenly onthe alert, when Elizabeth was surrounded with courtiers still in theirfirst wrath at the promotion of the new 'favourite, ' indignant atfinding themselves so suddenly overshadowed with the growing honoursof one who had risen from a rank beneath their own, and eagerlywatching for an occasion against him, it was not likely that such anaffair as this was going to escape notice altogether. And though thesecrecy with which it was conducted, might have sufficed to elude ascrutiny such as theirs, there was _another_, and more eager andsubtle enemy, --an enemy which the founder of this school had always tocontend with, that had already, day and night, at home and abroad, itsArgus watch upon him. That vast and secret foe, which he had arrayedagainst him on foreign battle fields, knew already what kind ofembodiment of power this was that was rising into such sudden favourhere at home, and would have crushed him in the germ--that foe whichwould never rest till it had pursued him to the block, which was readyto join hands with his personal enemies in its machinations, in thecourt of Elizabeth, as well as in the court of her successor, thatvast, malignant, indefatigable foe, in which the spirit of the oldages lurked, was already at his threshold, and penetrating to the mostsecret chamber of his councils. It was on the showing of _a Jesuit_that these friendly gatherings of young men at Raleigh's table came tobe branded as 'a school of Atheism. ' And it was through such agencies, that his enemies at court were able to sow suspicions in Elizabeth'smind in regard to the entire orthodoxy of his mode of explainingcertain radical points in human belief, and in regard to the absolute'conformity' of his views on these points with those which she hadherself divinely authorised, suspicions which he himself confesses hewas never afterwards able to eradicate. The matter was represented toher, we are told, 'as if he had set up for a doctor in the faculty andinvited young gentlemen into his school, where the Bible was jeeredat, ' and the use of profane anagrams was inculcated. The fact that heassociated with him in his chemical and mathematical studies, andentertained in his house, a scholar labouring at that time under theheavy charge of getting up 'a philosophical theology, ' was also madeuse of greatly to his discredit. 

And from another uncontradicted statement, which dates from a laterperiod, but which comes to us worded in terms as cautious as if it hadissued directly from the school itself, we obtain another glimpse ofthese new social agencies, with which the bold, creative, socialgenius that was then seeking to penetrate on all sides thecustom-bound time, would have roused and organised a new social lifein it. It is still the second-hand hearsay testimony which is quotedhere. '_He is said_ to have set up an Office of Address, and it is_supposed_ that the office _might_ respect a _more liberalintercourse_--_a nobler mutuality of advertisement_, than wouldperhaps admit of _all sorts of persons_. ' 'Raleigh set up a kind ofOffice of Address, ' says another, 'in the capacity of an agency forall sorts of persons. ' John Evelyn, refers also to that long driedfountain of communication which _Montaigne_ first proposed, Sir WalterRaleigh put in practice, and Mr. Hartlib endeavoured to renew. 

'This is the scheme described by Sir W. Pellis, which is referredtraditionally to Raleigh and Montaigne (see Book I. Chap. Xxxiv. ) AnOffice of _Address_ whereby the wants of _all_ may be made known toALL (that painful and great instrument of this design), _where men mayknow what is already done in the business of learning, what is atpresent in doing, and what is intended to be done_, to the end that, by such a _general communication of design and mutual assistance, thewits and endeavours of the world_ may no longer be _as so manyscattered coals_, which, for want of _union_, are soon quenched, whereas being laid together they would have yielded _a comfortable_light and heat. [This is evidently _traditional_ language] . .. Such asadvanced rather to the _improvement_ of _men_ themselves than theirmeans. '--OLDYS. 

_This_ then is the association of which Raleigh was the chief; _this_was the state, within the state which he was founding. ('See the reachof this man, ' says Lord Coke on his Trial. ) It is true that the honouris also ascribed to Montaigne; but we shall find, as we proceed withthis inquiry, that _all_ the works and inventions of this new Englishschool, of which Raleigh was chief, all its new and vast designs forman's relief, are also claimed by that same aspiring gentleman, asthey were, too, by another of these Egotists, who came out in his ownname with this identical project. 

It was only within the walls of a school that the great principle ofthe new philosophy of fact and practice, which had to pretend to beprofoundly absorbed in chemical experiments, or in physicalobservations, and inductions of some kind--though not without anoccasional hint of a broader intention, --it was only in _esoteric_language that the great principles of this philosophy could begin tobe set forth _in their true comprehension_. The very trunk of it, theprimal science itself, must needs be mystified and hidden in a showerof metaphysical dust, and piled and heaped about with the old deadbranches of scholasticism, lest men should see for themselves _how_broad and comprehensive _must_ be the ultimate sweep of itsdeterminations; lest men should see for themselves, how a sciencewhich begins in fact, and returns to it again, which begins inobservation and experiment, and returns in scientific practice, inscientific arts, in scientific re-formation, might have to do, ere allwas done, with facts not then inviting scientific investigation--witharts not then inviting scientific reform. 

In consequence of a sudden and common advancement of intelligenceamong the leading men of that age, which left the standard ofintelligence represented in more than one of its existinginstitutions, very considerably in the rear of its advancement, therefollowed, as the inevitable result, a tendency to the formation ofsome medium of expression, --whether that tendency was artisticallydeveloped or not, in which the new and nobler thoughts of men, inwhich their dearest beliefs, could find some vent and limitedinterchange and circulation, without startling the _ear_. Eventuallythere came to be a number of men in England at this time, --and whoshall say that there were none on the continent of thisschool, --occupying prominent positions in the state, heading, it mightbe, or ranged in opposite factions at Court, who could speak and writein such a manner, upon topics of common interest, as to makethemselves entirely intelligible to each other, without exposingthemselves to any of the risks, which confidential communicationsunder such circumstances involved. 

For there existed a certain mode of expression, originating in some ofits more special forms with this particular school, yet not altogetherconventional, which enabled those who made use of it to steer clear ofthe Star Chamber and its sister institution; inasmuch as the termsemployed in this mode of communication were not in the more obviousinterpretation of them actionable, and to a vulgar, unlearned, orstupid conceit, could hardly be made to appear so. There must be aHigh Court of Wit, and a Bench of Peers in that estate of the realm, or ever these treasons could be brought to trial. For it was a mode ofcommunication which involved in its more obvious construction thenecessary submission to power. It was the instructed ear, --the ear ofa school, --which was required to lend to it its more reconditemeanings;--it was the ear of that new school in philosophy which hadmade History the basis of its learning, --which, dealing with_principles_ instead of _words_, had glanced, not without some niceobservation in passing, at their more '_conspicuous_' historical'INSTANCES';--it was the ear of a school which had everywhere thegreat historical representations and diagrams at its control, andcould substitute, without much hindrance, particulars for generals, orgenerals for particulars, as the case might be; it was the ear of aschool intrusted with discretionary power, but trained and practisedin the art of using it. 

Originally an art of necessity, with practice, in the skilful hands ofthose who employed it, it came at length to have a charm of its own. In such hands, it became an instrument of literary power, which hadnot before been conceived of; a medium too of densest ornament, ofthick crowding conceits, and nestling beauties, which no style beforehad ever had depth enough to harbour. It established a new, and moreintimate and living relation between the author and hisreader, --between the speaker and his audience. There was ever thecharm of that secret understanding lending itself to all the effects. It made the reader, or the hearer, participator in the artist's skill, and joint proprietor in the result. The author's own glow must be onhis cheek, the author's own flash in his eye, ere that result waspossible. The nice point of the skilful pen, the depth of the lurkingtone was lost, unless an eye as skilful, or an ear as fine, tracked orwaited on it. It gave to the work of the artist, nature's ownstyle;--it gave to works which had the earnest of life and death inthem the sport of the 'enigma. '

It is not too much to say, that the works of Raleigh and Bacon, andothers whose connection with it is not necessary to specify just here, are written throughout in the language of this school. 'Our gloriousWilly'--(it is the gentleman who wrote the 'Faery Queene' who claimshim, and his glories, as 'ours'), --'our glorious Willy' was born init, and knew no other speech. It was that 'Round Table' at which SirPhilip Sydney presided then, that his lurking meanings, hisunspeakable audacities first 'set in a roar. ' It was there, in thekeen encounters of those flashing 'wit combats, ' that the weapons ofgreat genius grew so fine. It was there, where the young wits andscholars, fresh from their continental tours, full of the gallantyoung England of their day, --the Mercutios, the Benedicts, the Birons, the Longuevilles, came together fresh from the Court of Navarre, andsmelling of the lore of their foreign 'Academe, ' or hot from thebattles of continental freedom, --it was _there_, in those _réunions_, that our Poet caught those gracious airs of his--those delicate, thick-flowering refinements--those fine impalpable points of courtlybreeding--those aristocratic notions that haunt him everywhere. It wasthere that he picked up his various knowledge of men and manners, hisacquaintance with foreign life, his bits of travelled wit, that flashthrough all. It was there that he heard the clash of arms, and theocean-storm. And it was there that he learned 'his old ward. ' It wasthere, in the social collisions of that gay young time, with its boldover-flowing humours, that would not be shut in, that he first armedhimself with those quips and puns, and lurking conceits, that crowdhis earlier style so thickly, --those double, and triple, and quadruplemeanings, that stud so closely the lines of his dialogue in the playswhich are clearly dated from that era, --the natural artifices of atime like that, when all those new volumes of utterance which the lipswere ready to issue, were forbidden on pain of death to be 'extended, 'must needs 'be crushed together, infolded within themselves. '

Of course it would be absurd, or it would involve the most profoundignorance of the history of literature in general, to claim that theprinciple of this invention had its origin here. It had already beenin use, in recent and systematic use, in the intercourse of thescholars of the Middle Ages; and its origin is coeval with the originof letters. The free-masonry of learning is old indeed. It runs itsmountain chain of signals through all the ages, and men whom times andkindreds have separated ascend from their week-day toil, and holdtheir Sabbaths and synods on those heights. They whisper, and listen, and smile, and shake the head at one another; they laugh, and weep, and complain together; they sing their songs of victory in one key. That machinery is so fine, that the scholar can catch across the ages, the smile, or the whisper, which the contemporary tyranny had noinstrument firm enough to suppress, or fine enough to detect. 

 'But for her father sitting still on hie, Did warily still watch the way she went, And eke from far observed with jealous eye, Which way his course the wanton Bregog bent. 

 Him to deceive, for all his watchful ward, The wily lover did devise this slight. First, into many parts, his stream he shared, That whilst the one was watch'd, the other might

 Pass unespide, to meet her by the way. And then besides, those little streams, so broken, He under ground so closely did convey, That of their passage doth appear no token. '

It was the author of the 'Faery Queene, ' indeed, his fine, elaborate, fertile genius burthened with its rich treasure, and stimulated to newactivity by his poetical alliance with Raleigh, whose splendidinvention first made apparent the latent facilities which certaindepartments of popular literature then offered, for a new and hithertounparalleled application of this principle. In that prose descriptionof his great Poem which he addresses to Raleigh, the distinct avowalof a double intention in it, the distinction between a particular andgeneral one, the emphasis with which the elements of the ideal name, are discriminated and blended, furnish to the careful reader alreadysome superficial hints, as to the capabilities of such a plan to oneat all predisposed to avail himself of them. And, indeed, this Poet'smanifest philosophical and historical tendencies, and his avowed viewof the comprehension of the Poet's business would have seemedbeforehand to require some elbow-room, --some chance for poetic curvesand sweeps, --some space for the line of beauty to take its course in, which the sharp angularities, the crooked lines, the blunt bringing upeverywhere, of the new philosophic tendency to history would scarcelyadmit of. There was no breathing space for him, unless he couldcontrive to fix his poetic platform so high, as to be able to overridethese restrictions without hindrance. 

'For the Poet thrusteth into the midst, even where it most concernethhim, and then recoursing to the things fore-past, and _divining ofthings to come_, he maketh a pleasing _analysis_ of ALL. '

And it so happened that his Prince Arthur had dreamed the poet'sdream, the hero's dream, the philosopher's dream, the dream that wasdreamed of old under the Olive shades, the dream that all our Poetsand inspired anticipators of man's perfection and felicity have alwaysbeen dreaming; but this one '_awakening_, ' determined that it shouldbe a dream no longer. It was the hour in which the genius of antiquitywas reviving; it was the hour in which the poetic inspiration of allthe ages was reviving, and _arming_ itself with the knowledge of'things not dreamt of' by old reformers--that knowledge of naturewhich is _power_, which is the true _magic_. For this new Poet hadseen in a vision that same 'excellent beauty' which 'the divine' onessaw of old, and 'the New Atlantis, ' the celestial vision of _her_kingdom; and being also 'ravished with that excellence, and_awakening_, he determined to _seek her out_. And so being by _Merlinarmed_, and by _Timon thoroughly instructed_, he went forth to seekher in _Fairy Land_. ' There was a little band of heroes in that age, alittle band of philosophers and poets, secretly bent on that sameadventure, sworn to the service of that same Gloriana, though theywere fain to wear then the scarf and the device of another Queen on_their_ armour. It is to the prince of this little band--'the princeand mirror of all chivalry'--that this Poet dedicates his poem. But itis Raleigh's device which he adopts in the names he uses, and it isRaleigh who thus shares with Sydney the honour of his dedication. 

'In that Faery Queene, I mean, ' he says, in his prose description ofthe Poem addressed to Raleigh, 'in that Faery Queene, I mean Glory inmy general intention; but, in my particular, I conceive the mostglorious person of our sovereign the Queen, and _her_ kingdom--in_Fairy Land_. 

'And yet, in some places, I do otherwise shadow her. For consideringshe beareth _two persons, one_ of a most Royal _Queen_ or _Empress_, the other of a most VIRTUOUS and BEAUTIFUL lady--the _latter part_ Ido express in BEL-PHEBE, fashioning her name according to your own_most excellent conceit_ of "_Cynthia_, " Phebe and Cynthia being bothnames of _Diana_. ' And thus he sings his poetic dedication:--

 'To thee, that art the Summer's Nightingale, Thy sovereign goddess's most dear delight, Why do I send this rustic madrigal, That may thy tuneful ear unseason quite? _Thou, only fit this argument to write_, In whose high thoughts _pleasure hath built her bower_, And dainty love learn'd sweetly to indite. My rhymes, I know, unsavoury are and soure To taste the streams, which _like a golden showre_, Flow from thy fruitful head of thy love's praise. Fitter, perhaps, _to thunder martial stowre_, [Footnote] When thee so list thy _tuneful_ thoughts to raise, Yet _till that thou thy poem wilt make known_, Let thy fair Cynthia's praises be thus rudely shown. '

[Footnote:'Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with _rage__Or influence chide_, or _cheer_ the drooping stage. '

BEN JONSON. ]

'Of me, ' says Raleigh, in a response to this obscure partner of hisworks and arts, --a response not less mysterious, till we have foundthe solution of it, for it is an enigma. 

 'Of me _no lines_ are loved, _no letters_ are of price, Of all that speak the English tongue, but those of _thy device_. '

[It was a '_device_' that symbolised _all_. It was a _circle_containing the alphabet, or the _A B C_, and the esoteric meaning ofit was '_all_ in _each_, ' or _all_ in _all_, the new doctrine of the_unity_ of science (the '_Ideas_' of the New '_Academe_'). That wasthe token-name under which a great Book of this Academy was issued. ]

It is to Sidney, Raleigh, and the Poet of the 'Faery-Queene, ' and therest of that courtly company of Poets, that the contemporary author inthe Art of Poetry alludes, with a special commendation of Raleigh'svein, as the 'most lofty, insolent, and passionate, ' when he says, 'they have _writ_ excellently well, if their _doings_ could be foundout and made public with the rest. '

CHAPTER IV. 

RALEIGH'S SCHOOL, CONTINUED. --THE NEW ACADEMY. 

EXTRACT FROM A LATER CHAPTER OF RALEIGH'S LIFE. 

_Oliver_. Where will the old Duke live?

_Charles_. They say _he is already_ in the forest of _Arden_, and amany merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hoodof England: they say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, andfleet the time carelessly as they did in the golden world. 

As You Like It. 

 _Stephano_ [sings]. Flout 'em and skout'em; and skout'em and flout 'em, _Thought_ is free. 

 _Cal_. That's not the tune. 

 [Ariel _plays the tune on a tabor and pipe_. ]

 _Ste_. What is this _same?_

 _Trin_. This is the tune of our catch, played by--the picture of--_Nobody_. 

But all was not over with him in the old England yet--the present hadstill its chief tasks for him. 

The man who had 'achieved' his greatness, the chief who had made hisway through such angry hosts of rivals, and through such formidablesocial barriers, from his little seat in the Devonshire corner to aplace in the state, so commanding, that even the jester, who was the'Mr. Punch' of that day, conceived it to be within the limits of hisprerogative to call attention to it, and that too in 'the presence'itself [See 'the knave' _commands_ 'the queen. '--_Tarleton_]--a placeof command so acknowledged, that even the poet could call him in theear of England 'her _most_ dear delight'--such a one was not going togive up so easily the game he had been playing here so long. He wasnot to be foiled with this great flaw in his fortunes even here; andthough all his work appeared for the time to be undone, and though theeye that he had fastened on him was 'the eye' that had in it 'twentythousand deaths. '

It is this patient piecing and renewing of his broken webs, it is thissecond building up of his position rather than the first, that showsus what he is. One must see what he contrived to make of those'apartments' in the Tower while he occupied them; what beforeunimagined conveniencies, and elegancies, and facilities ofcommunication, and means of operation, they began to develop under thesearching of his genius: what means of reaching and moving the publicmind; what wires that reached to the most secret councils of stateappeared to be inlaid in those old walls while he was within them;what springs that commanded even there movements not less striking andanomalous than those which had arrested the critical and admiringattention of Tarleton under the Tudor administration, --movements onthat same royal board which Ferdinand and Miranda were seen to beplaying on in Prospero's cell when all was done, --one must see whatthis logician, who was the magician also, contrived to make of thelodging which was at first only 'the cell' of a condemned criminal;what power there was there to foil his antagonists, and crush themtoo, --if nothing but throwing themselves under the wheels of hisadvancement would serve their purpose; one must look at all this tosee 'what manner of man' this was, what stuff this genius was made of, in whose hearts ideas that had been parted from all antiquities weregetting welded here then--welded so firmly that all futurities wouldnot disjoin them, so firmly that thrones, and dominions, andprincipalities, and powers, and the rulers of the darkness of thisworld might combine in vain to disjoin them--the ideas whose union wasthe new 'birth of time. ' It is this life in 'the cell'--this game, these masques, this tempest, that the magician will commandthere--which show us, when all is done, what new stuff of Nature's ownthis was, in which the new idea of combining 'the part operative' andthe part speculative of human life--this new thought of making 'theart and practic part of life _the mistress_ to its theoric' wasunderstood in this scholar's own time (as we learn from the secrettraditions of the school) to have had its first germination: this ideawhich is the idea of the modern learning--the idea of connectingknowledge generally and in a systematic manner with the humanconduct--knowledge as distinguished from pre-supposition--the ideawhich came out afterwards so systematically and comprehensivelydeveloped in the works of his great contemporary and partner in artsand learning. 

We must look at this, as well as at some other demonstrations of whichthis time was the witness, to see what new mastership this is that wascoming out here so signally in this age in various forms, and in moreminds than one; what soul of a new era it was that had laughed, evenin the boyhood of its heroes, at old Aristotle on his throne; that hadmade its youthful games with dramatic impersonations, and caricatures, and travesties of that old book-learning; that in the glory of thoseyouthful spirits--'the spirits of youths, that meant to be of note andbegan betimes'--it thought itself already competent to laugh down anddethrone with its 'jests'; that had laughed all its days in secret;that had never once lost a chance for a jibe at the philosophy itfound in possession of the philosophic chairs--a philosophy which hadleft so many things in heaven and earth uncompassed in its old futiledreamy abstractions. 

 Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, Hang up philosophy, was the word of the poet of this new school in one of his 'lofty andpassionate' moods, at a much earlier stage of this philosophicdevelopment. 'See what learning is!' exclaims the Nurse, speaking atthat same date from the same dictation, for there is a Friar 'abroad'there already in the action of that play, who is undertaking to bringhis learning to bear upon practice, and opening his cell forscientific consultation and ghostly advice on the questions of theplay as they happen to arise; and it is his apparent capacity forsmoothing, and reconciling, and versifying, not words only, but facts, which commands the Nurse's admiration. 

This doctrine of a practical learning, this part operative of the newlearning for which the founders of it beg leave to reintegrate theabused term of Natural Magic, referring to the Persians in particular, to indicate the extent of the field which their magical operations areintended ultimately to occupy; this idea, which the master of thisschool was illustrating now in the Tower so happily, did not originatein the Tower, as we shall see. 

The first heirs of this new invention, were full of it. The babblinginfancy of this great union of art and learning, whose speech flows inits later works so clear, babbled of nothing else: its Elizabethansavageness, with its first taste of learning on its lips, with its newclassic lore yet stumbling in its speech, already, knew nothing else. The very rudest play in all this collection of the school, --left toshow us the march of that 'time-bettering age, ' the play which offendsus most--belongs properly to this collection; contains _this_ secret, which is the Elizabethan secret, and the secret of that art ofdelivery and tradition which this from the first inevitablycreated, --yet rude and undeveloped, but _there_. 

We need not go so far, however, as that, in this not pleasantretrospect; for these early plays are not the ones to which theinterpreter of this school would choose to refer the reader, for theproof of its claims at present;--these which the faults of youth andthe faults of the time conspire to mar: in which the overdoing of thefirst attempt to hide under a cover suited to the tastes of the Court, or to the yet more faulty tastes of the rabble of an Elizabethanplay-house, --the boldest scientific treatment of 'the forbiddenquestions, ' still leaves so much upon the surface of the play thatrepels the ordinary criticism;--these that were first sent out tobring in the rabble of that age to the scholar's cell, these in whichthe new science was first brought in, in its slave's costume, with allits native glories shorn, and its eyes put out 'to make sport' for theTudor--perilous sport!--these first rude essays of a learning not yetmaster of its unwonted tools, not yet taught how to wear its fettersgracefully, and wreathe them over and make immortal glories ofthem--still clanking its irons. There is nothing here to detain anycriticism not yet instructed in the secret of this Art Union. But thefaults are faults of execution merely; _the design_ of the NovuraOrganum is not more noble, not more clear. 

For these works are the works of that same 'school' which the Jesuitthought so dangerous, and calculated to affect unfavourably themorality of the English nation--the school which the Jesuit contrivedto bring under suspicion as a school in which doctrines that differedfrom opinions received on essential points were secretlytaught, --contriving to infect with his views on that point the ladywho was understood, at that time, to be the only person qualified toreflect on questions of this nature; the school in which Raleigh wasasserted to be perverting the minds of young men by teaching them theuse of profane anagrams; and it cannot be denied, that anagrams, aswell as other 'devices in letters, ' _were_ made use of, in involving'the bolder meanings' contained in writings issued from this school, especially when the scorn with which science regarded the things itfound set up for its worship had to be conveyed sometimes in a pointor a word. It is a school, whose language might often seem obnoxiousto the charge of profanity and other charges of that nature to thosewho do not understand its aims, to those who do not know that it isfrom the first a school of Natural Science, whose chief department wasthat history which makes the basis of the '_living_ art, ' the art of_man's_ living, the _essential_ art of it, --a school in which the useof words was, in fact, more rigorous and scrupulous than it had everbeen in any other, in which the use of words is for the first timescientific, and yet, in some respects, more bold and free than inthose in which mere words, as words, are supposed to have someinherent virtue and efficacy, some mystic worth and sanctity in them. 

This was the learning in which the art of a new age and race firstspoke, and many an old foolish, childish, borrowed notion went offlike vapour in it at its first word, without any one's ever so much asstopping to observe it, any one whose place was within. It is theschool of a criticism much more severe than the criticism which callsits freedom in question. It is a school in which the taking of namesin vain in general is strictly forbidden. That is the firstcommandment of it, and it is a commandment with promise. 

The man who sits there in the Tower, now, driving that same'goose-pen' which he speaks of as such a safe instrument for unfoldingpractical doctrines, with such patient energy, is not now occupiedwith the statistics of Noah's Ark, grave as he looks; though that, too, is a subject which his nautical experience and the indomitablebias of his genius as a western man towards calculation in general, together with his notion that the affairs of the world generally, pastas well as future, belong properly to his _sphere_ as a _man_, willrequire him to take up and examine and report upon, before he willthink that his work is done. It is not a chapter in the History of theWorld which he is composing at present, though that work is there atthis moment on the table, and forms the ostensible state-prison workof this convict. 

This is the man who made one so long ago in those brilliant 'RoundTable' reunions, in which the idea of converting the new _belleslettres_ of that new time, to such grave and politic uses was firstsuggested; he is the genius of that company, that even in such frolicmad-cap games as Love's Labour's Lost, and the Taming of the Shrew, and Midsummer Night's Dream, could contrive to insert, not the broadfarce and burlesque on the old pretentious wordy philosophy andpompous rhetoric it was meant to dethrone only, and not the mostperilous secret of the new philosophy, only, but the secret of itsorgan of delivery and tradition, the secret of its use of letters, thesecret of its '_cipher in letters_, ' and not its 'cipher in words'only, the cipher in which the secret of the authorship of these workswas infolded, and in which it was _found_, but not found in theseearlier plays, --plays in which these so perilous secrets are stillconveyed in so many involutions, in passages so intricate with quipsand puns and worthless trivialities, so uninviting or so marred withtheir superficial meanings, that no one would think of looking in themfor anything of any value. For it is always when some necessary, butnot superficial, question of the play is to be considered, that theClown and the Fool are most in request, for 'there be of them thatwill themselves laugh to set on some _barren spectators_ to laughtoo'; and under cover of that mirth it is, that the grave or wittyundertone reaches the ear of the judicious. 

It is in the later and more finished works of this school that the keyto the secret doctrines of it, which it is the object of this work tofurnish, is best found. But the fact, that in the very rudest and mostfaulty plays in this collection of plays, which form so important adepartment of the works of this school, which make indeed the noblesttradition, the only adequate tradition, the 'illustrated tradition' ofits noblest doctrine--the fact that in the very earliest germ of thisnew union of 'practic and theoric, ' of art and learning, from which wepluck at last Advancements of Learning, and Hamlets, and Lears, andTempests, and the Novum Organum, already the perilous secret of thisunion is infolded, already the entire organism that these great fruitsand flowers will unfold in such perfection is contained, and clearlytraceable, --this is a fact which appeared to require insertion in thishistory, and not, perhaps, without some illustration. 

'It is not amiss to observe, ' says the Author of the Advancement ofLearning, when at last his great exordium to the science of nature inman, and the art of culture and cure that is based on that science isfinished--pausing to observe it, pausing ere he will produce his indexto that science, to observe it: 'It is _not_ amiss to observe', hesays--(speaking of the operation of culture in general on young minds, so forcible, though unseen, as hardly any length of time, orcontention of labour, can countervail it afterwards)--'how small andmean faculties gotten by education, yet when they fall into _greatmen, or great matters_, do work _great and important effects_; whereofwe see a notable example in _Tacitus_, of _two stage-players_, Percennius and Vibulenus, who, _by their faculty of playing_, put the_Pannonian_ armies _into an extreme tumult and combustion_; for, _there arising a mutiny_ among them, upon the death of _Augustus_Caesar, _Blaesus_ the lieutenant had committed some of the mutineers, _which were suddenly rescued_; whereupon Vibulenus _got to be heardspeak_ [being a stage-player], which he did _in this manner_. 

'"These poor _innocent_ wretches _appointed to cruel death_, you haverestored to behold the light: but who shall restore _my brother_ tome, or life to my brother, _that was sent hither in message from thelegions of Germany_ to treat of--THE COMMON CAUSE? And he hathmurdered him this last night by _some of his fencers and ruffians, that he hath about him for his executioners_ upon soldiers. Themortalest enemies do not deny burial; _when I have performed my lastduties to the corpse with kisses, with tears, command me to be slainbesides him_, so that these, my fellows, _for our good meaning_ andour _true hearts_ to THE LEGION, _may have leave to bury us_. "

'With which speech he put the army into an infinite fury and uproar;whereas, truth was, he had no brother, neither was there any _such_matter [in that case], but he played it merely _as if_ he had beenupon the stage. '

This is the philosopher and stage critic who expresses a decidedopinion elsewhere, that 'the play's the thing, ' though he finds thiskind of writing, too, useful in its way, and for certain purposes; buthe is the one who, in speaking of the original differences in thenatures and gifts of men, suggests that 'there _are_ a kind of men whocan, as it were, divide themselves;' and he does not hesitate topropound it as his deliberate opinion, that a man of wit should haveat command a number of styles adapted to different auditors andexigencies; that is, if he expects to accomplish anything with hisrhetoric. That is what he makes himself responsible for from hisprofessional chair of learning; but it is the Prince of Denmark, withhis remarkable natural faculty of speaking to the point, who says, '_Seneca_ can not be _too heavy_, nor _Plautus_ too light, for--[what?]--the _law of writ_--and--the _liberty_. ' '_These_ are theonly _men_, ' he adds, referring apparently to that tinselled gaudedgroup of servants that stand there awaiting his orders. 

'My lord--you played once _in the university_, you say, ' he observesafterwards, addressing himself to that so politic statesmen whoseoverreaching court plots and performances end for himself sodisastrously. 'That did I, my lord, ' replies Polonius, '_and wasaccounted a good actor_. ' 'And what did you enact?' 'I did enact_Julius Caesar_. I--was killed i' the Capitol [I]. Brutus killed me. ''It was a _brute_ part of him [collateral sounds--Elizabethanphonography] to kill so _capitol a calf_ there. --Be the playersready?'(?). [That is the question. ]

'While watching the progress of the action at Sadlers' Wells, ' saysthe dramatic critic of the 'Times, ' in the criticism of the Comedy ofErrors before referred to, directing attention to the juvenile air ofthe piece, to 'the classic severity in the form of the play, ' and'that _baldness_ of treatment which is a peculiarity of antiquecomedy'--'while watching the progress of the action at Sadlers' Wells, _we may almost fancy we are at St. Peter's College_, witnessing theannual performance of _the Queen's scholars_. ' That is not surprisingto one acquainted with the history of these plays, though thecriticism which involves this kind of observation is not exactly thecriticism to which we have been accustomed here. But any one whowishes to see, as a matter of antiquarian curiosity, or for any otherpurpose, how far from being hampered in the first efforts of hisgenius with _this_ class of educational associations, that particularindividual would naturally have been, in whose unconscious brains thisdepartment of the modern learning is supposed to have had itsaccidental origin, --any one who wishes to see in what direction theantecedents of a person in that station in life would naturally havebiased, _at that time_, his first literary efforts, if, indeed, he hadever so far escaped from the control of circumstances as to master theart of the collocation of letters--any person who has any curiositywhatever on this point is recommended to read in this connection aletter from a professional contemporary of this individual--one whocomes to us with unquestionable claims to our respect, inasmuch as heappears to have had some care for _the future_, and some object inliving beyond that of promoting his own immediate private interestsand sensuous gratification. 

It is a letter of Mr. Edward Alleyn (the founder of Dulwich College), published by the Shakspere Society, to which we are compelled to haverecourse for information on this interesting question; inasmuch asthat distinguished contemporary and professional rival of his referredto, who occupies at present so large a space in the public eye, as itis believed for the best of reasons, has failed to leave us anyspecimens of his method of reducing his own personal history towriting, or indeed any demonstration of his appreciation of the art ofchirography, in general. He is a person who appears to have given adecided preference to the method of oral communication as a means ofeffecting his objects. But in reading this truly interesting documentfrom the pen of an Elizabethan player, who _has_ left us a specimen ofhis use of that instrument usually so much in esteem with men ofletters, we must take into account the fact, that _this_ is anexceptional case of culture. It is the case of a player who aspired todistinction, and who had raised himself by the force of his geniusabove his original social level; it is the case of a player who hasbeen referred to recently as a proof of the position which it waspossible for 'a stage player' to attain to under those particularsocial conditions. 

But as this letter is of a specially private and confidential nature, and as this poor player who _did_ care for the future, and who foundedwith his talents, such as they were, a noble charity, instead ofliving and dying to himself, is not to blame for his defects ofeducation, --since his _acts_ command our respect, however faulty hisattempts at literary expression, --this letter will not be producedhere. But whoever has read it, or whoever may chance to read it, inthe course of an antiquarian research, will be apt to infer, thatwhatever educational bias the first efforts of genius subjected toinfluences of the same kind would naturally betray, the faults chargedupon the Comedy of Errors, the leaning to the classics, the taint ofSt. Peter's College, the tone of the Queen's scholars, are hardly thefaults that the instructed critic would look for. 

But to ascertain the fact, that the controlling idea of that newlearning which the Man in the Tower is illustrating now in so grandand mature a manner, not with his pen only, but with his 'living art, 'and with such an entire independence of classic models, is alreadyorganically contained in those earlier works on which the classicshell is still visible, it is not necessary to go back to theWestminster play of these new classics, or to the performances of theQueen's Scholars. Plays having a considerable air of maturity, inwhich the internal freedom of judgment and taste is already absolute, still exhibit on the surface of them this remarkable submission to theancient forms which are afterwards rejected on principle, and by arule in the new rhetoric--a rule which the author of the Advancementof Learning is at pains to state very clearly. The _wildness_ of whichwe hear so much, works itself out upon the surface, and determines theform at length, as these players proceed and grow bolder with theirwork. A play, second to none in historical interest, invaluable whenregarded simply in its relation to the history of this school, onewhich may be considered, in fact, the Introductory Play of the NewSchool of Learning, is one which exhibits very vividly these strikingcharacteristics of the earlier period. It is one in which thevulgarities of the Play-house are still the cloak of the philosophicsubtleties, and incorporated, too, into the philosophic design; and itis one in which the unity of design, that one design which makes theworks of this school, from first to last, as the work of one man, isstill cramped with those other unities which the doctrines of Dionysusand the mysteries of Eleusis prescribed of old to _their_interpreters. 'What is the _end_ of _study_? What is the _end_ of it?'was the word of the New School of Learning. _That_ was its firstspeech. It was a speech produced with dramatic illustrations, for thepurpose of bringing out its significance more fully, for the purposeof pointing the inquiry unmistakeably to those ends of learning whichthe study of the learned then had not yet comprehended. It is a speechon behalf of a new learning, in which the extant learning is producedon the stage, in its actual historical relation to those '_ends_'which the new school conceived to be the true ends of it, which arebrought on to the stage in palpable, visible representation, not inallegorical forms, but in instances, 'conspicuous instances, ' livingspecimens, after the manner of this school. 

'What is the end of study?' cried the setter forth of this newdoctrine, as long before as when lore and love were debating ittogether in that 'little Academe' that was yet, indeed, to be 'thewonder of the world, still and contemplative in _living_ art. ' 'Whatis the end of study?' cries already the voice of one pacing underthese new olives. _That_ was the word of the new school; that was theword of new ages, and these new minds taught of nature--her priestsand prophets knew it then, already, 'Let fame that all hunt after _intheir lives_, ' _they_ cry--

 _Live_ registered upon our brazen _tombs_, And then _grace us in the disgrace of death_; When spite of cormorant devouring time, The endeavour of _this present breath_ may buy _That honour_ which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, And make us HEIRS of _all eternity_--[of ALL]. * * * * * _Navarre_ shall be the wonder of the world, Our Court shall be _a little Academe_, _Still and contemplative in_--LIVING _art_. 

This is the Poet of the Woods who is beginning his 'recreations' forus here--the poet who loves so well to take his court gallants intheir silks and velvets, and perfumes, and fine court ladies with alltheir courtly airs and graces, and all the stale conventionalititesthat he is sick of, out from under the low roofs of princes into thatgreat palace in which the Queen, whose service he is sworn to, keepsthe State. This is the school-master who takes his school all out onholiday excursions into green fields, and woods, and treats them tocountry merry-makings, and not in sport merely. This is the one thatbreaks open the cloister, and the close walls that learning had dweltin till then, and shuts up the musty books, and bids that old droningcease. This is the one that stretches the long drawn aisle and liftsthe fretted vault into a grander temple. The Court with all its pompand retinue, the school with all its pedantries and brazen ignorance, 'High Art' with its new graces, divinity, Mar-texts and all, must'come hither, come hither, ' and 'under the green-wood tree lie withme, ' the ding-dong of this philosopher's new learning says, callinghis new school together. This is the linguist that will find'_tongues_ in trees, ' and crowd out from the halls of learning thelore of ancient parchments with their verdant classics, their 'truthin beauty dyed. ' This is the teacher with whose new alphabet you canfind 'sermons in stones, _books_ in the running brooks, ' andgood, --good--his '_good_' the good of the New School, that broader'_good_' in every _thing_. 'The roof of _this_ court is too high to be_yours_, ' says the princess of this out-door scene to the sovereigntythat claimed it then. 

This is 'great Nature's' Poet and Interpreter, and he takes us alwaysinto 'the continent of nature'; but man is his chief end, and thatisland which his life makes in the universal being is the point towhich that Naturalist brings home all his new collections. This is thePoet of the Woods, but man, --man at the summit of his arts, in theperfection of his refinements, is always the creature that he is'collecting' in them. In his wildest glades, this is still the speciesthat he is busied with. He has brought him there to experiment on him, and that we may see the better what he is. He has brought him there toimprove his arts, to reduce his conventional savageness, to re-refinehis coarse refinements, not to make a wild-man of him. This is thePoet of the Woods; but he is a woodman, he carries an axe on hisshoulder. He will wake a continental forest with it and subdue it, andfill it with his music. 

For this is the Poet who cries 'Westward Ho!' But he has not got intothe woods yet in this play. He is only on the edge of them as yet. Itis under the blue roof of that same dome which is 'too high, ' theprincess here says, to belong to the pygmy that this Philosopher likesso well to bring out and to measure under that canopy--it is 'out ofdoors' that this new speech on behalf of a new learning is spoken. Butthere is a close rim of conventionalities about us still. It is _aPark_ that this audacious proposal is uttered in. But nothing can bemore orderly, for it is 'a Park with a Palace in it. ' There it is, inthe background. If it were the Attic proscenium itself hollowed intothe south-east corner of the Acropolis, what more could one ask. Butit is the palace of the King of--_Navarre_, who is the prince of goodfellows and the prince of good learning at one and the same time, which makes, in this case, the novelty. 'A Park with a Palace in it'makes the first scene. 'Another part of the same' with the pavilion ofa princess and the tents of _her_ Court seen in the distance, makesthe second; and the change from one part of this park to another, though we get into the heart of it sometimes, is the utmost licensethat the rigours of the Greek Drama permit the Poet to think of atpresent. This criticism on the old learning, this audacious proposalfor the new, with all the bold dramatic illustration with which it isenforced, must be managed here under these restrictions. Whatever'persons' the plot of this drama may require for its evolutions, whatever witnesses and reporters the trial and conviction of the oldlearning, and the definition of the ground of the new, may require, will have to be induced to cross this park at this particular time, because the form of the new art is not yet emancipated, and the Museof the Inductive Science cannot stir from the spot to search them out. 

However, that does not impair the representation as it is managed. There is a very bold artist here already, with all his deference forthe antique. We shall be sure to have _all_ when he is the plotter. The action of this drama is not complicated. The persons of it arefew; the characterization is feeble, compared with that of some of thelater plays; but that does not hinder or limit the design, and it isall the more apparent for this artistic poverty, anatomically clear;while as yet that perfection of art in which all trace of thestructure came so soon to be lost in the beauty of the illustration, is yet wanting; while as yet that art which made of its livinginstance an intenser life, or which made with its _living_ art a lifemore living than life itself, was only germinating. 

The illustration here, indeed, approaches the allegorical form, in theobtrusive, untempered predominance of the qualities represented, sooverdone as to wear the air of a caricature, though the historicalcombination is still here. These diagrams are alive evidently; theyare men, and not allegorical spectres, or toys, though they are'painted in character. '

The entire representation of the extant learning is dramaticallyproduced on this stage; the germ of the 'new' is here also; and theunoccupied ground of it is marked out here as, in the Advancement ofLearning, by the criticism on the deficiences of that which has thefield. Here, too, the line of the extant culture, --the narrow indentedboundary of the _culture_ that professed to take all is alwaysdefining the new, --cutting out the wild not yet visited by the art ofman;--only here the criticism is much more lively, because here 'wecome _to particulars_, ' a thing which the new philosophy--much insistson; and though this want in learning, and the wildness it leaves, isthat which makes tragedies in this method of exhibition; it has itscomical aspect also; and this is the laughing and weeping philosopherin one who manages these representations; and in this case it is thecomical aspect of the subject that is seized on. 

Our diagrams are still coarse here, but they have already the goodscientific quality of exhausting the subject. It is the New Schoolthat occupies the centre of the piece. Their quarters are in thatpalace, but the _king_ of it is the _Royalty_ (Raleigh) that foundedand endowed this School--that was one of his secret titles, --and underthat name he may sometimes be recognized in descriptions anddedications that persons who were not in the secret of the Schoolnaturally applied in another quarter, or appropriated to themselves. '_Rex_ was a surname among the Romans, ' says the Interpreter of thisSchool, in a very explanatory passage, 'as well as _King_ is _withus_. ' It is the New School that is under these boughs here, but hardlythat as yet. 

It is rather the representation of the new classical learning, --theold learning newly revived, --in which the new is germinating. It isthat learning in its _first_ effect on the young, enthusiastic, butearnest practical English mind. It is that revival of the oldlearning, arrested, _daguerréotyped_ at the moment in which the newbegins to stir in it, in minds which are going to be the master-mindsof ages. 

'Common sense' is the word here already. 'Common sense' is the wordthat this new Academe is convulsed with when the curtain rises. Andthough it is laughter that you hear there now, sending its merryEnglish peals through those musty, antique walls, as the first ray ofthat new beam enters them; the muse of the new mysteries has alsoanother mask, and if you will wait a little, you shall hear that tonetoo. Cries that the old mysteries never caught, lamentations forAdonis not heard before, griefs that Dionysus never knew, shall yetring out from those walls. 

Under that classic dome which still calls itself Platonic, thequestions and experiments of the new learning are beginning. Theseyouths are here to represent the new philosophy, which is science, inthe act of taking its first step. The subject is presented here inlarge masses. But this central group, at least, is composed of livingmen, and not dramatic shadows merely. There are good historicalfeatures peering through those masks a little. These youths are fullof youthful enthusiasm, and aspiring to the ideal heights of learningin their enthusiasm. But already the practical bias of their geniusbetrays itself. They are making a practical experiment with theclassics, and to their surprise do not find them 'good for life. '

Here is the School, then, --with the classics on trial in the personsof these new school-men. That is the central group. What more do wewant? Here is the new and the old already. But this is the old_revived_--newly revived;--this is the revival of learning in whosestimulus the _new_ is beginning. There is something in the fieldbesides that. There is a 'school-master abroad' yet, that has not beenexamined. These young men who have resolved themselves in their secretsittings into a committee of the whole, are going to have him up. Hewill be obliged to come into this park here, and speak his speech inthe ear of that English 'common sense, ' which is meddling here, forthe first time, in a comprehensive manner with things in general; hewill have to 'speak out loud and plain, ' that these English parentswho are sitting here in the theatre, some of 'the wiser sort' of them, at least, may get some hint of what it is that this pedagogue isbeating into their children's brains, taking so much of their gloriousyouth from them--that priceless wealth of nature which none canrestore to them, --as the purchase. But this is not all. There is a manwho teaches the grown-up children of the parish in which this Park issituated, who happens to live hard by, --a man who professes the careand cure of minds. He, too, has had a summons sent him; there will beno excuse taken; and his examination will proceed at the same time. These two will come into the Park together; and perhaps we shall notbe able to detect any very marked difference in their modes ofexpressing themselves. They are two ordinary, quiet-looking personagesenough. There is nothing remarkable in their appearance; their cominghere is not forced. There are deer in this Park; and 'book-men' asthey are, they have a taste for sport also it seems. Unless you shouldget a glimpse of the type, --of the unit in their faces--and thatshadowy train that _the cipher_ points to, --unless you should observethat their speech is somewhat strongly pronounced for an individualrepresentation--merely glancing at them in passing--you would not, perhaps, suspect who they are. And yet the hints are not wanting; theyare very thickly strewn, --the hints which tell you that in these twomen all the extant learning, which is in places of trust andauthority, is represented; all that is not included in that elegantlearning which those students are making sport of in those 'goldenbooks' of theirs, under the trees here now. 

But there is another department of art and literature which is putdown as a department of '_learning_, ' and a most grave and momentousdepartment of it too, in that new scheme of learning which this playis illustrating, --one which will also have to be impersonated in thisrepresentation, --one which plays a most important part in the historyof this School. It is that which gives it the _power_ it lacks andwants, and in one way or another will have. It is that which makes _anarm_ for it, and a _long_ one. It is that which supplies its hidden_arms_ and _armour_. But neither is this department of learning as itis extant, --as this School finds it prepared to its hands, going to bepermitted to escape the searching of this comprehensive satire. Thereis a 'refined traveller of Spain' haunting the purlieus of this Court, who is just the bombastic kind of person that is wanted to act thispart. For this impersonation, too, is historical. There are just suchcreatures in nature as this. We see them now and then; or, at least, he is not much overdone, --'this child of Fancy, --Don Armado hight. ' Itis the Old Romance, with his ballads and allegories, --with his old'lies' and his new arts, --that this company are going to use for theirnew minstrelsy; but first they will laugh him out of his bombast andnonsense, and instruct him in the knowledge of 'common things, ' andteach him how to make poetry out of them. They have him here now, tomake sport of him with the rest. It is the fashionable literature, --the literature that entertains _a court_, --the literature of _atyranny_, with his gross servility, with his courtly affectations, with his arts of amusement, his 'vain delights, ' with his euphuisms, his 'fire-new words, ' it is the polite learning, the Elizabethan_Belles Lettres_, that is brought in here, along with that oldDryasdust Scholasticism, which the other two represent, to make upthis company. These critics, who turn the laugh upon themselves, whocaricature their own follies for the benefit of learning, who makethemselves and their own failures the centre of the comedy of _Love's_Labour's Lost, are not going to let this thing escape; with theheights of its ideal, and the grossness of its real, it is the veryfuel for the mirth that is blazing and crackling here. For these arethe woodmen that are at work here, making sport as they work; hewingdown the old decaying trunks, gathering all the nonsense into heaps, and burning it up and and clearing the ground for the new. 

'What is the end of study, ' is the word of this Play. To get the oldbooks shut, but _not_ till they have been examined, _not_ till all thegood in them has been taken out, not till we have made a _stand_ onthem; to get the old books in their places, under our feet, and'_then_ to make progression' after we see where we are, is theproposal here--_here_ also. It is the shutting up of the old books, and the opening of the new ones, which is the business here. But_that_--that is not the proposal of an ignorant man (as this Poethimself takes pains to observe); it is not the proposition of a manwho does not know what there is in books--who does not know but thereis every thing in them that they claim to have in them, every thingthat is good for life, _magic_ and all. An ignorant man is in awe ofbooks, on account of his ignorance. He thinks there are all sorts ofthings in them. He is very diffident when it comes to any question inregard to them. He tells you that he is not '_high learned_, ' anddefers to his betters. Neither is this the proposition of a man whohas read _a little_, who has only a smattering in books, as the Poethimself observes. It is the proposition of _a scholar_, who has readthem _all_, or had them read for him and examined, who knows what isin them _all_, and what they are good for, and what they are not goodfor. This is the man who laughs at learning, and borrows her ownspeech to laugh her down with. _This_, and _not the ignorant man_, itis who opens at last 'great nature's' gate to us, and tells us to comeout and learn of her, _because_ that which old books did _not_ 'claspin, ' that which old philosophies have 'not _dreamt_ of, '--the lore oflaws not written yet in books of man's devising, the lore of _that_ ofwhich man's ordinary life consisteth is _here_, uncollected, waitingto be spelt out. 

 _King_. _How well he's read_ to reason _against reading_. 

is the inference _here_. 

 _Dumain_. _Proceeded_ well to _stop_ all good _proceeding. _

It is _progress_ that is proposed here also. After the survey oflearning 'has been well taken, _then_ to make _progession_' is theword. It is not the doctrine of unlearning that is taught here in thissatire. It is a learning that includes all the extant wisdom, andfinds it insufficient. It is one that requires a new and nobler studyfor its god-like _ends_. But, at the same time, the hindrances that apractical learning has to encounter are pointed at from the first. Thefact, that the true ends of learning take us at once into the groundof the forbidden questions, is as plainly stated in the opening speechof the New Academy as the nature of the statement will permit. Thefact, that the intellect is trained to _vain delights_ under suchconditions, because there is no earnest legitimate occupation of itpermitted, is a fact that is glanced at here, as it is in otherplaces, though not in such a manner, of course, as to lead to a'question' from the government in regard to the meaning of thepassages in which these grievances are referred to. Under theseembarrassments it is, we are given to understand, however, that thecriticism on the old learning and the plot for the new is about toproceed. 

Here it takes the form of comedy and broad farce. There is a touch of'tart Aristophanes' in the representation here. This is theintroductory performance of the school in which the student hopes for_high words howsoever low the matter_, emphasizing that hope with anallusion to the heights of learning, as he finds it, and the highestword of it, which seems irreverent, until we find from the wholepurport of the play how far _he_ at least is from taking it _in vain_, whatever implication of that sort his criticism may be intended toleave on others, who use good words with so much iteration and to solittle purpose. 'That is a _high hope_ for a low having' is therejoinder of that associate of his, whose views on this point agreewith his own so entirely. It is the height of the _hope_ and thelowness of the _having_--it is the height of the _words_ and thelowness of the _matter_, that makes the incongruity here. That is thesoul of all the mirth that is stirring here. It is the height of '_thestyle_' that '_gives us cause to climb in the merriment_' that makesthe subject of this essay. It is literature in general that is laughedat here, and the branches of it in particular. It is the old booksthat are walking about under these trees, with their follies allravelled out, making sport for us. 

But this is not all. It is the _defect_ in learning which isrepresented here--that same 'defect' which a graver work of thisAcademy reports, in connection with a proposition for the Advancementof Learning--for its advancement into the fields not yet taken up, andwhich turn out, upon inquiry, to be the fields of human life andpractice;--it is that main defect which is represented here. 'I find akind of science of "_words_" but none of "_things_, "' says thereporter. 'What do you read, my lord?' 'Words, words, words, ' echoesthe Prince of Denmark. 'I find in these antique books, in thesePhilosophies and Poems, a certain resplendent or lustrous mass ofmatter chosen to give glory either to the subtilty of disputations, orto the eloquence of discourses, ' says the other and graver reporter;'but as to the ordinary and common matter of which life consisteth, Ido _not_ find it erected into an art or science, or reduced to writteninquiry. ' 'How _low_ soever the matter, I hope in God for _highwords_, ' says a speaker, who comes out of that same palace of learningon to this stage with the secret badge of the new lore on him, whichis the lore of practice--a speaker not less grave, though he comes innow in the garb of this pantomime, to make sport for us with his newsof learning. For 'Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too lightfor the law of writ and the liberty. '

It is the high _words_ and the low _having_ that make the incongruity. But we cannot see the vanity of those heights of words, till thelowness of the matter which they profess to abstract has been broughtinto contrast with them, till the particulars which they do _not_grasp, which they can _not_ compel, have been brought into studiouscontrast with them. The delicate graces of those flowery summits ofspeech which the ideal nature, when it energises in speech, creates, must overhang in this design the rude actuality which the untrainednature in man, forgotten of art, is always producing. And it is themight of nature in this opposition, it is the force of 'matter, ' it isthe unconquerable cause contrasted with the vanity of the words thathave not comprehended the _cause_, it is the futility of these heightsof words that are not '_forms_' that do not correspond to things whichmust be exhibited here also. It is the force of the _law_ in nature, that must be brought into opposition here with the height of the_word_, the _ideal_ word, the _higher_, but not yet scientificallyabstracted word, that seeks in vain because it has no 'grappling-hook'on the actuality, to bind it. There already are the _heights oflearning_ as it is, as this school finds it, dramatically exhibited onthe one hand; but this, too, --_life_ as it is, --as this school findsit, man's life as it is, unreduced to order by his philosophy, unreduced to melody by his verse, must also be dramatically exhibitedon the other hand, must also be impersonated. It is life that we havehere, the 'theoric' on the one side, the 'practic' on the other. Theheight of the books on the one side, the lowness, the unvisited, 'unlettered' lowness of the life on the other. That which exhibits the_defect_ in learning that the new learning is to remedy, the newuncultured, unbroken ground of science must be exhibited here also. But _that_ is man's life. That is the world. And what if it be? Thereare diagrams in this theatre large enough for that. It is the theatreof the New Academy which deals also in IDEAS, but prefers thesolidarities. The wardrobe and other properties of this theatre arespecially adapted to exigencies of this kind. The art that put theextant learning with those few strokes into the grotesque forms yousee there, will not be stopped on this side either, for any law ofwrit or want of space and artistic comprehension. This is the learningthat can be bounded in the nut-shell of an aphorism and include all inits bounds. 

There are not many persons here, and they are ordinary looking personsenough. _But_ if you _lift_ those dominos a little, which that'refined traveller of Spain' has brought in fashion, you will findthat this rustic garb and these homely country features hide more thanthey promised; and the princess, with her train, who is keeping statein the tents yonder, though there is an historical portrait there too, is greater than she seems. This Antony _Dull_ is a poor rude fellow;but he is a great man in this play. This is the play in which one asks'Which is the princess?' and the answer is, 'The tallest and thethickest. ' Antony is the thickest, he is the acknowledged sovereignhere in this school; for he is of that greater part that carries it, and though he hath never fed of the dainties bred in a book, thesespectacles which the new 'book men' are getting up here are intendedchiefly for him. And that unlettered small knowing soul 'Me'--'still_me_'--insignificant as you think him when you see him in the form ofa country swain, is a person of most extensive domains andoccupations, and of the very highest dignity, as this philosophy willdemonstrate in various ways, under various symbols. You will have thatsame _me_ in the form of a _Mountain_, before you have read all thebooks of this school, and mastered all its '_tokens_' and '_symbols_. '

The dramatic representation here is meagre; but we shall find uponinquiry it is already the Globe Theatre, with all its newsolidarities, new in philosophy, new in poetry, that the leaves ofthis park hide--this park that the doors and windows of the NewAcademe open into--these new grounds that it lets out its students toplay and study in, and collect their specimens from--'still andcontemplative in living art. ' It was all the world that was goingthrough that park that day haply, we shall find. It is all the worldthat we get in this narrow representation here, as we get it in a morelimited representation still, in another place. 'All the world knows_me_ in my book and my book in _me_, ' cries the Egotist of theMountain. It is the first Canto of that great Epic, whose argumentruns through so many books, that is chanted here. It is the war, theunsuccessful war of lore and nature, whose lost fields have made man'slife, that is getting reviewed at last and reduced to speech andwriting. It is the school itself that makes the centre of the plot inthis case; these gay young philosophers with 'the ribands' yetfloating in their 'cap of youth, ' who oppose lore to love, who 'waragainst _their own affections_ and THE HUGE ARMY OF THE WORLD'SDESIRES, ' ere they know what they are; who think to conquer nature'spotencies, her universal powers and causes, with wordy ignorance, withresolutions that ignore them simply, and make a virtue of ignoringthem, these are the chief actors here, who come out of that classictiring house where they have been shut up with the ancients so long, to celebrate on this green plot, which is life, their own defeat, andpropose a better wisdom, the wisdom of the moderns. And Holofernes, the schoolmaster, who cultivates minds, and Sir Nathaniel, the curate, who cures them, and Don Armado or Don A_drama_dio, from the floweryheights of the new Belles Lettres, with the last refinement ofEuphuism on his lips, and Antony Dull, and the country damsel and herswain, and the princess and her attendants, are all there to eke outand complete the philosophic design, --to exhibit the extant learningin its airy flights and gross descents, in its ludicrous attempt toescape from those particulars or to grapple, without loss of grandeur, those particulars of which man's life consisteth. It is the vainpretension and assumption of those faulty wordy abstractions, whosefalseness and failure in practice this school is going to exposeelsewhere; it is the defect of those abstractions and idealisms thatthe Novum Organum was invented to remedy, which is exhibited sogrossly and palpably here. It is the height of those great swellingwords of rhetoric and logic, in rude contrast with those actualitieswhich the history of man is always exhibiting, which the universalnature in man is always imposing on the learned and unlearned, theprofane and the reverend, the courtier and the clown, the 'king andthe beggar, ' the actualities which the natural history of mancontinues perseveringly to exhibit, in the face of those logicalabstractions and those ideal schemes of man as he should be, which hadbeen till this time the fruit of learning;--those actualities, thoseparticulars, whose lowness the new philosophy would begin with, whichthe new philosophy would erect into an art or science. 

The foundation of this ascent is natural history. There must benothing omitted here, or the stairs would be unsafe. The rule in thisSchool, as stated by the Interpreter in Chief, is, 'that there be_nothing in the globe of matter_, which should not be likewise in theglobe of _crystal_ or _form_;' that is, he explains, 'that thereshould not be anything in _being_ and _action_, which should not be_drawn_ and _collected_ into _contemplation_ and _doctrine_. ' Thelowness of matter, all the capabilities and actualities of speech andaction, not of the refined only, but of the vulgar and profane, areincluded in the science which contemplates an historical result, andwhich proposes the _reform_ of these actualities, the cure of thesemaladies, --which comprehends man as man in its intention, --which makesthe _Common Weal_ its end. 

Science is the word that unlocks the books of this School, its gravestand its lightest, its books of loquacious prose and stately allegory, and its Book of Sports and Riddles. Science is the clue that stillthreads them, that never breaks, in all their departures from thedecorums of literature, in their lowest descents from the refinementsof society. The vulgarity is not _the_ vulgarity of the vulgar--theinelegancy is not the spontaneous rudeness of the ill-bred--any morethan its doctrine of nature is the doctrine of the unlearned. Theloftiest refinements of letters, the courtliest breeding, the mostexquisite conventionalities, the most regal dignities of nature, arealways present in _these_ works, to measure these abysses, floweringto their brink. Man as he is, booked, surveyed, --surveyed from thecontinent of nature, put down as he is in her book of kinds, not as heis from his own interior isolated conceptions only, --the universalpowers and causes as they are developed in him, in his untaughtaffections, in his utmost sensuous darkness, --the universal principleinstanced whereit is most buried, the cause in nature found;--man ashe is, in his heights and in his depths, 'from his lowest note to thetop of his key, '--man in his possibilities, in his actualities, in histhought, in his speech, in his book language, and in his every-daywords, in his loftiest lyric tongue, in his lowest pit of play-housedegradation, searched out, explained, interpreted. That is the key tothe books of this Academe, who carry always on their armour, visibleto those who have learned their secret, but hid under the symbol oftheir double worship, the device of the Hunters, --the symbol of thetwin-gods, --the silver bow, or the bow that finds all. 'Seeing thatshe beareth two persons . .. I do also otherwise _shadow_ her. '

It is man's life, and the culture of it, erected into an art orscience, that these books contain. In the lowness of the lowest, andin the aspiration of the noblest, the powers whose entire history mustmake the basis of a successful morality and policy are found. It isall abstracted or drawn into contemplation, 'that the precepts of cureand culture may be more rightly concluded. ' 'For that which inspeculative philosophy corresponds to the cause, in practicalphilosophy becomes the rule. '

It is not necessary to illustrate this criticism in this case, becausein this case the design looks through the execution everywhere. Thecriticism of the Novum Organum, the criticism of the Advancement ofLearning, and the criticism of Raleigh's History of the World, thanwhich there is none finer, when once you penetrate its crust ofprofound erudition, is here on the surface. And the scholasticism isnot more obtrusive here, the learned sock is not more ostentatiouslyparaded, than in some critical places in those performances; while thehumour that underlies the erudition issues from a depth of learningnot less profound. 

As, for instance, in this burlesque of the descent of _Euphuism_ tothe prosaic detail of the human conditions, not then accommodated witha style in literature, a defect in learning which this Academyproposed to remedy. A new department in literature which began with aseries of papers issued from this establishment, has since undertakento cover the ground here indicated, the _every-day_ human life, andreduce it to written inquiry, notwithstanding 'the lowness of thematter. '

LETTER FROM DON ARMADO TO THE KING. 

_King_ [_reads_], 'Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent, and soledominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god, and body's fosteringpatron. .. . So it is, --besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I didcommend the black, oppressing humour to the most wholesome physick ofthy health-giving air, and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself towalk. The time when? About the sixth hour: when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is calledsupper. '

[No one who is much acquainted with the style of the author of thisletter ought to have any difficulty in identifying him here. There wasa method of dramatic composition in use then, and not in _this_dramatic company only, which produced an amalgamation of styles. 'On aforgotten matter, ' these associated authors themselves, perhaps, couldnot always 'make distinction of their hands. ' But there are placeswhere Raleigh's share in this 'cry of players' shows through verypalpably. ]

'So much for the time _when_. Now for the ground _which_; which I meanI walked upon: it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place where; whereI mean I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event, thatdraweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thoubeholdest, surveyest, or seest, etc. .. . 

'Thine in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty. 

'DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO. '

And in another letter from the same source, the dramatic criticism onthat style of literature which it was the intention of this School 'toreform altogether' is thus continued. 

. .. 'The magnanimous and most illustrate King _Cophetua_, set eye uponthe pernicious and indubitate beggar _Zenelophon_. And it was he thatmight rightly say, _Veni, vidi, vici_; which to _anatomise_ in thevulgar, (_O base and obscure vulgar_!) _Videlicet_, he came, saw, andovercame. .. Who came? the king. Why did he come? to see. Why did hesee? to overcome. To whom came he? to the beggar. What saw he? thebeggar. Who overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory. Onwhose side? etc. 

'Thine in the dearest design of industry. '

[_Dramatic comment_. ]

_Boyet. I am much deceived but I remember the style. 

_Princess_. Else your memory is bad going o'er it erewhile. _

_Jaquenetta_. Good Master Parson, be so good as to read me thisletter--it was sent me from Don _Armatho_: I beseech you to read it. 

_Holofernes_. [Speaking here, however, not in character but for 'the_Academe_. '] _Fauste precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbraRuminat_, and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I may speak of thee asthe traveller doth of Venice

 --Vinegia, Vinegia, Chi non te vede, ei non te pregia. 

Old Mantuan! Old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, _loves theenot. --Ut re sol la mi fa. --Under pardon_, Sir, what are THE CONTENTS?or, rather, as Horace says in his--What, my soul, _verses_?

_Nath_. Ay, Sir, and _very learned_ [one would say so _uponexamination_]. 

_Hol_. Let me have a _staff_, a stanza, a verse; _Lege Domine_. 

_Nath_. [Reads the 'verses. ']--'If love make me forsworn, ' etc. 

_Hol_. You _find not the apostrophe_, and _so--miss_ the_accent_--[criticising the reading. It is necessary to find the_apostrophe_ in the verses of this Academy, before you can give theaccent correctly; there are other points which require to be notedalso, in this refined courtier's writings, as this criticism willinform us]. Let me _supervise_ the canzonet. Here _are only numbers_ratified, but for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadency of poesy, _caret_. _Ovidius Naso_ was the man. And _why_, indeed, Naso; but for_smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy_, the _jerks ofinvention_. _Imitari_ is nothing; so doth the hound his master, theape his keeper, the tired horse his rider. [It was no such reading andwriting as _that_ which this Academy was going to countenance, orteach. ] But, Damosella, was this directed to you?

_Jaq_. Ay, Sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange queen'slords. 

_Hol_. I will _over-glance_ the _super-script_. 'To the snow whitehand of the most beauteous lady _Rosaline_. ' I will look again _on theintellect_ of the letter for the _nomination_ of the party writing, _to the person written unto_ (_Rosaline_). --[_Look again_. --That isthe rule for the reading of letters issued from this Academy, whetherthey come in Don Armado's name or another's, when the point is _not_to 'miss the _accent_. '] 'Your ladyship's, in all desired employment, BIRON. ' Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is one of the votaries with theking, and here he hath framed a _letter_ to a _sequent_ of thestranger queen's, which, _accidentally or by way of progression_, hathmiscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the _royalhand of the king. It may concern much_. Stay not thy compliment, Iforgive thy duty. _Adieu_. 

_Nath_. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously;and as a certain father saith--

_Hol_. Sir, tell me not of _the father_, I do fear colorable colors. But to return to _the verses_. Did they please you, Sir Nathaniel?

_Nath_. Marvellous well _for the pen_. 

_Hol_. I _dine_ to-day at the _father's _of a certain pupil of _mine_, where, if before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table witha grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parent of theforesaid child, or pupil, undertake your _ben venuto, where I willprove_ those _verses to be very unlearned_, neither savouring ofpoetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech _your society_. 

_Nath_. And thank you, too; for _society_ (saith the text) is _thehappiness of_ LIFE. 

_Hol_. And, _certes_, the text _most infallibly concludes it_. --Sir, [to Dull] I do _invite you too_, [to hear the verses ex-criticised]you _shall not_ say me _nay: pauca verba. Away_; the _gentles are attheir games_, and we will _to our recreation_. 

 Another part of the _same_. After dinner. 

 _Re-enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull_. 

_Hol. Satis quod sufficit_. 

_Nath_. I praise God for you, Sir: your _reasons_ at dinner have been_sharp and sententious_; pleasant without scurrility, witty withoutaffection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, andstrange without heresy. I did converse this _quondam_ day with acompanion of the king's, who is intituled, nominated, or called DonAdriano de Armado. 

_Hol_. _Novi hominem tanquam te_. His manner is lofty, his discourseperemptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, and his generalbehaviour, vain, ridiculous and thrasonical. He is too picked, toospruce, too affected, too odd, and, as it were, too peregrinate, as Imay call it. 

_Nath_. A most singular and choice epithet! [Takes out histable-book. ]

_Hol_. _He draweth out the thread of his verbosity_ finer than the_staple of his argument_, ['More matter with less art, ' says the queenin Hamlet], I abhor such _fantastical phantasms_, such insociable and_point device_ companions, such rackers of orthography, as to speakdoubt _fine_ when _he should say doubt_, etc. This is abhominablewhich he would call abominable; it insinuateth me of insanie; _Neintelligis, domine_? to make frantic, lunatic. 

_Nath_. _Lans deo bone intelligo_. 

_Hol_. _Bone--bone for bene_: _Priscian, a little scratched 'twillserve_. [This was never meant to be printed of course; all this isunderstood to have been prepared only for a performance in 'a booth. ']

_Enter_ Armado, etc. 

_Nath. Videsne quis venit?_

_Ho. Video et gaudeo. _

_Arm. _ Chirra!

_Hol. Quare_ Chirra not Sirrah!

But the first appearance of these two _book-men_, as _Dull_ takesleave them to call them in this scene, is not less to the purpose. They come in with Antony Dull, who serves as a foil to their learning;from the moment that they open their lips they speak 'in character, 'and they do not proceed far before they give us some hints of theauthor's purpose. 

_Nath_. Very _reverent sport_ truly, and done _in the testimony of agood conscience_. 

_Hol_. The deer was, as you know, in _sanguis_, ripe as a pomewater, who _now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of Coelo_, the sky, thewelkin, the heaven, and _anon falleth like a crab on the face ofterra_--the soil, the land, the earth. [A-side glance at the heightsand depths of the incongruities which are the subject here. ]

_Nath_. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least, but, etc. .. .. 

_Hol_. Most _barbarous_ intimation! [referring to Antony Dull, who hasbeen trying to understand this learned language, and apply it to thesubject of conversation, but who fails in the attempt, very much tothe amusement and self-congratulation of these scholars]. Yet a _kind_of _insinuation_, as it were, _in via, in way of explication_ [a stylemuch in use in this school], _facere_, as it were, replication, orrather _ostentare_, to show, as it were, _his inclination_, after hisundressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or ratherunlettered, or ratherest unconfirmed fashion, --to insert again my_haud credo_ for a deer. .. . Twice sod simplicity, _bis coctus!_ Oh_thou monster ignorance_, how deformed dost thou look!

_Nath. _ [explaining] Sir, _he hath never fed of the dainties bred in abook_; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; _hisintellect_ is not replenished; he is only an animal--only sensible inthe duller parts;

And such _barren_ plants are set before us that we thankful should be, (Which we of taste and feeling are) for those parts that do fructifyin us more than he. 

For _as it would ill become me_ to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, Sowere there _a patch set on learning_ to see HIM in a _school_. [Thatwould be a new 'school, ' a new 'learning, ' patching the 'defect' (asit would be called elsewhere) in the old. ]

_Dull_. You two are book-men. Can you tell me by your wit, etc. 

_Nath_. A rare talent. 

_Dull_. If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. 

_Hol_. This is a gift that I have; simple, simple; a foolishextravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: But the gift is good in those inwhom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. 

_Nath_. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners;for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profitvery greatly under you; you are a good member of the COMMON-WEALTH. 

 He is in earnest of course. Is the Poet so too? 'What is the end of study?'--let me know. 

'O they have lived long in the alms-basket of WORDS, ' is the criticismon this learning with which this showman, whoever he may he, explainshis exhibition of it. And surely he must be, indeed, of the school ofAntony Dull, and never fed with the dainties bred in a book, who doesnot see what it is that is criticised here;--that it is the learningof an unlearned time, of a barbarous time, of a vain, frivolousdebased, wretched time, that has been fed long--always from "thealms-basket of words. " And one who is acquainted already with thestyle of this school, who knows already its secret signs and stamp, would not need to be told to look again on the intellect of the letterfor the nomination of the party writing, to the person written to, inorder to see what source this pastime comes from, --what player it isthat is behind the scene here. 'Whoe'er he be, he bears a mountingmind, ' and beginning in the lowness of the actual, and collecting theprinciples that are in all actualities, the true forms that are formsin nature, and not in man's speech only, the new IDEAS of the NewAcademy, the ideas that are powers, with these 'simples' that arecauses, he will reconstruct fortuitous conjunctions, he will make hispoems in facts; he will find his Fairy Land in her kingdom whose ironchain he wears. 

'The gentles were at their games, ' and the soul of new ages wasbeginning its re-creations. 

For this is but the beginning of that 'Armada' that this DonArmado--who fights with sword and pen, in ambush and in the openfield--will sweep his old enemy from the seas with yet. 

 O like a book of sports thou'lt read me o'er, But there's more in me than thou'lt understand. 

 Look how the father's face Lives in his issue; even so the race Of Shake-spear's mind and _manners_ brightly _shines_ In his _well turn'd_ and _true filed lines_, In each of which he seems to _shake_ a _lance_, As _brandished_ in the eyes of--[what?--]_Ignorance!_

 BEN JONSON. 

_Ignorance!_--yes, that was the word. 

It is the Prince of that little Academe that sits in the Tower herenow. It is in the Tower that that little Academe holds its'conferences' now. There is a little knot of men of science whocontrive to meet there. The associate of Raleigh's studies, thepartner of his plans and toils for so many years, _Hariot_, tooscientific for his age, is one of these. It is in the Tower thatRaleigh's school is kept now. The English youth, the hope of England, follow this teacher still. 'Many young gentlemen still resort to him. 'Gilbert Harvey is one of this school. 'None but _my father_ would keepsuch a bird in such a cage, ' cries _one_ of them--that Prince of Walesthrough whom the bloodless revolution was to have been accomplished;and a Queen seeks his aid and counsel there still. 

It is in the Tower now that we must look for the sequel of thatholiday performance of the school. It is the genius that had made itsgame of that old _love's_ labour's lost that is at work here still, still bent on making a lore of life and love, still ready to spend itsrhetoric on things, and composing its metres with them. 

 Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to _time_ thou growest. 

He is building and manning new ships in his triumphant fleet. But theyare more warlike than they were. The papers that this Academe issuesnow have the stamp of the Tower on them. 'The golden shower, ' that'flowed from his fruitful head of his love's praise' flows no more. Fierce bitter things are flung forth from that retreat of learning, while the kingly nature has not yet fully mastered its great wrongs. The 'martial hand' is much used in the compositions of this schoolindeed for a long time afterwards. 

 Fitter perhaps to thunder martial stower When thee so list thy tuneful thoughts to raise, said the partner of his verse long before. 

 With _rage_ Or _influence chide_ or _cheer_ the drooping stage, says _his_ protegé. 

It was while this arrested soldier of the human emancipation sat amidhis books and papers, in old Julius Caesar's Tower, or in the Tower ofthat Conqueror, 'commonly so called, ' that the 'readers of the wisersort' found, 'thrown in at their _study windows_, ' writings, _as if_they came 'from _several citizens_, wherein _Caesar's ambition wasobscurely glanced at_' and thus the whisper of the Roman Brutus'pieced them out. '

 Brutus _thou sleep'st_; awake, and _see thyself_. Shall _Rome_ [soft--'_thus must I piece it out_. '] Shall _Rome_ stand under _one man's awe_? _What_ Rome? * * * * * The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves that we are underlings. * * * * * Age, _thou_ art shamed. 

It was while he sat there, that the audiences of that player who wasbringing forth, on 'the banks of Thames, ' such wondrous things out ofhis treasury then, first heard the Roman foot upon their stage, andthe long-stifled, and pent-up speech of English freedom, bursting fromthe old Roman patriot's lips. 

 _Cassius_. And let us swear our resolution. 

 _Brutus_. _No_, not an oath: If not the face of men, The sufferance of our soul's, the time's abuse, If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed; _So_ let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till _each man drop by lottery_. 

It was while he sat there, that the player who did not _write_ hisspeeches, said--

 _Nor stony tower_, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; If I know this, know _all the world beside_, That part of tyranny that _I_ do bear, _I_ can shake off at pleasure. 

 And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? _Poor Man_! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the _Romans_ are but sheep: _He_ were no lion, were not _Romans_ hinds. 

 But I, perhaps, speak _this_ Before a willing bondman. 

 _Hamlet_. My lord, --you played once in the university, you say?

 _Polonius_. That did I, my lord; and was accounted a good actor. 

 _Hamlet_. And what did you enact?

 _Polonius_. I did enact _Julius Caesar_. I was killed i'the Capitol; Brutus killed me. 

 _Hamlet_. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. --Be the players ready?

Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law ofwrit, and the liberty. _These_ are the only _men_. 

 _Hamlet_. Why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

 _Guild_. O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly. 

 _Hamlet_. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?

 _Guild_. My lord, I cannot. 

 _Hamlet_. I pray you. 

 _Guild_. Believe me, I cannot. 

 _Hamlet_. I do beseech you. 

 _Guild_. I know no touch of it, my lord. 

 _Hamlet_. 'Tis as _easy as lying. Govern_ these ventages with your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, _and it will discourse most eloquent music_. Look you, _these are the stops_. 

 _Guild_. But _these_ cannot _I_ command to any _utterance of harmony: I have not the_ SKILL. 

 _Hamlet. Why, look you now_, how _unworthy a thing_ you make of ME? You would _play upon_ ME; _you would seem_ to know _my stops_; you would pluck out the heart of MY MYSTERY; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my key; and there is much _music_, excellent voice in _this little organ, yet_ cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood! do you think I AM EASIER TO BE PLAYED ON THAN A PIPE? Call me what _instrument_ you will, though you can _fret_ me, you cannot PLAY upon me. 

 _Hamlet_. Why did you laugh when I said, _Man_ delights not me?

 _Guild_. To think, my lord, if you delight not in _man_, what lenten entertainment THE PLAYERS shall receive from you. We coted them on the way, and thither are they coming to offer you--SERVICE. 

BOOK I. 

THE ELIZABETHAN ART OF DELIVERY AND TRADITION. 

PART I. 

MICHAEL DE MONTAIGNE'S 'PRIVATE AND RETIRED ARTS. '

 And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlaces and with _assays_ of _bias_, By _indirections_, find _directions out_; So by my former lecture and advice, Shall you, my son. --_Hamlet_. 

CHAPTER I. 

ASCENT FROM PARTICULARS TO THE 'HIGHEST PARTS OF SCIENCES, ' BY THEENIGMATIC METHOD ILLUSTRATED. 

Single, _I'll_ resolve you. --_Tempest_. 

Observe his inclination in yourself. --_Hamlet_. 

For ciphers, they are commonly in letters, but may be in words. _Advancement of Learning_. 

The fact that a Science of Practice, not limited to Physics and theArts based on the knowledge of physical laws, but covering the wholeground of the human activity, and limited only by the want and facultyof man, required, in the reigns of Elizabeth and James the First, somespecial and profoundly artistic methods of 'delivery and tradition, 'would not appear to need much demonstration to one acquainted with thepeculiar features of that particular crisis in the history of theEnglish nation. 

And certainly any one at all informed in regard to the condition ofthe world at the time in which this science, --which is the newpractical science of the modern ages, --makes its first appearance inhistory, --any one who knows what kind of a public opinion, what amountof intelligence in the common mind the very fact of the firstappearance of such a science on the stage of the human affairspresupposes, --any one who will stop to consider what kind of a publicit was to which such a science had need as yet to address itself, whenthat engine for the diffusion of knowledge, which has been batteringthe ignorance and stupidity of the masses of men ever since, was asyet a novel invention, when all the learning of the world was stillthe learning of the cell and the cloister, when the practice of theworld was still in all departments, unscientific, --any one at leastwho will stop to consider the nature of the 'preconceptions' which ascience that is none other than the universal science of practice, must needs encounter in its principal and nobler fields, will hardlyneed to be told that if produced at all under such conditions, it mustneeds be produced covertly. Who does not know, beforehand, that such ascience would have to concede virtually, for a time, the whole groundof its nobler fields to the preoccupations it found on them, as theinevitable condition of its entrance upon the stage of the humanaffairs in any capacity, as the basis of any toleration of its claimto dictate to the men of practice in any department of theirproceedings. 

That that little 'courtly company' of Elizabethan scholars, in whichthis great enterprise for the relief of man's estate was supposed intheir own time to have had its origin, was composed of wits and men oflearning who were known, in their own time, to have concealed theirconnection with the works on which their literary fame chieflydepended--that that 'glorious Willy, ' who finds these forbidden fieldsof science all open to his pastime, was secretly claimed by thiscompany--that a style of 'delivery' elaborately enigmatical, borrowedin part from the invention of the ancients, and the more recent use ofthe middle ages, but largely modified and expressly adapted to thisexigency, was employed in the compositions of this school, both inprose and verse, a style capable of conveying not merely a double, buta triple significance; a style so capacious in its concealments, solarge in its '_cryptic_, ' as to admit without limitation the wholescope of this argument, and so involved as to conceal in itsinvolutions, all that was then forbidden to appear, --this has beenproved in that part of the work which contains the historical key tothis delivery. 

We have also incontestable historical evidence of the fact, that theman who was at the head of this new conjunction in speculation andpractice in its more immediate historical developments, --the scholarwho was most openly concerned in his own time in the introduction ofthose great changes in the condition of the world, which date theirbeginning from this time, was himself primarily concerned in theinvention of this art. That this great political chief, this founderof new polities and inventor of new social arts, who was at the sametime the founder of a new school in philosophy, was understood in hisown time to have found occasion for the use of such an art, in hisoral as well as in his written communications with his school;--thathe was connected with a scientific association, which was known tohave concealed under the profession of a curious antiquarian research, an inquiry into the higher parts of sciences which the government ofthat time was not disposed to countenance;--that in the opinion ofpersons who had the best opportunity of becoming acquainted with thefacts at the time, this inventor of the art was himself beheaded, chiefly on account of the discovery of his use of it in one of hisgravest literary works;--all this has been produced already, as matterof historic record merely. All this remains in the form of detailedcontemporary statement, which suffices to convey, if not the fact thatthe forbidden parts of sciences were freely handled in the discussionsof this school, and not in their secret oral discussions only, but intheir great published works, --if not that, at least the fact that suchwas the impression and belief of persons living at the time, whetherany ground existed for it or not. 

But the arts by which these new men of science contrived to evade theignorance and the despotic limitations of their time, the inventionswith which they worked to such good purpose upon their own time, inspite of its restrictions and oppositions, and which enable them to'outstretch their span, ' and prolong and perpetuate their plan for theadvancement of their kind, and compel the future ages to work withthem to the fulfilment of its ends;--the arts by which these greatoriginal naturalists undertook to transfer in all their unimpairedsplendour and worth, the collections they had made in the noblerfields of their science to the ages that would be able to make use ofthem;--these are the arts that we shall have need to master, if wewould unlock the legacy they have left to us. 

The proof of the existence of this special art of delivery andtradition, and the definition of the objects for which it wasemployed, has been derived thus far chiefly from sources of evidenceexterior to the works themselves; but the inventors of it and thosewho made use of it in their own speech and writings, are undoubtedlythe persons best qualified to give us authentic and lively informationon this subject; and we are now happily in a position to appreciatethe statements which they have been at such pains to leave us, for thesake of clearing up those parts of their discourse which werenecessarily obscured at the time. Now that we have in our hands thatkey of _Times_ which they have recommended to our use, that knowledgeof times which 'gives great light in many cases to trueinterpretations, ' it is not possible any longer to overlook thesepassages, or to mistake their purport. 

But before we enter upon the doctrine of Art which was published inthe first great recognized work of this philosophy, it will benecessary to produce here some extracts from a book which was notoriginally published in England, or in the English language, but onewhich was brought out here as an exotic, though it is in fact one ofthe great original works of this school, and one of its boldest andmost successful issues; a work in which the new grounds of the actualexperience and life of men, are not merely inclosed and propounded forwritten inquiry, but openly occupied. This is not the place to explainthis fact, though the continental relations of this school, and othercircumstances already referred to in the life of its founder, willserve to throw some light upon it; but on account of the bolderassertions which the particular form of writing and publicationrendered possible in this case, and for the sake also of the morelively exhibition of the art itself which accompanies and illustratesthese assertions in this instance, it appears on the whole excusableto commence our study of the special Art for the delivery andtradition of knowledge in those departments which science was thenforbidden on pain of death to enter, with that exhibition of it whichis contained in this particular work, trusting to the progress of theextracts themselves to apologize to the intelligent reader for anything which may seem to require explanation in this selection. 

It is only necessary to premise, that this work is one of the manyworks of this school, in which a grave, profoundly scientific designis concealed under the disguise of a gay, popular, attractive form ofwriting, though in this case the audience is from the first to acertain extent select. It has no platform that takes in--as the playsdo, with their more glaring attractions and their lower and broaderrange of inculcation, --the populace. There is no pit in this theatre. It is throughout a book for men of liberal culture; but it is a bookfor the world, and for men of the world, and not for the cloistermerely, and the scholar. But this, too, has its differing grades ofreaders, from its outer court of lively pastime and brilliant aimlesschat to that _esoteric_ chamber, where the abstrusest parts ofsciences are waiting for those who will accept the clues, andpatiently ascend to them. 

The work is popular in its form, but it is inwoven throughout with athread of lurking meanings so near the surface, and at times so boldlyobtruded, that it is difficult to understand how it could ever havebeen read at all without occasioning the inquiry which it was intendedto occasion under certain conditions, but which it was necessary forthis society to ward off from their works, except under theselimitations, at the time when they were issued. For these innermeanings are everywhere pointed and emphasized with the most bold andvivid illustration, which lies on the surface of the work, in the formof stories, often without any apparent relevance in that exteriorconnection--brought in, as it would seem, in mere caprice or by theloosest threads of association. They lie, with the 'allegations' whichaccompany them, strewn all over the surface of the work, like 'trap'on 'sand-stone, ' telling their story to the scientific eye, andbeckoning the philosophic explorer to that primeval granite ofsciences that their vein will surely lead to. But the carelessobserver, bent on recreation, observes only a pleasing feature in thelandscape, one that breaks happily its threatened dulness; the reader, reading this book as _books_ are wont to be read, finds nothing inthis phenomenon to excite his curiosity. And the author knows him andhis ways so well, that he is able to foresee that result, and is notafraid to trust to it in the case of those whose scrutiny he iscareful to avoid. For he is one who counts largely on thecarelessness, or the indifference, or the stupidity of those whom headdresses. There is no end to his confidence in that. He isperpetually staking his life on it. Neither is he willing to trust tothe clues which these unexplained stories might seem of themselves tooffer to the studious eye, to engage the attention of the reader--thereader whose attention he is bent on securing. Availing himself of oneof those nooks of discourse, which he is at no loss for the means ofcreating when the purpose of his _essaie_ requires it, he beckons theconfidential reader aside, and thus explains his method to him, outright, in terms which admit of but one construction. 'Neither thesestories, ' he says, 'nor my allegations do always serve simply forexample, authority, or ornament; I do not only regard them for the useI make of them; they carry sometimes, _besides what I apply them to_, the seeds of a richer and bolder matter, and sometimes, _collaterally, a more delicate sound_, both to me myself, --who will say no more aboutit _in this place_' [we shall hear more of it in another place, however, and where the delicate collateral sounds will not bewanting]--'both to me myself, and _to others who happen to be of myear_. '

To the reader, who does indeed happen to be of his ear, to one who hasread the 'allegations' and stories that he speaks of, and the wholework, and the works connected with it, by means of that knowledge ofthe inner intention, and of the method to which he alludes, thispassage would of course convey no new intelligence. But will thereader, to whom the views here presented are yet too new to seemcredible, endeavour to imagine or invent for himself any form ofwords, in which the claim already made in regard to the style in whichthe great original writers of this age and the founders of the newscience of the human life were compelled to infold their doctrine, could have been, in the case of this one at least, more distinctlyasserted. Here is proof that one of them, one who counted on an_audience_ too, did find himself compelled to infold his richer andbolder meanings in the manner described. All that need be claimed atpresent in regard to the authorship of this sentence is, that it iswritten by one whose writings, in their higher intention, have ceasedto be understood, for lack of the '_ear_' to which his bolder andricher meanings are addressed, for lack of the _ear_, to which thecollateral and more delicate sounds which his words sometimes carrywith them are perceptible; and that it is written by a philosopherwhose learning and aims and opinions, down to the slightest points ofdetail, are absolutely identical with those of the principal writersof this school. 

But let us look at a few of the stories which he ventures to introduceso emphatically, selecting only such as can be told in a sentence ortwo. Let us take the next one that follows this explanation--the storyin the very next paragraph to it. The question is _apparently_ ofCicero, of his style, of his vanity, of his supposed care for his_fame_ in future ages, of his _real disposition and objects_. 

'Away with that eloquence that so enchants us with its _harmony_, thatwe should more study it than _things_' [what new soul of philosophy isthis, then, already?]--'unless you will affirm that of _Cicero_ to beof so supreme perfection as to form _a body_ of itself. And of him, Ishall further add one story we read of to this purpose, wherein _hisnature_ will _much more manifestly be laid open to us_' [than in thatseeming care for his fame in future ages, or in that lower object ofstyle, just dismissed so scornfully]. 

'He was to make an oration in public, and found himself a littlestraitened _in time_, to _fit his words to his mouth as he had a mindto do_, when _Eros_, one of his slaves, brought him word that the_audience was deferred_ till the next day, at which he was so ravishedwith joy that _he enfranchised him_. '

The word 'time'--here admits of a double rendering whereby the_author's_ aims are more manifestly laid open; and there is alsoanother word in this sentence which carries a 'delicate sound' withit, to those who have met this author in other fields, and who happento be of his counsel. But lest the stories of themselves should stillseem flat and pointless, or trivial and insignificant to theuninstructed ear, it may be necessary to interweave them with somefurther 'allegations on this subject, ' which the author assumes, orappears to assume, in his own person. 

'I write my book for _few men_, and for _few years_. Had it been_matter of duration_, I should have put it into a _better language_. According to the continual variation that ours has been subject tohitherto [and we know who had a similar view on this point], who canexpect that the present _form of language_ should be in use fiftyyears hence. It slips every day through our fingers; and since I wasborn, is altered above one half. We say that it is now perfect: _everyage says the same of the language it speaks_. I shall hardly trust tothat so long as it runs away and _changes_ as it does. 

''Tis for good and useful writings to nail and rivet it to them, andits reputation will go _according to the fortune of our state. Forwhich reason, I am not afraid to insert herein several privatearticles, which will spend their use amongst the men now living_, ANDTHAT CONCERN THE PARTICULAR KNOWLEDGE OF SOME WHO WILL SEE FURTHERINTO THEM THAN THE COMMON READER. ' But that the inner reading of theseprivate articles--that reading which lay farther in--to which heinvites the attention of those whom it concerns--was not expected tospend its use among the men then living, that which follows might seemto imply. It was that wrapping of them, it was that grosssuperscription which 'the fortune of our state was likely to makeobsolete ere long, ' this author thought, as we shall see if we lookinto his prophecies a little. 'I will not, after all, as I often heardead men spoken of, that men should say of _me_: "He _judged_, andLIVED SO and SO. Could he have spoken when he was dying, he would havesaid _so_ or _so_. I knew him better than any. "

 'So _our_ virtues Lie in the interpretation of the times, '

'says the unfortunate Tullus Aufidius, in the act of conducting aVolscian army against the infant Roman state, bemoaning himself uponthe conditions of his historic whereabouts, and beseeching thesympathy and favourable constructions of posterity--

 So our virtues Lie in the interpretation of the times; And power unto itself most commendable Hath not a tomb so evident as a hair To extol what it hath done. 

'The times, ' says Lord Bacon, speaking in reference to booksparticularly, though _he_ also recommends the same key for the readingof lives, 'the times in many cases give _great light_ to trueinterpretations. '

'Now as much as decency permits, ' continues the other, anticipating_here_ that speech which he might be supposed to have been anxious tomake in defence of his posthumous reputation, could he have spokenwhen he was dying, and forestalling that criticism which heforesaw--that odious criticism of posterity on the discrepancy between_his life_ and _his judgment_--'Now as much as decency permits, I_here_ discover my inclinations and affections. _If any observe_, hewill find that _I have either told or designed to tell_ ALL. _What Icannot express I point out with my finger_. 

'There was never greater circumspection and _military prudence_ thansometimes is seen among US; can it be that men are afraid to losethemselves by the way, _that they reserve themselves to the end of thegame_?'

'There needs no more but to see a man promoted to dignity, though weknew him but three days before a man of no mark, yet an image ofgrandeur and ability insensibly steals into our opinion, and wepersuade ourselves that growing in reputation and attendants, he isalso increased in merit':--

 _Hamlet_. Do the boys carry it away?

 _Ros_. Ay, that they do, my lord. Hercules and his load too. 

 _Hamlet_. It is not very strange; for my uncle is king of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little. 'Sblood, there is something _in this, more_ than _natural_ [talking of the _super_natural], _if philosophy could find it out_. 

'But, ' our prose philosopher, whose mind is running much on the samesubjects, continues 'if it happens so that he [this favourite offortune] falls again, and is mixed with the common crowd, every oneinquires with wonder into the _cause_ of his having been hoisted sohigh. _Is it he_? say they: did he know no more than this _when he wasin_ PLACE?' ['change _places_ . .. Robes and furred gowns hide all. ']Do _princes_ satisfy _themselves_ with so little? _Truly we were ingood hands_! That which I myself adore in kings, is [note it] _thecrowd of the adorers_. All reverence and submission is due to them, _except that of the understanding_; my _reason_ is not to bow andbend, 'tis my _knees_' 'I will not do't' says another, who is in thisone's counsels, I will not do't Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth, And by my body's action, teach my mind A most inherent baseness. _Coriolanus_. 

'Antisthenes one day entreated _the Athenians to give orders thattheir asses might be employed in tilling the ground_, --to which it wasanswered, "that _those animals were not destined to such a service_. ""That's all one, " replied he; "it only sticks at your command; for themost ignorant and incapable men you employ _in your commands of war_, immediately become worthy enough _because_--YOU EMPLOY THEM. "'

There mightst thou behold the great image of authority. A dog's obeyedin office. --Lear. 

 For thou dost know, oh Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of Jove himself; and now reigns here, A very--very--_Peacock_. Horatio. You might have rhymed. Hamlet. 

'to which, ' continues this political philosopher, --that is, to whichpreceding anecdote--containing such unflattering intimations withregard to the obstinacy of nature, in the limits she has set to thepractical abilities of those _animals_, not enlarging their naturalgifts out of respect to the Athenian selection (an anecdote whichsupplies a rhyme to Hamlet's verse, and to many others from the samesource)--'_to which the custom of so many people_, who canonize theKINGS they have chosen _out of their own body_, and are not contentonly to honour, but adore them, _comes very near. Those of Mexico_[for instance, it would not of course do to take any nearer home], after the ceremonies of _their_ king's coronation are finished, _dareno more look him in the face_; but, as if they _deified_ him by hisroyalty, _among_ the oaths they make him take to _maintain theirreligion and laws_, to be valiant, just and mild; he moreoverswears, --_to make the sun run his course in his wonted light, --todrain the clouds at a fit season, --to confine rivers within theirchannels, --and to cause all things necessary for his people to beborne by the earth_. ' '(They told me I was everything. But when therain came to wet me once, when the wind would not peace at mybidding, ' says Lear, 'there I found them, there I smelt them out. )'This, in connection with the preceding anecdote, to which, in theopinion of this author, it comes properly so very near, may be classedof itself among the suggestive stories above referred to; but thebearing of these quotations upon the particular question of style, which must determine the selection here, is set forth in that whichfollows. 

It should be stated, however, that in a preceding paragraph, theauthor has just very pointedly expressed it as his opinion, that menwho are supposed, by common consent, to be so far above the rest ofmankind in their single virtue and judgment, that they are permittedto govern them at their discretion, should by no means undertake tomaintain that view, by exhibiting that supposed kingly and divinefaculty in the way of _speech_ or _argument_; thus putting themselveson a level with their subjects, and by meeting them on their ownground, with their own weapons, giving occasion for comparisons, perhaps not altogether favourable to that theory of a superlative anddivine difference which the doctrine of a divine right to rulenaturally presupposes. 'For, ' he says, 'neither is it enough for those_who govern and command us, and have all the world in their hand_, tohave a common understanding, and to be able to do what the rest can'[their faculty of judgment must match their position, for if it beonly a common one, the difference will make it despised]: 'they arevery much below us, if they be not _infinitely above us_. And, therefore, _silence_ is to them not only a countenance of respect andgravity, but very often of good profit and policy too; for, Megabysusgoing to see _Apelles_ in his _painting_ room, stood a great whilewithout speaking a word, and at last began to talk of his paintings, for which he received this rude reproof. '_Whilst thou wast silent_, thou seemedst to be something great, by reason of thy chains and pomp;_but now that we have heard thee speak_, there is not the meanest boyin my shop that does not despise thee. ' But after the author'ssubsequent reference to 'those animals' that were to be made competentby a vote of the Athenian people for the work of their superiors, towhich he adds the custom of people who canonize the kings they havechosen out of their own body, which comes so near, he goes onthus:--_I differ from this common fashion_, and am more apt to suspectcapacity when I see it accompanied with grandeur of fortune and_public applause_. We are to consider of what advantage it is, _tospeak when one pleases, to choose the subject one will speak of_--[anadvantage not common with authors then]--TO INTERRUPT OR CHANGE OTHERMEN'S ARGUMENTS, WITH A MAGISTERIAL AUTHORITY, to protect oneself fromthe opposition of others, by a nod, a smile, or silence, in thepresence of an assembly that trembles with reverence and respect. _Aman of a prodigious fortune_, coming to give his judgment upon someslight dispute that was foolishly set on foot at his _table_, began inthese words:--'It can only be a liar or a fool that will say otherwisethan so and so. ' '_Pursue this philosophical point with a dagger inyour hand_. '

Here is an author who does contrive to pursue his philosophicalpoints, however, dagger or no dagger, wherever they take him. Byputting himself into the trick of singularity, and affecting to be amere compound of eccentricities and oddities, neither knowing norcaring what it is that he is writing about, and dashing at haphazardinto anything as the fit takes him, --'Let us e'en fly at anything, 'says Hamlet, --by assuming, in short, the disguise of the elder Brutus;and, on account of a similar necessity, there is no saying what hecannot be allowed to utter with impunity. Under such a cover it is, that he inserts the passages already quoted, which have lain to thishour without attracting the attention of critics, unpractised happily, and unlearned also, in the subtleties which tyrannies--suchtyrannies--at least generate; and under this cover it is, that he canventure now on those astounding political disquisitions, which heconnects with the complaint of the restrictions and embarrassmentswhich the presence of a man of prodigious fortune at the tableoccasions, when an argument, trivial or otherwise, happens to be goingon there. Under this cover, he can venture to bring in here, in thisvery connection, and to the very table, even of this man of prodigiousfortune, pages of the freest political discussion, containing alreadythe finest analysis of the existing political 'situation, ' so full ofdark and lurid portent, to the eye of the scientific statesman, towhom, even then, already under the most intolerable restrictions ofdespotism, of the two extremes of social evil, that which appeared tobe the most terrible, and the most to be guarded against, in theinevitable political changes then at hand, was--not the consolidationbut the dissolution of the state. 

For already the horizon of that political oversight included, not theeventualities of the English Revolutions only, but the darkercontingencies of those later political and social convulsions, fromwhose soundless whirlpools, men spring with joy to the hardestsharpest ledge of tyranny; or hail with joy and national thanksgivingthe straw that offers to land them on it. Already the scientificstatesman of the Elizabethan age could say, casting an eye overChristendom as it stood then, 'That which most threatens us is, not an_alteration_ in the entire and solid mass, but its _dissipation_ and_divulsion_. '

It is after pages of the freest philosophical discussion, that hearrives at this conclusion--discussion, in which the historicalelements and powers are for the first time scientifically recognizedand treated throughout with the hand of the new master. For this is aphilosopher, who is able to receive into his philosophy the fact, thatout of the most depraved and vicious social materials, by theinevitable operation of the universal natural laws, there will, perhaps, result a social adhesion and predominance of powers--a social'whole, ' more capable of maintaining itself than any that Plato orAristotle, from the heights of their abstractions, could have inventedfor them. He ridicules, indeed, those ideal politics of antiquity astotally unfit for practical realisation, and admits that though thequestion as to that which is absolutely the best form of governmentmight be of some value _in a new world_, the basis of all alterationsin existing governments should be the fact, that we take a worldalready formed to certain customs, and do not beget it, as Pyrrha orCadmus did theirs, and by what means soever we may have the privilegeto rebuild and reform it anew, we can hardly _writhe it_ from itswonted bent, but we shall _break all_. For the subtlest principles ofthe philosophy of things are introduced into this discussion, and theboldest applications of the Shakspere muse are repeated in it. 

'That is the way to _lay all flat_, ' cries the philosophic poet in theRoman play, opposing on the part of the Conservatist, the violence ofan oppressed people, struggling for new forms of government, andbringing out fully, along with their claims, the anti-revolutionaryside of the question. 'That which tempts me out on these journeys, 'continues this foreign philosopher, speaking in his usual ambiguousterms of his rambling excursive habits and eccentricities ofproceedings, glancing also, perhaps, at his outlandish tastes--'thatwhich tempts me out on these journeys, is _unsuitableness to thepresent manners of_ OUR STATE. _I_ could easily console myself withthis corruption in reference to the _public interest_, but not to _myown: I_ am _in particular_ too much oppressed:--for, _in myneighbourhood_ we are of late by _the long libertinage of our civilwars grown old_ in so _riotous a form of state_, that in earnest _'tisa wonder how it can subsist_. In fine, I see by our example, that thesociety of men is maintained and held together _at what price soever;in what condition soever they are placed they will close and sticktogether_ [see the doctrine of things and their original powers in the"Novum Organum"]--_moving and heaping up themselves, as uneven bodies, that shuffled together without order, find of themselves means tounite and settle_. King Philip mustered up a rabble of the most wickedand incorrigible rascals he could pick out, and put them altogether ina city which he had built for that purpose, which bore their name; Ibelieve that they, even from vices, erected a government among them, and a commodious and just society. '

'Nothing presses so hard upon a state as innovation'; and let thereader note here, how the principle which has predominatedhistorically in the English Revolution, the principle which the fineFrankish, half Gallic genius, with all its fire and artistic faculty, could not strike instinctively or empirically, in its politicalexperiments--it is well to note, how this distinctive element of the_English_ Revolution--that revolution which is still in progress, withits remedial vitalities--already speaks beforehand, from the lips ofthis foreign Elizabethan Revolutionist. 'Nothing presses so hard upona state as innovation; change only gives form to injustice andtyranny. WHEN ANY PIECE IS OUT OF ORDER IT MAY BE PROPPED, one mayprevent and take care that the _decay and corruption_ NATURAL TO ALLTHINGS, do not carry us too far from _our beginnings and principles_;but to undertake to found so great a mass anew, and to change thefoundations of so vast a building, is for them to do who to _makeclean, efface_, who would reform particular defects by a universalconfusion, and cure diseases by _death_. ' Surely, one may read in goodElizabethan English passages which savor somewhat of this policy. Onewould say that the principle was in fact identical, as, for instance, in this case. 'Sir Francis Bacon (who was always for moderatecounsels), when one was speaking of such a reformation of the Churchof England, as would in effect make it _no church_, said thus tohim:--'Sir, the subject we talk of is the _eye_ of England, and ifthere be a speck or two in the eye, we endeavour to take them off; buthe were a strange oculist who would pull out the eye. ' [And here isanother writer who seems to be taking, on this point and others, verymuch the same view of the constitution and vitality of states, aboutthese times:--

 He's a disease that must be cut away. Oh, he's a limb that has but a disease; Mortal to cut it off; to cure it, easy. ]

But our Gascon philosopher goes on thus, with his Gascon inspirations:and these sportive notions, struck off at a heat, these carelessintuitions, these fine new practical axioms of scientific politics, appear to be every whit as good as if they had been sifted through thescientific tables of the Novum Organum. They are, in fact, theidentical truth which the last vintage of the Novum Organum yields onthis point. 'The world is unapt for curing itself; _it is so impatientof any thing that presses it_, that it thinks of nothing but_disengaging itself_, at what price soever. We see, by a thousandexamples, that it generally cures itself to its cost. The _dischargeof a present evil is no cure, if a general amendment of condition doesnot follow_; the surgeon's end is _not only to cut away the deadflesh_, --that is but the progress of his cure;--he has a care over andabove, _to fill up the wound with better and more natural flesh_, and_to restore the member to its due state_. Whoever only proposes tohimself to remove that which offends _him_, falls short; _for good_does not necessarily succeed evil; another evil may succeed, _and aworse, as it happened in Caesar's killers_, who brought the republicto _such a pass, that they had reason to repent their meddling withit_. ' 'I fear there will _a worse_ one come in his place, ' says afellow in Shakespear's crowd, at the first Caesar's funeral; and thathis speech made the moral of the piece, we shall see in the course ofthis study. 

But though the frantic absolutisms and irregularities of that 'oldriotous form of military government, ' which the long civil wars hadgenerated, seemed of themselves to threaten speedy dissolution, thisold Gascon prophet, with his inexhaustible fund of English shrewdness, and sound English sense, underlying all his Gasconading, by no meansconsiders the state as past the statesman's care: 'after all, _we arenot, perhaps, at the last gasp_, ' he says. 'The conservation of states_is a thing that in all likelihood surpasses our understanding_: acivil government is, as Plato says, "a mighty and powerful thing, andhard to be dissolved. " "States, as great engines, move slowly, " saysLord Bacon; "and are not so soon put out of frame";--that is, so soonas "the resolution of particular persons, " which is his reason forproducing his moral philosophy, or rather his moral _science_, as_his_ engine for attack upon the state, a science which concerns thegovernment of every man over himself; "for, as in Egypt, the sevengood years sustained the seven bad; so governments, for a timewell-grounded, do bear out errors following. "' But this is the waythat this Gascon philosopher records _his_ conclusions on the samesubject. 'Every thing that totters does not fall. The contexture of sogreat a body holds by more nails than one. _It holds even by itsantiquity_, like old buildings from which the foundations are wornaway by time, without rough cast or cement, which yet live or supportthemselves by their own weight. Moreover, it is not rightly to go towork to reconnoitre only the flank and the fosse, to judge of thesecurity of a place; it must be examined _which way approaches_ can bemade to it, AND IN WHAT CONDITION THE ASSAILANT IS--that is thequestion. '_Few vessels sink with their own weight_, and without someexterior violence. Let us every way cast our eyes. Every thing aboutus totters. In all the great states, both of Christendom andelsewhere, that are known to us, if you will but look, you will theresee evident threats of alteration and ruin. Astrologers need not go toheaven to foretell, as they do, GREAT REVOLUTIONS' [this is the speechof the Elizabethan age--'great revolutions'] 'and _imminentmutations_. ' [This is the new kind of learning and prophecy; there wasbut one source of it open then, that could yield axioms of this kind;for this is the kind that Lord Bacon tells us the head-spring ofsciences must be visited for. ] 'But _conformity is a qualityantagonist to_ DISSOLUTION. For my part, I despair not, and _fancy Iperceive ways to save us_. '

And _surely_ this is one of the inserted private articles, beforementioned, which may, or may not be, 'designed to spend their useamong the men now living'; but 'which concern the particular knowledgeof some who will see further into them than the common reader. ' Ifthere had been a 'London Times' going then, and this old outlandishGascon Antic had been an English statesman preparing this article as aleader for it, the question of the Times could hardly have been moreroundly dealt with, or with a clearer northern accent. 

But it is high time for him to bethink himself, and 'draw his oldcloak about him'; for, after all, this so just and profound a view ofso grave a subject, proceeds from one who has no aims, no plan, nolearning, no memory;--a vain, fantastic egotist, who writes onlybecause he will be talking, and talking of himself above all; who isnot ashamed to attribute to himself all sorts of mad inconsistenthumours, and to contradict himself on every page, if thereby he canonly win your eye, or startle your curiosity, and induce you to followhim. After so long and grave a discussion, suddenly it occurs to himthat it is time for a little miscellaneous confidential chat abouthimself, and those certain oddities of his which he does not wish youto lose sight of altogether; and it is time, too, for another of those_stories_, which serve to divert the attention when it threatens tobecome too fixed, and break up and enliven the dull passages, besideshaving that other purpose which he speaks of so frankly. And althoughthis whole discussion is not without a direct bearing upon thatparticular topic, with which it is here connected, inasmuch as thepolitical situation, which is so clearly exhibited, is precisely thatof the Elizabethan scholar, it is chiefly this little piece ofconfidential chat with which it closes, and _its significance in thatconnection_, which gives the rest its insertion here. 

For suddenly he recollects himself, and stops short to express thefear that he may have written _something similar to this elsewhere_;and he gives you to understand--not all at once--but by a series ofstrokes, that too bold a repetition _here_, of what he has said_elsewhere_ might be attended, to him, with serious consequences; andhe begs you to note, as he does in twenty other passages and storieshere and elsewhere, that his _style_ is all hampered withconsiderations such as these--that instead of merely thinking ofmaking a good book, and presenting his subjects in their clearest andmost effective form for the reader;--a thing in itself sufficientlylaborious, as other authors find to their cost, he is all the timecompelled to weigh his words with reference to such points as this. Hemust be perpetually on his guard that the identity of that which hepresents here, and that which he presents elsewhere, under other andvery different forms (in much graver forms perhaps, and perhaps inothers not so grave), shall no where become so glaring as to attractpopular attention, while he is willing and anxious to keep thatidentity or connection constantly present to the apprehension of thefew, for whom he tells us his book--that is, this book within thebook--is written. 

'I fear in these _reveries_ of mine, ' he continues, suspending at lastsuddenly this bold and continuous application to the immediatepolitical emergency of those philosophical principles which he hasexhibited in the abstract, in their _common_ and _universal form_, elsewhere; 'I fear, in these reveries of the _treachery of my memory_, lest by inadvertence it should make me write the same thing twice. NowI here set down _nothing new_, these are _common_ thoughts, andhaving per-adventure conceived them a hundred times, _I am afraid_ I_have set them down somewhere else already_. Repetition is everywheretroublesome, though it were in Homer, _but 'tis ruinous in things thathave only a superficial and transitory_ SHOW. I do not loveinculcation, even in the most profitable things, as in Seneca, and thepractice of his Stoical school displeases me of _repeating upon everysubject and at length_, THE PRINCIPLES and PRESUPPOSITIONS THAT SERVEIN GENERAL, and _always_ to re-allege anew;' that is, under theparticular divisions of the subject, _common and universal reasons_. 'What I cannot express I point out with my finger, ' he tells youelsewhere, but it is thus that he continues here. 

'My memory grows worse and worse every day. I must _fain for the timeto come_ (collateral sounds), for _hitherto, thank God, nothing hashappened much amiss_, to avoid all preparation, for fear of tyingmyself to some obligation upon which I must be forced to insist. To_be tied and bound to a thing_ puts _me_ quite out, and especiallywhere I have to depend upon so weak an instrument as my memory. Inever could read this story without being offended at it, with as itwere _a personal_ and natural resentment. ' The reader will note thatthe question here is of _style_, or method, and of this author's stylein particular, and of his special embarrassments. 

'Lyncestes _accused of conspiracy against Alexander_, the day that hewas brought out before the army, according to the custom, to be heardin his defence, had prepared a _studied speech_, of which, _hagglingand stammering_, he pronounced _some words_. As he was becoming moreperplexed and struggling with his memory, and _trying to recollecthimself_, the soldiers that stood _nearest_ killed him with theirspears, looking upon his confusion and silence as a confession of hisguilt: very fine, indeed! The place, the spectators, the expectation, would astound a man _even though were there no object in his mind butto speak well_; but WHAT _when 'tis an harangue upon which his lifedepends_?' You that happen to be of my ear, it is my style that we arespeaking of, and there is my story. 

'_For my part the very being tied to what I am to say, is enough toloose me from it_'--that is the cause of his wandering--'_The more Itrust to my memory_, the more do I put myself out of my own power, so_much as to find it in my own countenance_, and have _sometimes beenvery much put to it to conceal the slavery wherein I was bound_, whereas _my design is_ to manifest in speaking a _perfectnonchalance_, both of face and accent, and _casual and unpremeditatedmotions_, as rising from present occasions, _choosing rather to saynothing to purpose, than to show that_ I came _prepared to speakwell_; a thing especially unbecoming _a man of my profession_. Thepreparation begets a great deal more expectation than it will satisfy;a man very often absurdly strips himself to his doublet to leap nofurther _than he would have done in his gown_. ' [Perhaps thereflecting scholar will recollect to have seen an instance of thismagnificent preparation for saying something to the purpose, attendedwith similarly lame conclusions; but, if he does not, the story whichfollows may tend to refresh his memory on this point. ] 'It is recordedof the orator Curio, that _when he proposed the division of hisoration_ into three or four parts, it often happened either that heforgot some one, or added one or two more. ' A much more illustriousspeaker, who spoke under circumstances not very unlike those in whichthe poor conspirator above noted made his haggling and fatal attemptsat oratory, is known to have been guilty of a similar oversight; for, having invented a plan of universal science, designed for the reliefof the human estate, he forgot the principal application of it. Butthis author says, _I_ have always avoided falling into thisinconvenience, having always hated these promises and announcements, not only out of distrust of my memory, but also because this methodrelishes too much of the _artificial_. You will find no scientificplan _here_ ostentatiously exhibited; you will find such a planelsewhere with all the works set down in it, but the works themselveswill be missing; and you will find the works elsewhere, but it will beunder the cover of a superficial and transitory show, where it wouldbe ruinous to produce the plan, '_I_ have always _avoided_ fallinginto this inconvenience. _Simpliciora militares decent_. ' But as heappears, after all, to have had no military weapon with which tosustain that straight-forwardness of speech which is becoming in amilitary power, and no dagger to pursue his points with, someartifice, though he professes not to like it, may be necessary, andthe rule which he here specifies is, on the whole, perhaps, notaltogether amiss. ''Tis enough that I have promised to myself never totake upon me to speak in a place where I owe respect; for as to thatsort of speaking where a man _reads_ his speech, besides that it isvery absurd, it is a mighty disadvantage to those who _naturally couldgive it a grace by action_, and to rely upon the mercy of thereadiness of my invention, I will much less do it; 'tis heavy andperplexed, and such as would never furnish me in sudden and importantnecessities. '

'Speaking, ' he says in another place, 'hurts and discomposes me, --my_voice_ is loud and high, so that when I have gone to whisper somegreat person about an affair of _consequence, they have often had tomoderate my voice. This story deserves a place here_. 

'Some one in a certain Greek school was speaking loud as _I do_. Themaster of the ceremonies sent to him to speak _lower_. "Tell him then, he must send me, " replied the other, "the tone he would have me speakin. " To which the other replied, "that he should take the tone fromthe ear of him to whom he spake. " It was well said, if it beunderstood. Speak _according to the affair_ you are speaking about tothe auditor, --(speak according to the business you have in hand, tothe purpose you have to accomplish)--for if it mean, it is sufficientthat he _hears_ you, I do not find it reason. ' It is a more artisticuse of speech that he is proposing in his new science of it, for asLord Bacon has it, who writes as we shall see on this same subject, 'the _proofs_ and _persuasions_ of _rhetoric_ ought to differaccording to the auditors, ' and the Arts of Rhetoric have for theirlegitimate end, 'not merely PROOF, but _much more_, IMPRESSION. ' 'Formany forms are _equal in signification_ which are _differing inimpression_, as the difference is great in the piercing of that whichis _sharp_, and that which is _flat_, though the _strength_ of thepercussion be the same; for instance, there is no man but will be alittle more raised, by hearing it said, "Your enemies will be glad ofthis, " than by hearing it said only, "This is evil for you. "' But itis thus that our Gascon proceeds, whose comment on his Greek story wehave interrupted. 'There is a voice to _flatter_, there is a voice to_instruct_, and a voice to _reprehend_. _I_ would not only have myvoice to reach my hearer, but peradventure _that it strike_ and_pierce_ him. When I rate my footman in a sharp and bitter tone, itwould be very fine for him to say, "Pray master, speak lower, for Ihear you very well. " _Speaking_ is _half his that speaks_, and _halfhis that hears_; the last ought to prepare himself to receive it, according to its motion, as with tennis players; he that receives theball, shifts, draws back, and prepares himself to receive it, according as he sees him move, who strikes the stroke, and accordingto the stroke itself. ' It is not, therefore, because this author hasfailed to furnish the rules of interpretation necessary forpenetrating to the ultimate intention of this new kind of speaking, ifall this affectation of simplicity, and all these absurd contradictorystatements of his, have been suffered hitherto to pass unchallenged. It is the public mind he has to deal with. 'That which he adores inkings is the _throng_ of _their adorers_. ' If he should take thepublic at once into his confidence, and tell them beforehand preciselywhat his own opinions were of things in general, if he should setbefore them in the outset the conclusions to which he proposed todrive them, he might indeed stand some chance to have his argumentsinterrupted, or changed with a magisterial authority; he would indeedfind it necessary to pursue his philosophical points with a dagger inhis hand. 

And besides, this dogmatical mode of teaching does not appear to himto secure the ends of teaching. He wishes to rouse the human mind toactivity, to compel it to think for itself, and put it on theinevitable road to his conclusions. He wishes the reader to strike outthose conclusions for himself, and fancy himself the discoverer if hewill. So far from being simple and straightforward, his style is inthe profoundest degree artistic, for the soul of all our modern artinspired it. He thinks it does no good for scholars to call out to theactive world from the platform of their last conclusions. The truthswhich men receive from those didactic heights remain foreign to them. 'We want medicines to arouse the sense, ' says Lord Bacon, who proposedexactly the method of teaching which this philosopher had, as it wouldseem, already adopted. 'I bring a trumpet to awake his _ear_, to sethis _sense_ on the attentive bent, and _then_ to speak, ' says thatpoet who best put this art in practice. 

But here it is the prose philosopher who would meet this dull, stupid, custom-bound public on its own ground. He would assume all itsabsurdities and contradictions in his own person, and permit men todespise, and marvel, and laugh at them in him without displeasure. Forwhoever will notice carefully, will perceive that the use of thepersonal pronoun here, is not the limited one of our ordinary speech. Such an one will find that this philosophical _I_ is very broad; thatit covers too much to be taken in its literal acceptation. Under thisterm, the term by which each man names _himself_, the common term ofthe individual humanity, he finds it convenient to say many things. 'They that will fight _custom_ with _grammar_, ' he says, 'are fools. When another tells me, or when I say to myself, _This_ is a word ofGascon growth; _this_ a dangerous phrase; _this_ is an ignorantdiscourse; thou art too full of figures; _this_ is a paradoxicalsaying; _this_ is a foolish expression: _thou makest thyself merrysometimes, and men will think_ thou sayest a thing in good earnest, which thou only speakest in jest. Yes, say I; but I correct the faultsof _inadvertence, not those of custom_. I have done what I designed, 'he says, in triumph, '_All the world knows_ ME in my book, _and mybook in_ ME. '

And thus, by describing human nature under that term, or by repeatingand stating the common opinions as his own, he is enabled to create anopposition which could not exist, so long as they remain unconsciouslyoperative, or infolded in the separate individuality, as a part of itsown particular form. 

'My errors are sometimes natural and incorrigible, ' he says; 'but thegood which virtuous men do to the public in making themselvesimitated, _I, perhaps, may do in making my manners avoided_. While Ipublish and accuse my own imperfections, somebody will learn to beafraid of them. _The parts that I most esteem in myself_, are morehonoured in decrying than in commending _my own manners_. Pausaniastells us of an ancient player upon the lyre, who used to make hisscholars go to hear one that lived over against him, and played veryill, that they might learn to hate his discords and false measures. _The present time_ is fitting to reform us _backward_, more by_dissenting_ than _agreeing_; by differing than consenting. ' That ishis application of his previous confession. And it is this _presenttime_ that he impersonates, holding the mirror up to nature, andprovoking opposition and criticism for that which was before buried inthe unconsciousness of a common absurdity, or a common wrong. 'Profiting little by good examples, I endeavour to render myself asagreeable as I see others offensive; as constant as I see othersfickle; as good as I see others evil. '

'There is no fancy so frivolous and extravagant that does not seem tome a suitable product of the human mind. All such whimsies as are inuse amongst us, deserve at least to be hearkened to; for my part, theyonly with me import _inanity_, but they import _that_. Moreover, _vulgar and casual opinions are something more than nothing innature_. 

'If I converse with a man of mind, and no flincher, who presses hardupon me, right and left, his imagination raises up mine. Thecontradictions of judgments do neither offend nor alter, they onlyrouse and exercise me. I could suffer myself to be rudely handled bymy friends. "Thou art a fool; thou knowest not what thou art talkingabout. " When any one contradicts me, he raises my attention, not myanger. I advance towards him that contradicts, as to one thatinstructs me. _I embrace and caress truth, in what hand soever I findit, and cheerfully surrender myself, and extend to it my conqueredarms_; and take a pleasure in being reproved, and _accommodate myselfto my accusers_ [aside] (very often more by reason of _civility_ thanamendment); loving to gratify the liberty of admonition, by myfacility of submitting to it, at my own expense. Nevertheless, it ishard to bring the men of my time to it. They have not the courage _tocorrect_, because they have not the courage _to be corrected, andspeak always with dissimulation in the presence of one another_. Itake so great pleasure in being judged and known, that it is almostindifferent to me in which of THE TWO FORMS I am so. My imaginationdoes so often contradict and condemn itself, that _it is all one to meif another do it_. The study of books is a languishing, feeble motion, that heats not, whereas conversation _teaches_ and _exercises_ atonce. ' But what if a book could be constructed on a new principle, soas to produce the effect of _conference_--of the noblest kind ofconference--so as to rouse the stupid, lethargic mind to a truly_human_ activity--so as to bring out the common, human form, in allits latent actuality, from the eccentricities of the individualvarieties? Something of that kind appears to be attempted here. 

He cannot too often charge the attentive reader, however, that hisarguments require examination. 'In _conferences_, ' he says, 'it is arule that every word that _seems_ to be good, is not immediately to beaccepted. One must try it on all points, to see _how it is lodged inthe author_: [perhaps he is not in earnest] _for_ one must not always_presently yield_ what truth or beauty soever seem to be in theargument. ' A little delay, and opposition, the necessity of hunting, or fighting, for it, will only make it the more esteemed in the end. In such a style, 'either the author must stoutly oppose it [that is, whatsoever beauty or truth is to be the end of the argument in orderto challenge the reader] or draw back, under colour of notunderstanding it, [and so piquing the reader into a pursuit of it] or, sometimes, perhaps, he may aid the point, and carry it _beyond_ itsproper reach [and so forcing the reader to correct him. This wholework is constructed on this principle]. As when I contend with avigorous man, I please myself with anticipating his conclusions; Iease him of the trouble of explaining himself; I strive to prevent hisimagination, whilst it is yet springing and imperfect; the order andpertinency of his understanding warns and threatens me afar off. Butas to _these_, --and the sequel explains this relative, for it has noantecedent in the text--as to these, I deal quite contrary with them. I _must understand and presuppose nothing but by them_. .. . Now, if youcome to explain anything to them and confirm them (these readers), they presently catch at it, and rob you of the advantage of yourinterpretation. "It was what I was about to say; it was just _my_thought, _and if I did not express it so_, it was only for want of_language_. " Very pretty! Malice itself must be employed to correctthis _proud ignorance_--'tis injustice and inhumanity to relieve andset him right who stands in no need of it, and is the worse for it. _Ilove_ to let him step deeper into the mire, '--[luring him on with hisown confessions, and with my assumptions of his case] '_and so deepthat if it be_ possible, they may at least discern their error. FOLLYAND ABSURDITY ARE NOT TO BE CURED BY BARE ADMONITION. What Cyrusanswered him who importuned him to harangue his army upon the point ofbattle, "that men do not become valiant and warlike on a sudden, _by afine oration_, no more than a man becomes a good musician by hearing afine song, " may properly be said of such an admonition as this;' or, as Lord Bacon has it, 'It were a strange speech, which spoken, or_spoken oft_, should reclaim a man from a vice to which he is _bynature_ subject; it is _order, pursuit, sequence_, and _interchange ofapplication_, which is mighty in nature. ' But the othercontinues:--'These are apprenticeships that are to be servedbeforehand by a long continued education. We owe this care and thisassiduity of correction and instruction to _our own_, [that is theschool, ] but to go to preach to the first passer-by, and to lord itover the ignorance and folly of the first we meet, is a thing that Iabhor. I rarely do it, even in _my own particular conferences_, andrather surrender my cause, than proceed to these _supercilious_ and_magisterial_ instructions. ' The clue to the reading of his innerbook. This is what Lord Bacon also condemns, as the _magisterial_method, --'My _humour_ is unfit, either to speak or write for_beginners_;' he will not shock or bewilder them by forcing on themprematurely the last conclusions of science; '_but_ as to things thatare said in _common discourse_ or _amongst other things_, I neveroppose them either by word or sign, how false or absurd soever. '

'Let none _even doubt_, ' says the author of the Novum Organum, whothought it wisest to steer clear _even_ of _doubt_ on such a point, 'whether we are anxious to destroy and demolish _the philosophicalarts and sciences which are now in use_. On the contrary, we readilycherish their practice, cultivation, and honour; for we by no meansinterfere to prevent _the prevalent system_ from encouragingdiscussion, adorning discourses, or being employed _serviceably_ inthe chair of the Professor, or the practice of common life, and beingtaken in short, by general consent, _as current coin_. Nay, we plainlydeclare that the system we offer will not be very _suitable_ for suchpurposes, not being easily adapted to _vulgar apprehension, except_ byEFFECTS AND WORKS. To show our _sincerity_ [hear] in professing ourregard and friendly disposition towards _the received sciences_, wecan refer to the evidence of our published writings, _especially_ ourbooks on--the Advancement--[the _Advancement_] of Learning. ' And thereader who can afford time for 'a second cogitation, ' the secondcogitation which a superficial _and_ interior meaning, of course, requires, with the aid of the key of times, will find much light onthat point, here and there, in the works referred to, and especiallyin those parts of them in which the scientific use of popular terms istreated. 'We will not, therefore, ' he continues, 'endeavour to evinceit (our sincerity) any further by _words_, but content ourselves withsteadily, etc. , . .. Professedly premising that no great _progress_ canbe made by the present methods in the _theory_ and contemplation ofscience, _and_ that they can _not_ be made to produce _any veryabundant effects_. ' This is the proof of his sincerity in professinghis regard and friendly disposition towards them, to be taken inconnection with his works on the Advancement of Learning, and no doubtit was sincere, and just to that extent to which these statements, andthe practice which was connected with them, would seem to indicate;but the careful reader will perceive that it was a regard, andfriendliness of disposition, which was naturally qualified by thatdoubly significant fact last quoted. 

But the question of style is still under discussion here, and nowonder that with _such_ views of the value of the 'current coin, ' andwith a regard and reverence for the received sciences so deeplyqualified; or, as the other has it, with a humour so unfit either tospeak or write for _beginners_, a style which admitted of otherefficacies than bare _proofs_, should appear to be demanded forpopular purposes, or for beginners. And no wonder that with views sosimilar on this first and so radical point, these two men should havehit upon the same method in _Rhetoric_ exactly, though it _was_ thenwholly new. But our Gascon, goes on to describe its freedoms andnovelties, its imitations of the living conference, its newvitalities. 

'May we not, ' says the successful experimenter in this very style, 'mix with the subject of conversation and communication, the quick andsharp repartees which mirth and familiarity introduce amongst friendspleasantly and _wittingly_ jesting with one another; an exercise forwhich my natural gaiety renders me fit enough, if it be not soextended and serious as _the other I just spoke of_, 'tis no lesssmart and ingenious, nor of less utility _as Lycurgus thought_. '

CHAPTER II. 

FURTHER ILLUSTRATION OF 'PARTICULAR METHODS OFTRADITION. '--EMBARRASSMENTS OF LITERARY STATESMEN. 

Here's neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, andanother storm brewing. I hear it sing in the wind. My, best way is tocreep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: Miseryacquaints a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud, till thedregs of the storm be past. --_Tempest_. 

Here then, in the passages already quoted, we find the plan andtheory--the premeditated form of a new kind of Socratic performance;and this whole work, as well as some others composed in this age, makethe realization of it; an invention which proposes to substitute forthe languishing feeble motion which is involved in the study of_books_--the kind of books which this author found invented when hecame--for the passive, sluggish receptivity of another's thought, theliving glow of pursuit and discovery, the flash of self-conviction. 

It is a Socratic dialogue, indeed; but it waits for the reader's eyeto open it; he is himself the principal interlocutor in it; there canbe nothing done till he comes in. Whatsoever beauty or truth maybe inthe argument; whatsoever jokes and repartees; whatsoever infiniteaudacities of mirth may be hidden under that grave cover, are notgoing to shine out for any lazy book-worm's pleasure. He that will notwork, neither shall he eat of this food. 'Up to the _mountains_, ' for_this is hunter's language_, 'and he that strikes the venison firstshall be lord of this feast. ' It is an invention whereby the authorwill remedy for himself the complaint, that life is short, and art islong; whereby he will 'outstretch his span, ' and make over, not hislearning only but his _living_ to the future;--it is aninstrumentality by which he will still maintain living relations withthe minds of men, by which he will put himself into the most intimaterelations of sympathy, and confidence, and friendship, with the mindof the few; by which he will reproduce his purposes and his facultiesin them, and train them to take up in their turn that thread ofknowledges which is to be spun on. 

But if this design be buried so deeply, is it not _lost_ then? If allthe absurd and contradictory developments--if all the madinconsistencies--all the many-sided contradictory views, which arepossible to human nature on all the questions of human life, whichthis single personal pronoun was made to represent, in the profoundlyphilosophic design of the author, are still culled out by learnedcritics, and made to serve as the material of a grave, though it islamented, somewhat egotistical biography, is not all this ingenuity, which has successfully evaded thus far not the careless reader only, but the scrutiny of the scholar, and the sharp eye of the reviewerhimself, is it not an ingenuity which serves after all to littlepurpose, which indeed defeats its own design? No, by no means. Thatdisguise which was at first a necessity, has become the instrument ofhis power. It is that broad _I_ of his, that _I myself_, with which hestill takes all the world; it is that single, many-sided, vivacious, historical impersonation, that ideal impersonation of the individualhuman nature as it is--not as it should be--with all its 'weaved-upfollies ravelled out, ' with all its before unconfessed actualities, its infinite absurdities and contradictions, so boldly pronounced andassumed by one laying claim to an historical existence, it is thishistorical assumption and pronunciation of all the before unspoken, unspeakable facts of this unexplored department of natural history, itis this apparent confession with which this magician entangles hisvictims, as he tells us in a passage already quoted, and leads them onthrough that objective representation of their follies in which theymay learn to hate them, to that globe mirror--that mirror of the agewhich he boasts to have hung up here, when he says, 'I have done whatI designed: all the world knows _me in my book_, and my book in _me_. '

Who shall say that it is yet time to strip him of the disguise whichhe wears so effectively? With all his faults, and all his egotisms, who would not be sorry to see him taken to pieces, after all? And whoshall quite assure us, that it would not still be treachery, even now, for those who have unwound his clues, and traversed his labyrinths tothe heart of his mystery, --for those who have penetrated to thechamber of his inner school, to come out and blab a secret with whichhe still works so potently; insensibly to those on whom he works, perhaps, yet so potently? But there is no harm done. It will stilltake the right reader to find his way through these new devices inletters; these new and vivacious proofs of learning; for him, and fornone other, they lurk there still. 

To evade political restrictions, and to meet the popular mind on itsown ground, was the double purpose of the disguise; but it is adisguise which will only detect, and not baffle, the mind that is ableto identify itself with his, and able to grasp his purposes; it is adisguise which will only detect the mind that knows him, and hispurposes already. The enigmatical form of the inculcation is thedevice whereby that mind will be compelled to follow his track, tothink for itself his thoughts again, to possess itself of the inmostsecret of his intention; for it is a school in whose enigmaticaldevices the mind of the future was to be caught, in whose subtleexercises the child of the future was to be trained to an identitythat should restore the master to his work again, and bring forthanew, in a better hour, his clogged and buried genius. 

But, if the fact that a new and more vivid kind of writing, issuingfrom the heart of the new philosophy of _things_, designed to work newand extraordinary effects by means of literary instrumentalities, --effects hitherto reserved for other modes of impression, --if thefact, that a new and infinitely artistic mode of writing, buryingthe secrets of philosophy in the most careless forms of the vulgarand popular discourse, did, in this instance at least, exist; ifthis be proved, it will suffice for our present purpose. What elseremains to be established concerning points incidentally startedhere, will be found more pertinent to another stage of this enquiry. 

From beginning to end, the whole work might be quoted, page by page, in proof of this; but after the passages already produced here, therewould seem to be no necessity for accumulating any further evidence onthis point. A passage or two more, at least, will suffice to put_that_ beyond question. The extracts which follow, in connection withthose already given, will serve, at least, to remove any rationaldoubt on that point, and on some others, too, perhaps. 

'But whatever I deliver myself to be, provided it be such as I reallyam, I have my end; neither will I make any excuse for committing topaper such mean and frivolous things as these; the meanness of the_subject_ compels me to it. '--'_Human reason is a two-edged_ and a_dangerous sword_. Observe, in the hand of _Socrates_, her mostintimate and familiar friend, _how many points it has. Thus_, I amgood for nothing but to follow, and suffer myself to be easily carriedaway with the crowd. '--'I have this opinion of _these politicalcontroversies_: Be on what side you will, you have as fair a game toplay as your adversary, provided you do not proceed so far as tojostle _principles that are too manifest to be disputed; and yet, 'tis_ my _notion, in public affairs_ [hear], _there is no government_so ill, _provided it be ancient_, and has been _constant_, that is notbetter than change and alteration. Our manners are infinitelycorrupted, and wonderfully incline to grow worse: of our laws andcustoms, _there are many that are barbarous and monstrous:nevertheless_, by reason of the difficulty of reformation, and thedanger of stirring things, _if I could put something under to stay thewheel_, and keep it where it is, _I would do so with all my heart_. Itis very easy to beget in a people a contempt of its ancientobservances; _never any man undertook, but he succeeded; but toestablish a better regimen in the stead of that a man has overthrown, many who have attempted this have foundered in the attempt_. I verylittle consult _my prudence_ [philosophic 'prudence'] in my conduct. Iam willing to let it be guided by _public rule_. 

'In fine, to return to myself, the only things by which _I_ esteem_myself_ to be something, is _that wherein never any man_ thoughthimself to be defective. _My recommendation is vulgar and common_; forwhoever thought _he_ wanted sense. It would be a _proposition thatwould imply a contradiction in itself_; [in such subtleties thicklystudding this popular work, the clues which link it with other worksof this kind are found--the clues to a new _practical humanphilosophy_. ] 'Tis a disease that never is where it is discerned; 'tistenacious and strong; _but the first ray of the patient's sight_ doesnevertheless pierce it through and disperse it, as the beams of thesun do a thick mist: to _accuse one's self_, would be to _excuse one'sself_ in this case; and to _condemn_, to _absolve_. There never wasporter, or silly girl, that did not think they had sense enough fortheir need. The reasons that proceed from the natural arguing ofothers, we think that if we had turned our thoughts that way, weshould ourselves have found it out as well as they. _Knowledge, style_, and such parts as we see in other works, we are readily awareif they excel our own; but for the simple products of the_understanding_, every one thinks he could have found out the like, and is hardly sensible of the weight and difficulty, unless--and thenwith much ado--in an extreme and incomparable distance; _and whoevershould be able clearly to discern_ the height of another's judgment, would be also able _to raise his own to the same pitch_; so that thisis a sort of exercise, from which a man is to expect very littlepraise, a kind of composition of small repute. _And, besides, for whomdo you write_?'--for he is merely meeting this common sense. Hisobject is merely to make his reader confess, 'That was just what I wasabout to say, it was just my thought; and if I did not express it so, it was only for want of language;'--'for whom do you write? _Thelearned_, to whom the authority appertains of judging books, know noother value but that of learning, and allow of no other process of witbut that of erudition and art. If you have mistaken one of the Scipiosfor another, what is all the rest you have to say worth? Whoever isignorant of Aristotle, according to their rule, is in some sortignorant of himself. _Heavy and vulgar souls_ cannot discern the graceof a high and unfettered style. Now these two sorts of men make the_world_. The _third sort_, into whose hands you fall, of souls thatare regular, and strong of themselves, is so rare, that it _justly_has neither _name nor place amongst us_, and it is pretty well timelost to aspire to it, or to endeavour to please it. ' He will notcontent himself with pleasing the few. He wishes to _move_ the world, and its approbation is a secondary question with him. 

'He that should record _my_ idle talk, to the prejudice of the mostpaltry law, opinion, or custom of his parish, would do himself a greatdeal of wrong, and me too; for, in what I say, I warrant no othercertainty, but 'tis what I _had then in my thought, a thoughttumultuous and wavering_. ["I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet, "says the offended king. "These words are not mine. " _Hamlet_: "Normine _now_. "] All I say is by way of discourse. _I should not speak soboldly, if it were my due to be believed, and so I told a great man, who complained to me of the tartness and contention of my advice_. 'And, indeed, he would not, in this instance, that is verycertain;--for he has been speaking on the subject of RELIGIOUSTOLERATION, and among other remarks, somewhat too far in advance ofhis time, he has let fall, by chance, such passages as these, which, of course, he stands ready to recall again in case any one isoffended. ('These words are not mine, Hamlet. ' 'Nor mine now. ') 'To_kill men_, a clear and shining light is required, and our life is tooreal and essential, to warrant these supernatural and fantasticaccidents. ' 'After all 'tis setting a _man's conjectures_ at a veryhigh price to _cause a man to be roasted alive upon them_. ' He doesnot look up at all, after making this accidental remark; for he is toomuch occupied with a very curious story, which happens to come intohis head at that moment, of certain men, who being more profoundlyasleep than _men usually are_, became, according to certain graveauthorities, what in their dreams they fancied they were; and havingmentioned one case sufficiently ludicrous to remove any unpleasantsensation or inquiry which his preceding allusion might haveoccasioned, he resumes, 'If _dreams can sometimes so incorporatethemselves with effects of life_, I cannot believe that therefore ourwill should be accountable to justice. _Which I say, as a man_, who amneither _judge nor privy counsellor_, nor think myself, by manydegrees, worthy so to be, but a _man of the common sort_, born andvowed to the obedience of the public realm, both in _words_ and_acts_. 

 '_Thought_ is free;--_thought_ is free. ' _Ariel_. 

'Perceiving _you to be ready and prepared on one part_, I propose toyou on the other, with all the care I can, to _clear_ your judgment, not to enforce it. Truly, _I_ have not only a great many humours, but_also a great many opinions_ [which I bring forward here, and assumeas mine] that I would _endeavour_ to make _my son dislike_, if I hadone. The _truest_, are not always the most commodious to man; he is oftoo _wild_ a composition. "We speak of all things by precept andresolution, " he continues, returning again to this covert question oftoleration, and Lord Bacon complains also that that is the method inhis meridian. They make me hate things that are _likely_, when theyimpose them on me for _infallible_. "Wonder is the foundation of allphilosophy"--(or, as Lord Bacon expresses it, "wonder is the seed ofknowledge")--enquiry the progress--ignorance the end. Ay, but there isa sort of ignorance, _strong and generous_, that yields nothing _inhonour and courage to knowledge_, a knowledge, which to conceive, requires _no less knowledge_ than knowledge itself. '

'I saw, in my younger days, a report of a process that Corras, acounsellor of Thoulouse, put in print. '--[The vain, egotistical, incoherent, rambling old Frenchman, the old Roman Catholic Frenchgentleman, who is understood to be the author of this new experimentin letters, was not far from being a middle-aged man, when thepamphlet which he here alludes to was first published; but hischronology, generally, does not bear a very close examination. Somevery extraordinary anachronisms, which the critics are totally at aloss to account for, have somehow slipped into his story. There _was_a young philosopher in France in those days, of a most precocious, andsubtle, and inventive genius--of a most singularly artistic genius, combining speculation and practice, as they had never been combinedbefore, and already busying himself with all sorts of things, andamong other things, with curious researches in regard to ciphers, andother questions not less interesting at that time;--there was a youthin France, whose family name was also English, living there with hiseyes wide open, a youth who had found occasion to _invent_ a cipher ofhis own even then, into whose hands that publication might well havefallen on its first appearance, and one on whose mind it might verynaturally have made the impression here recorded. But let us return tothe story. ]--'I saw in my younger days, a report of a process, thatCorras, a counsellor of Thoulouse, put in print, of a strange accidentof _two men, who presented themselves the one for the other_. Iremember, and I hardly remember anything else, that he seemed to haverendered _the imposture of him whom he judged to be guilty, sowonderful, and so far exceeding both our knowledge and his who was thejudge, that I thought it a very bold sentence that condemned him to behanged_. [That is the point. ] _Let us take up_ SOME FORM of ARREST, that shall say, THE COURT _understands nothing of the matter_, morefreely and ingenuously than the Areopagites did, _who ordered theparties to appear again in a hundred years_. ' We must not forget thatthese stories 'are not regarded by the author merely for the use hemakes of them, --that they carry, besides what he applies them to, theseeds of a richer and bolder matter, and sometimes collaterally a_more delicate sound_, both to the author himself who declines sayinganything more about it _in that place_, and to others who shall happento be of his ear!' One already prepared by previous discovery of themethod of communication here indicated, and by voluminous readings init, to understand that appeal, begs leave to direct the attention ofthe critical reader to the delicate collateral sounds in the storylast quoted. 

It is not irrelevant to notice that this story is introduced to theattention of the reader, 'who will, perhaps, see farther into it thanothers, ' in that chapter on toleration in which it is suggested thatconsidering the fantastic, and unscientific, and unsettled characterof the human beliefs and opinions, and that even 'the Fathers' havesuggested in their speculations on the nature of human life, that whatmen believed themselves to be, in their dreams, they really became, itis after all setting a man's conjectures at a very high price to causea man to be roasted alive on them; the chapter in which it isintimated that considering the natural human liability to error, alittle more room for correction of blunders, a little larger chance ofarriving at the common truth, a little more chance for growth andadvancement in learning, would, perhaps, on the whole, be likely toconduce to the human welfare, instead of sealing up the humanadvancement for ever, with axe and cord and stake and rack, within thelimits of doctrines which may have been, perhaps, the very wisest, themost learned, of which the world was capable, at the time when theirform was determined. It is the chapter which he calls fancifully, achapter 'on _cripples_, ' into which this odd story about the two menwho presented themselves, the one for the other, in a manner soremarkable, is introduced, for _lameness_ is always this author'sgrievance, wherever we find him, and he is driven to all sorts ofdevices to overcome it; for he is the person who came prepared tospeak well, and who hates that sort of speaking, where a man reads hisspeech, because he is one who could naturally give it a grace byaction, or as another has it, he is one who would suit the action tothe word. 

But it was not the question of 'hanging' only, or 'roasting alive, 'that authors had to consider with themselves in these times. For thoseforms of literary production which an author's literary taste, or hisdesire to reach and move and mould the people, might incline him toselect--the most approved forms of popular literature, were in effectforbidden to men, bent, as these men were, on taking an active part inthe affairs of their time. Any extraordinary reputation for excellencein these departments, would hardly have tended to promote theambitious views of the young aspirant for honors in that school ofstatesmanship, in which the 'Fairy Queen' had been scornfullydismissed, as 'an old song. ' Even that disposition to the gravest andprofoundest forms of philosophical speculation, which one foolishyoung candidate for advancement was indiscreet enough to exhibitprematurely there, was made use of so successfully to hisdisadvantage, that for years his practical abilities were held insuspicion on that very account, as he complains. The reputation of a_Philosopher_ in those days was quite as much as this legalpractitioner was willing to undertake for his part. That of a _Poet_might have proved still more uncomfortable, and more difficult tosustain. His claim to a place in the management of affairs would nothave been advanced by it, in the eyes of those old statesmen, whosefavour he had to propitiate. However, he was happily relieved from anysuspicion of that sort. If those paraphrases of the Psalms for whichhe chose to make himself responsible, --if those Hebrew melodies of hisdid not do the business for him, and clear him effectually of any suchsuspicion in the eyes of that generation, it is difficult to say whatwould. But whether his devotional feelings were really of a kind torequire any such painful expression as that on their own account, mayreasonably be doubted by any one acquainted at all with his generalhabits of thought and sentiment. These lyrics of the philosopherappear on the whole to prove too much; looked at from a literary pointof view merely, they remind one forcibly of the attempts of Mr. _Silence_ at a Bacchanalian song. 'I have a reasonable good ear inmusic, ' says the unfortunate Pyramus, struggling a little with thatcerebral development and uncompromising facial angle which he findsimposed on him. 'I have a reasonable good ear in music: let us havethe tongs and the bones. '

'A man must frame _some probable cause_, why he should not do hisbest, and why he should dissemble his abilities, ' says this author, speaking of _colour_, or the covering of defects; and that theprejudice just referred to was not peculiar to the English court, theremarkable piece of dramatic criticism which we are about to producefrom this old Gascon philosopher's pages, may or may not indicate, according as it is interpreted. It serves as an introduction to thepassage in which the author's double meaning, and the occasionallydouble sound of his stories is noted. In the preceding chapter, itshould be remarked, however, the author has been discoursing in highstrains, upon the vanity of popular applause, or of any applause butthat of reason and conscience; sustaining himself with quotations fromthe Stoics, whose doctrines on this point he assumes as the preceptsof a true and natural philosophy; and among others the followingpassage was quoted:--[Taken from an epistle of Seneca, but including aquotation from a letter of Epicurus, on the same subject. ]--'Rememberhim who being asked why he took so much pains in an art that couldcome to the knowledge of but few persons, replied, "A few are enoughfor me. I have enough with one, I have enough with never a one. " Hesaid true; yourself and a companion _are_ theatre enough to oneanother, or _you_ to _yourself_. Let us be to you _the whole people_, and the whole people to you but _one_. You should do like the beastsof chase who _efface the track at the entrance into their den_. ' Butthis author's comprehensive design embraces all the oppositions inhuman nature; he thinks it of very little use to preach to men fromthe height of these lofty philosophic flights, unless you first divedown to the platform of their actualities, and by beginning with thesecret of what they are, make sure that you take them with you. Sothen the latent human vanity, must needs be confessed, and instead oftaking it all to himself this time, poor Cicero and Pliny are draggedup, the latter very unjustly, as the commentator complains, to standthe brunt of this philosophic shooting. 

'But this exceeds all meanness of spirit in _persons of such qualityas they were_, to think to derive any glory from babbling and prating, _even to the making use of their private letters to their friends, andso withal that_ though some of them _were never sent, the opportunitybeing lost_, they nevertheless published them; with this worthyexcuse, that they were unwilling to lose their labour, and have theirlucubrations thrown away. '--Was it not well becoming two consuls ofRome, _sovereign magistrates of the republic, that_ commanded theworld, to spend their time in patching up elegant missives, in orderto gain the reputation of being well versed _in their own mothertongue_? What could a pitiful schoolmaster have done worse, who gothis living by it? If the _acts_ of Xenophon and Caesar had not fartranscended their eloquence, I don't believe they would ever havetaken the pains to _write_ them. They made it their business torecommend not their _saying_, but their _doing_. The companions ofDemosthenes in the embassy to Philip, extolling that prince ashandsome, eloquent, and a stout drinker, Demosthenes said that thosewere commendations more proper for a woman, an advocate, or a sponge. 'Tis not _his profession_ to know either how to hunt, or to dancewell. 

 Orabunt causas alii, coelique meatus Describent radio, et fulgentia sidera dicent, Hic regere imperio populos sciat. 

Plutarch says, moreover, that to appear so excellent in these lessnecessary qualities, is to produce witness against a man's self, thathe has spent his time and study ill, which ought to have been employedin the acquisition of more necessary and more useful things. ThusPhilip, King of Macedon, having heard _the great Alexander_, his son, _sing at a feast_ to the _wonder and envy of the best musicians_there. 'Art thou not ashamed, ' he said to him, 'to _sing so well_?'And to the same Philip, a musician with whom he was disputing aboutsomething concerning his art, said, '_Heaven forbid, sir, that sogreat a misfortune should ever befall you as to understand thesethings better than I_. ' Perhaps this author might have made a similarreply, had _his_ been subjected to a similar criticism. And Lord Baconquotes this story too, as he does many others, which this author has_first selected_, and for the same purpose; for, not content withappropriating his philosophy, and pretending to invent his design andhis method, he borrows all his most significant stories from him, andbrings them in to illustrate the same points, and the points areborrowed also: he makes use, indeed, of his common-place bookthroughout in the most shameless and unconscionable manner. 'Rack hisstyle, Madam, _rack his style_?' he said to Queen Elizabeth, as hetells us, when she consulted him--he being then of her counsellearned, in the case of Dr. Hayward, charged with having written 'thebook of the deposing of Richard the Second, and the _coming in_ ofHenry the Fourth, ' and sent to the Tower for that offence. The queenwas eager for a different kind of advice. Racking an author's book didnot appear to her coarse sensibilities, perfectly unconscious of thedelicacy of an author's susceptibilities, a process in itselfsufficiently murderous to satisfy her revenge. There must be someflesh and blood in the business before ever she could understand it. She wanted to have 'the question' put to that gentleman as to hismeaning in the obscure passages in that work under the most impressivecircumstances; and Mr. Bacon, _himself_ an author, being of hercounsel learned, was requested to make out a case of treason for her;and wishes from such a source were understood to be commands in thosedays. Now it happened that one of the managers and actors at the GlobeTheatre, who was at that time sustaining, as it would seem, the mostextraordinary relations of intimacy and friendship with the friendsand patrons of this same person, then figuring as the queen's adviser, had recently composed a tragedy on this very subject; though thatgentleman, more cautious than Dr. Hayward, and having, perhaps, somelearned counsel also, had taken the precaution to keep back the sceneof the deposing of royalty during the life-time of this sharp-wittedqueen, reserving its publication for the reign of her eruditesuccessor; and the learned counsel in this case being aware of thefact, may have felt some sympathy with this misguided author. 'No, madam, ' he replied to her inquiry, thinking to take off her bitternesswith a merry conceit, as he says, 'for treason I can _not_ deliveropinion that there is any, but very much felony. ' The queenapprehending it gladly, asked, 'How?' and 'wherein?' Mr. Baconanswered, 'Because he had stolen many of his sentences and conceitsout of Cornelius Tacitus. ' It would do one good to see, perhaps, howmany felonious appropriations of sentences, and quotations, and ideas, the application he recommends would bring to light in this case. 

But the instances already quoted are not the only ones which this freespoken foreign writer, this Elizabethan genius abroad, ventures toadduce in support of this position of his, that statesmen--men whoaspire to the administration of republics or other forms ofgovernment--if they cannot consent on that account to relinquishaltogether the company of the Muses, must at least so far respect theprevailing opinion on that point, as to be able to sacrifice to it theproudest literary honours. Will the reader be pleased to notice, notmerely the extraordinary character of the example in this instance, but _the grounds_ of the assumption which the critic makes with somuch coolness. 

'And could the perfection of eloquence have added any lustreproportionable to the merit of a great person, certainly Scipio andLaelius had never resigned the honour of their comedies, with all the_luxuriancies and delicacies of the Latin tongue_, to an Africanslave, for that the work was THEIRS _its beauty and excellency_SUFFICIENTLY PROVE. ' [This is from a book in which the supposedautograph of Shakspere is found; a work from which he quotesincessantly, and from which he appears, indeed, to have taken thewhole hint of his learning. ] 'Besides Terence himself confesses asmuch, and I should take it ill in any one that would _dispossess me_of that _belief_. ' For, as he says in another place, in a certaindeeply disguised dedication which he makes of the work of a friend, apoet, whose early death he greatly lamented, and whom he is'determined, ' as he says, 'to revive and raise again to life if hecan:' 'As we often judge of the greater by the less, and _as the verypastimes_ of great men give an honourable idea to the clear-sighted_of the source_ from which they spring, I hope you will, by this workof his, rise to the knowledge of himself, and by consequence love andembrace his memory. In so doing, you will accomplish what heexceedingly longed for whilst he lived. ' But here he continues thus, 'I have, indeed, in my time known some, who, by a knack of writing, have got both title and fortune, yet disown their apprenticeship, _purposely corrupt their style, _ and affect ignorance of so vulgar aquality (which _also our nation observes_, rarely to be seen _in verylearned hands_), carefully seeking a reputation by better qualities. '

 I once did hold it, as our statists do, a baseness to write fair: but now it did me yeoman's service. --_Hamlet_. 

And it is in the next paragraph to _this_, that he takes occasion tomention that his stories and allegations do not always serve simplyfor example, authority, or ornament; that they are not limited intheir application to the use he ostensibly makes of them, but thatthey carry, for those who are in his secret, other meanings, bolderand richer meanings, and sometimes collaterally a more delicate sound. And having interrupted the consideration upon Cicero and Pliny, andtheir vanity and pitiful desire for honour in future ages, with thiscriticism on the limited sphere of statesmen in general, and thedevices to which _Lĉlius and Scipio_ were compelled to resort, inorder to get _their_ plays published without diminishing the lustre oftheir personal renown, and having stopped to insert that mostextraordinary avowal in regard to his two-fold meanings in hisallegations and stories, he returns to the subject of thiscorrespondence again, for there is more in this also than meets theear; and it is not _Pliny_, and _Cicero_ only, whose supposed vanity, and regard for posthumous fame, as men of letters, is underconsideration. 'But returning to the _speaking virtue_;' he says, 'Ifind _no great choice_ between not knowing to speak _anything butill_, and not knowing anything but _speaking well_. The sages tell us, that as to what concerns _knowledge_ there is nothing but_philosophy_, and as to what concerns _effects_ nothing but _virtue_, that is generally proper to all degrees and orders. There is somethinglike _this in these two other_ philosophers, for _they also promise_ETERNITY to the letters they write to their friends, but 'tis _afteranother manner_, and by accommodating themselves _for a good end_ tothe vanity of _another_; for they write to them that if the concern ofmaking themselves known to future ages, and the thirst of glory, doyet _detain_ them in the management of public affairs, and make themfear the solitude and retirement to which they would persuade them;let them never trouble themselves more about it, forasmuch as theyshall have credit enough with posterity to assure them that, werethere nothing else but the _letters_ thus writ to them, those letterswill render their names as known and famous as their _own publicactions_ themselves could do. [And that--_that_ is the key to thecorrespondence between _two other_ philosophers enigmatically alludedto here. ] And besides this difference, ' for it is 'these two otherphilosophers, ' and not Pliny and Cicero, and not Seneca and Epicurusalone, that we talk of here, 'and besides _this difference, these_ arenot _idle_ and _empty_ letters, that contain nothing but a fine jingleof well chosen words, and fine couched phrases; but replete and_abounding with grave and learned discourses_, by which a man mayrender himself--not more eloquent but more _wise_, and that instructus not to _speak_ but _to do well_'; for that is the rhetorical theorythat was adopted by the scholars and statesmen then alive, whosemethods of making themselves known to future ages he is indicating, even in these references to the ancients. '_Away_ with that_eloquence_ which so enchants us with its _harmony_ that we shouldmore study it than _things_'; for this is the place where thequotation with which our investigation of this theory commenced isinserted in the text, and here it is, in the light of these precedingcollections of hints that he puts in the story first quoted, whereinhe says, the nature of the orator will be much more manifestly laidopen to us, than in that seeming care for his fame, or in that care ofhis style, for its own sake. It is the story of Eros, the slave, whobrought the speaker word that the audience was _deferred_, when incomposing a speech that he was to make in public, 'he found himselfstraitened in _time_, to fit his words to his mouth as he had a mindto do. '

CHAPTER III. 

THE POSSIBILITY OF GREAT ANONYMOUS WORKS, --OR WORKS PUBLISHED UNDER ANASSUMED NAME, --CONVEYING, UNDER RHETORICAL DISGUISES, THE PRINCIPALSCIENCES, --RE-SUGGESTED, AND ILLUSTRATED. 

_Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the dead moon-calf's gaberdinefor fear of the storm. --Tempest_. 

BUT as to this love of glory which the stoics, whom this philosopherquotes so approvingly, have measured at its true worth; as to thislove of literary fame, this hankering after an earthly immortality, which he treats so scornfully in the Roman statesman, let us hear himagain in another chapter, and see if we can find any thing whereby_his_ nature and designs will more manifestly be laid open to us. 'Ofall the foolish dreams in the world, ' he says, that which is mostuniversally received, is the solicitude of reputation and glory, whichwe are fond of to that degree as to abandon riches, peace, life, andhealth, which are effectual and substantial good, to pursue this vainphantom. And of all the irrational humours of men, it should seem thatthe philosophers themselves have the most ado, and do the leastdisengage themselves from this the most restive and obstinate of allthe follies. There is not any one view of which _reason_ does soclearly accuse the vanity, as that; but it is _so deeply rooted inus_, that I doubt whether any one ever clearly freed himself from it, or no. _After you have said all, and believed all_ that has been saidto its prejudice, it creates so intestine an inclination _inopposition to your best arguments_, that you have little power andfirmness to resist it; _for_ (_as Cicero says_) even those whocontrovert it, would yet that _the books they write_ should appearbefore the world with _their names in the title page_, and seek toderive glory from seeming to despise it. All other things arecommunicable and fall into commerce; we lend our goods--

[It irks me not that men my garments wear. ]

and stake our lives for the necessities and service of our friends;but to communicate one's honour, _and to robe another with one's ownglory_, is very rarely seen. And yet we have some examples of thatkind. Catulus Luctatius, in the Cymbrian war, having done all that inhim lay to make his flying soldiers face about upon the enemy, _ranhimself at last away with the rest, and counterfeited the coward_, tothe end that his men might rather seem to follow their captain, thanto fly from the enemy; and after several anecdotes full of that innersignificance of which he speaks elsewhere, in which he appears, butonly appears, to lose sight of this question of literary honour, forthey relate to _military_ conflicts, he ventures to approach, somewhatcautiously and delicately, the latent point of his essay again, byadducing the example of persons, _not_ connected with the militaryprofession, who have found themselves called upon in various ways, andby means of various weapons, to take part in these wars; who have yet, in consequence of certain '_subtleties of conscience_, ' _relinquished_the _honour_ of their successes; and though there is no instanceadduced of that particular kind of disinterestedness, in which anauthor relinquishes to another the honour of his title page, as thebeginning might have led one to anticipate; on the whole, the notindiligent reader of this author's performances here and elsewhere, will feel that the subject which is announced as the subject of thischapter, 'Not to communicate a man's honour or glory, ' has been, considering the circumstance, sufficiently illustrated. 

'_As women succeeding to peerages_ had, notwithstanding their sex, theright to assist and give their votes in the causes that appertain tothe jurisdiction of peers; so the ecclesiastical peers, _notwithstanding their profession_, were obliged to _assist our kings_in their wars, not only with their friends and servants, but in theirown persons. And he instances the Bishop of Beauvais, who took agallant share in the battle of Bouvines, but did not think it _fit forhim to participate in the fruit and glory of that violent and bloodytrade_. He, with his own hand, reduced several of the enemy that dayto his mercy, whom he delivered to the first gentleman he met, eitherto kill or to receive them to quarter, _referring that part to anotherhand_. As also did William, Earl of Salisbury, to Messire John deNeale, with a like subtlety of conscience to the other, he would KILL, _but_ NOT WOUND _him_, and _for that reason_, fought only with a_mace_. And a certain person in my time, being reproached by the kingthat he had _laid hands_ on a _priest_, stiffly and positively deniedit. The case was, he had cudgelled and kicked him. ' And there theauthor abruptly, for that time, leaves the matter without any allusionto the case of still another kind of combatants, who, fighting withanother kind of weapon, might also, from similar subtleties ofconscience, perhaps think fit to devolve on others the glory of theirsuccesses. 

But in a chapter on _names_, in which, if he has not told, he has_designed to tell all_; and what he could not express, he has at leastpointed out with his finger, this subject is more fully developed. Inthis chapter, he regrets that such as write _chronicles in Latin_ donot leave our names as they find them, for in making of _Vaudemont_VALLE-MONTANUS, and metamorphosing names to dress them out in Greek orLatin, we know not where we are, and with the _persons_ of _the men, lose_ the _benefit_ of the _story_: but one who tracks the innerthread of this apparently miscellaneous collection of items, need beat no such loss in this case. But at the conclusion of this apparentlyvery trivial talk about _names_, he resumes his philosophic humouragain, and the subsequent discourse on this subject, recalls oncemore, the considerations with which philosophy sets at nought the lossof fame, and forgets in the warmth that prompts to worthy deeds, theglory that should follow them. 

'But this consideration--that is the consideration "that it is thecustom in _France_, to call every man, even a stranger, by the name ofany _manor_ or _seigneury_, he may chance to come in possession of, tends to the total confusion of descents, so that _surnames_ are nosecurity, "--"for, " he says, "a younger brother of a good family, having a _manor_ left him by his father, by the name of which he hasbeen known and honoured, cannot handsomely leave it; ten years afterhis decease, it falls into the hand of a stranger, who does the same. "Do but judge whereabouts we shall be concerning the knowledge of thesemen. This consideration leads me therefore into another subject. Letus look a little more narrowly into, and examine upon what foundationwe erect this glory and reputation, for which the world is turnedtopsy-turvy. Wherein do we place this renown, that we hunt after withsuch infinite anxiety and trouble. It is in the end PIERRE or WILLIAMthat bears it, takes it into his possession, and whom only itconcerns. Oh what a valiant faculty is HOPE, that in a mortal subject, and in a moment, makes nothing of usurping infinity, immensity, eternity, and of supplying her master's indigence, at her pleasure, with all things that he can imagine or desire. And this Pierre orWilliam, what is it but a sound, when all is done, ("What's in aname?") or three or four dashes with a pen?'

And he has already written two paragraphs to show, that the name ofWilliam, at least, is not excepted from the general remarks he ismaking here on the vanity of names; while that of Pierre is five timesrepeated, apparently with the same general intention, and anothercombination of sounds is not wanting which serves with that freetranslation the author himself takes pains to suggest and defend, tocomplete what was lacking to that combination, in order to give theseremarks their true point and significance, in order to redeem themfrom that appearance of flatness which is not a characteristic of thisauthor's intentions, and in his style merely serves as an intimationto the reader that there is something worth looking for beneath it. 

As to the name of William, and the amount of personal distinctionwhich that confers upon its owners, he begins by telling us, that thename of Guienne is said to be derived from the Williams of our ancientAquitaine, 'which would seem, ' he says, rather far fetched, were therenot as crude derivations in Plato himself, to whom he refers in otherplaces for similar precedents; and when he wishes to excuse hisenigmatical style--the titles of his chapters for instance. And by wayof emphasizing this particular still further, he mentions, that on theoccasion when Henry, the Duke of Normandy, the son of Henry theSecond, of England, made a feast in France, the concourse of nobilityand gentry was so great, that for _sport's sake_ he divided them into_troops, according to their names_, and in the _first troop, whichconsisted of Williams_, there were found a hundred and ten knightssitting at the table of that name, without reckoning the simplegentlemen and servants. 

And here he apparently digresses from his subject for the sake ofmentioning the Emperor _Geta_, 'who distributed the several courses ofhis meats by the _first letters of the meats_ themselves, where thosethat began with _B_ were served up together; _as_ brawn, beef, beccaficos, and so of the others. ' This appears to be a little out ofthe way; but it is not impossible that there may be an allusion in itto the author's own family name of _Eyquem_, though that would berather farfetched, as he says; but then there is _Plato_ at hand, still to keep us in countenance. 

But to return to the point of digression. 'And this Pierre, orWilliam, what is it but a sound when all is done? _Or_ three or fourdashes with a pen, _so easy to be varied_, that I would fain know towhom is to be attributed the glory of so many victories, to_Guesquin_, to Glesquin, or to _Gueaguin_. And yet there would besomething more in the case than in Lucian that Sigma should serve Tauwith a process, for "He seeks no mean rewards. " _The quere is here ingood earnest. The point is_, which of _these letters_ is to berewarded for so many sieges, battles, wounds, imprisonment, andservices done to the crown of France by this famous constable. _Nicholas Denisot_ never concerned _himself_ further than _the lettersof his name_, of which he has altered the _whole contexture, to buildup by anagram_ the Count d'Alsinois _whom he has endowed with theglory of his poetry and painting_. [A good precedent--but here is abetter one. ] And the historian Suetonius looked only to the _meaningof his_; and so, cashiering his _fathers surname, Lenis_ leftTranquillus _successor to the reputation of his writings_. Who wouldbelieve that the Captain Bayard should have no honour but what hederives from the great deeds of Peter (Pierre) Terrail, [the name ofBayard--"the meaning"] and that Antonio Escalin should suffer himself, to his face, to be robbed of the honour of so many navigations, andcommands at sea and land, by Captain Poulin and the Baron de la Garde. [The name of Poulin was taken from the place where he was born, De laGarde from a person who took him in his boyhood into his service. ] Whohinders my groom from calling himself Pompey the Great? But, afterall, what virtue, what springs are there that convey to my deceasedgroom, or the other Pompey (who had his head cut off in Egypt), thisglorious renown, and these so much honoured flourishes of the pen?'Instructive suggestions, especially when taken in connection with thepreceding items contained in this chapter, apparently so casuallyintroduced, yet all with a stedfast bearing on this question of names, and all pointing by means of a thread of delicate sounds, and not lessdelicate suggestions, to another instance, in which the possibility ofcircumstances tending to countervail the so natural desire toappropriate to the name derived from one's ancestors, the lustre ofone's deeds, is clearly demonstrated. 

''Tis with good reason that men decry the hypocrisy that is in war;for what is more easy to an old soldier than to shift in time ofdanger, and to counterfeit bravely, when he has no more heart than achicken. There are so many ways to avoid hazarding a man's ownperson'--'and had we the use of the Platonic ring, which renders thoseinvisible that wear it, if turned inwards towards the palm of thehand, it is to be feared that a great many would often hidethemselves, when they _ought to appear_. ' 'It seems that to be known, _is in some sort to a man's life and its duration in another'skeeping_. I for my part, hold that I am wholly in myself, and thatother life of mine which lies in the knowledge of my friends, considering it nakedly and simply in itself, I know very well that Iam sensible of no fruit or enjoyment of it but by the vanity of afantastic opinion; and, when I shall be dead, I shall be much lesssensible of it, and shall withal absolutely lose the use of those realadvantages that sometimes accidentally follow it. [That was LordBacon's view, too, exactly. ] I shall have no more handle whereby totake hold of reputation, or whereby it may take hold of me: for toexpect that my name should receive it, in the first place, I have noname that is enough my own. Of two that I have, one is common to allmy race, and even to others also: there is one family at Paris, andanother at Montpelier, whose surname is _Montaigne_; another inBrittany, and Xaintonge called _De la Montaigne_. The transposition of_one syllable only_ is enough to ravel our affairs, so that I shallperadventure share in their glory, and they shall partake of my shame;and, moreover, my ancestors were formerly surnamed _Eyquem_, a namewherein a _family well known in England_ at this day is concerned. Asto my other name, any one can _take it that will_, and _so_, perhaps, I may honour _a porter_ in my own stead. And, besides, though I had aparticular distinction myself, what can it distinguish when I _am nomore_. Can it point out and favour inanity?

 But will thy manes such a gift bestow As to make violets from thy ashes grow?

'But of this I have spoken elsewhere. ' He has--and to purpose. 

But as to the authority for these readings, Lord Bacon himself willgive us that; for this is the style which he discriminates so sharplyas 'the _enigmatical_, ' a style which he, too, finds to have been inuse among the ancients, and which he tells us _has some affinity_ withthat new method of making over knowledge from the mind of the teacherto that of the pupil, which he terms the method of _progression_--(which is the method of _essaie_)--in opposition to the receivedmethod, the only method he finds in use, which he, too, callsthe _magisterial_. And this method of progression, with which theenigmatical has some affinity, is to be used, he tells us, in caseswhere knowledge is delivered as a thread to be spun on, where scienceis to be removed from one mind to another _to grow from the root_, andnot delivered as trees for the use of the carpenter, where _the root_is of no consequence. In this case, he tells us it is necessary forthe teacher to descend to _the foundations of knowledge and consent_, and so to transplant it into another as it grew in his own mind, 'whereas as knowledge is now delivered, there is a _kind of contractof error_ between the deliverer and the receiver, for he thatdelivereth knowledge desireth to deliver it in such a form as may_best be believed_, and not as may best be _examined_: and he thatreceiveth knowledge desireth rather _present satisfaction_ than_expectant inquiry_, and so rather _not to doubt than not to err, glory_ making the author not to lay open his weakness, and _sloth_making the disciple _not to know his strength_. ' Now, so very grave adefect as this, in the method of the delivery and tradition ofLearning, would of course be one of the first things that wouldrequire to be remedied in any plan in which '_the Advancement_' of itwas seriously contemplated. And this method of the delivery andtradition of knowledge which transfers _the root_ with them, that theymay grow in the mind of the learner, is the method which thisphilosopher professes to find wanting, and the one which he seemsdisposed to invent. He has made a very thorough survey of the storesof the ancients, and is not unacquainted with the more recent historyof learning; he knows exactly what kinds of methods have been made useof by the learned in all ages, for the purpose of putting themselvesinto some tolerable and possible relations with the physical majority;he knows what devices they have always been compelled to resort to, for the purpose of establishing some more or less effectivecommunication between themselves and that world to which theyinstinctively seek to transfer their doctrine. But this method, whichhe suggests here as the essential condition of the growth andadvancement of learning, he does _not_ find invented. He refers to amethod which he calls the enigmatical, which has an affinity with it, 'used in some cases by the discretion of the ancients, ' but disgracedsince, 'by the impostures of persons, who have made it as a _falselight_ for their counterfeit merchandises. ' The purpose of this latterstyle is, as he defines it, 'to remove the _secrets_ of knowledge fromthe penetration of the more vulgar capacities, and to reserve them to_selected auditors_, or to wits of such sharpness as can pierce theveil. ' And that is a method, he tells us, which philosophy can by nomeans dispense with in his time, and 'whoever would let in new lightupon the human understanding must still have recourse to it. ' But themethod of delivery and tradition in those ancient schools, appears tohave been too much of the dictatorial kind to suit this proposer ofadvancement; its tendency was to arrest knowledge instead of promotingits growth. He is not pleased with the ambition of those old masters, and thinks they aimed too much at a personal impression, and that theysometimes undertook to impose their own particular and often verypartial grasp of those universal doctrines and principles, which areand must be true for all men, in too dogmatical and magisterial amanner, without making sufficient allowance for the growth of the mindof the world, the difference of races, etc. 

But if any doubt in regard to the use of the method described, in thecomposition of the work now first produced as AN EXAMPLE of the use ofit, should still remain in any mind; or if this method of unravellingit should seem too studious, perhaps the author's own word for it inone more quotation may be thought worth taking. 

'_I can give no account of my life by_ MY ACTIONS, fortune has placed_them_ too low; _I must do it_ BY MY FANCIES. And when shall I havedone representing the continual agitation and change of my thoughts asthey come into my head, seeing that Diomedes filled six thousand booksupon the subject of grammar. ' [The commentators undertake to set himright here, but the philosopher only glances in his intention at thevoluminousness of the science of _words_, in opposition to the scienceof _things_, which he came to establish. ] 'What must prating_produce_, since prating itself, and the first beginning to speak, stuffed the world with such a horrible load of volumes. So many wordsabout _words_ only. They accused one Galba, of old, of living idly; hemade answer that every one ought to give account of his _actions_, but_not_ of his _leisure_. He was mistaken, for _justice_--[the civilauthority]--has cognizance and _jurisdiction_ over those that _donothing_, or only PLAY _at_ WORKING. .. . Scribbling appears to be thesign of a disordered age. Every man applies himself negligently to theduty of his _vocation_ at such a time and debauches in it. ' From thatcentral wrong of an evil government, an infectious depravity spreadsand corrupts all particulars. Everything turns from its true andnatural course. Thus _scribbling_ is the sign of a disordered age. Menwrite in such times instead of acting; and scribble, or seem toperhaps, instead of writing openly to purpose. 

And yet, again, that central, and so divergent, wrong is the result ofeach man's particular contribution, as he goes on to assert. 'Thecorruption of this age is made up by the particular contributions ofevery individual man, '--

 He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. --_Cassius_. 

'Some contribute _treachery_, others _injustice_, irreligion, _tyranny_, _avarice_ and _cruelty, according as they have power; the_WEAKER SORT CONTRIBUTE FOLLY, VANITY, _and_ IDLENESS, and _of these_ Iam one. '

 _Caesar_ loves no plays as thou dost, Antony. Such men are dangerous. 

Or, as the same poet expresses it in another Roman play:--

 This _double worship_, Where one part does _disdain with cause, the other Insult without all reason_; where gentry, title, wisdom Cannot conclude but by the _yea and no_ Of _general ignorance_, --it must omit Real necessities--and give way the while To unstable slightness; purpose _so barred_, It follows, nothing is done to purpose. 

And that is made the plea for an attempt to overthrow the popularpower, and to replace it with a government containing the true head ofthe state, its nobility, its learning, its gentleness, its wisdom. 

But the essayist continues:--'It seems as if it were the season for_vain things_ when _the hurtful oppress us_; in a time when doing illis common, to do nothing but what _signifies nothing_ is a kind ofcommendation. 'Tis _my_ comfort that _I_ shall be one of the last thatshall be called in question, --for it would be against reason _topunish the less troublesome_ while we are _infested_ with the_greater_. _As the physician_ said to one who presented him his fingerto dress, and who, as he perceived, had an ulcer _in his lungs_, "Friend, it is not now time to concern yourself about your finger'sends. " _And yet_ I saw some years ago, _a person, whose name andmemory I have in very great esteem_, in the very height of our greatdisorders, when there was _neither law nor justice put in execution, nor magistrate that performed his office_, --_no more than there isnow_, --publish I know not what _pitiful reformations_ about _clothes, cookery_ and _law chicanery_. _These are amusements_ wherewith _tofeed a people that are ill used, to show that they are not totallyforgotten. These others_ do the same, who insist upon _stoutlydefending_ the _forms_ of _speaking_, dances and games to a peopletotally abandoned to all sorts of execrable vices--it is for theSpartans only to fall to combing and curling themselves, when they arejust upon the point of running headlong into some extreme danger oftheir lives. 

'For _my part_, I have _yet a worse_ custom. I scorn to mend myself byhalves. If my _shoe_ go awry, I let my shirt and my cloak do so too:when I am out of order I feed on mischief. I abandon myself throughdespair, and let myself go towards the precipice, and as the sayingis, throw the helve after the hatchet. ' We should not need, perhaps, the aid of the explanations already quoted, to show us that the authordoes not confess this custom of his for the sake of commending it tothe sense or judgment of the reader, --who sees it here for the firsttime it may be put into words or put on paper, who looks at it here, perhaps, for the first time objectively, from the critical stand-pointwhich the review of another's confession creates; and though it mayhave been latent in the dim consciousness of his own experience, orpractically developed, finds it now for the first time, collected fromthe phenomena of the blind, instinctive, human motivity, and put downon the page of science, as a principle in nature, in human naturealso. 

But this is indeed a Spartan combing and curling, that the author isfalling to, in the introductory flourishes ('diversions' as he callsthem) of this great adventure, that his pen is out for now: he isindeed upon the point of running headlong into the fiercestdangers;--it is the state, the wretched, discased, vicious state, dying apparently, yet full of teeth and mischief, that he is about tohandle in his argument with these fine, lightsome, frolicsomepreparations of his, without any perceptible 'mittens'; it is theheart of that political evil that his time groans with, and begins tofind insufferable, that he is going to probe to the quick with that sodelicate weapon. It is a tilt against the block and the rack, and allthe instruments of torture, that he is going to manage, as handsomely, and with as many sacrifices to the graces, as the circumstances willadmit of. But the political situation which he describes so boldly(and we have already seen what it is) affects us here in its relationto the question of style only, and as the author himself connects itwith the point of our inquiry. 

'A man may regret, ' he says, 'the better times, but cannot fly fromthe present, we may wish for other magistrates, but we must, notwithstanding, obey those we have; and, peradventure, it is morelaudable to obey the bad than the good, so long as the image of theancient and received laws of this monarchy shall shine in any cornerof the kingdom. If they happen, unfortunately, to thwart andcontradict one another, so as to produce two factions of doubtfulchoice, '--

 And my soul aches To know, [says Coriolanus] when two authorities are up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter 'twixt the gap of both, and take The one by the other. 

--'in this contingency will willingly choose, ' continues the other, 'to withdraw from the tempest, and in the meantime, _nature or thehazards of war may lend me a helping hand_. Betwixt Cĉsar and Pompey, I should soon and frankly have declared myself, but amongst the threerobbers that came after, a man must needs _have either hid himself_, or have gone along with the current of the time, _which I think a manmay lawfully do, when reason no longer rules_. ' '_Whither_ dost thouwandering go?'

'This _medley_ is a little from my subject, I go out of my way but'tis rather _by licence than oversight_. My fancies _follow_ oneanother, _but sometimes at a great distance_, and _look towards oneanother_, but 'tis with an _oblique glance_. I have read a DIALOGUE ofPLATO of such a _motley and fantastic_ composition. The _beginning wasabout love_, and all the rest ABOUT RHETORIC. _They_ stick not (thatis, the ancients) at these variations, and have a marvellous grace inletting themselves to be carried away at the pleasure of the winds; orat least to _seem_ as if they were. The titles of my chapters do notalways comprehend the whole matter, they often denote it _by some markonly_, as those other titles _Andria Eunuchus_, or these, _Sylla, Cicero, Torquatus_. I love _a poetic march_, by leaps and skips, 'tisan art, as Plato says, light, nimble; and _a little demoniacal_. Thereare places in _Plutarch_ where _he_ forgets his theme, where theproposition of _his_ argument is only found _incidentally_, andstuffed throughout with foreign matter. Do but observe his meanders inthe Demon of Socrates. How beautiful are his variations anddigressions; and then _most of all, when they seem to be_ fortuitous, [hear] and introduced _for want of heed. 'Tis the indiligent reader_that loses my subject--_not I. There will always be found some words_or _other in a corner that are to the purpose, though it lie veryclose_ [that is the unfailing rule]. I ramble about indiscreetly andtumultously: my style and my _wit_ wander at the same rate, [hewanders _wittingly_]. A _little folly_ is _desirable_ in him _thatwill not be guilty of stupidity_, say the precepts, and much more the_examples_ of our masters. A thousand poets flag and languish after a_prosaic manner_; but the best old prose, and I strew it here up anddown _indifferently_ for verse, shines throughout with the vigor andboldness of poetry, and represents some air of its fury. Certainly, prose must _yield_ the pre-eminence in speaking. "The poet, " saysPlato, "when set upon the muse's tripod, pours out with fury, whatevercomes into his mouth, like the pipe of a fountain, _withoutconsidering and pausing upon what he says_, and things come from himof _various colors_, of _contrary substance_, and with an irregulartorrent": he himself (Plato) is all over poetical, and all the oldtheology (_as the learned inform us) is poetry_, and the _firstphilosophy_, is the origiual language of the gods. 

'I would have the matter _distinguish itself_; it sufficiently shows_where it changes_, where it concludes, _where it begins, and where itresumes, without interlacing it with words of connection_, introducedfor the relief of _weak or negligent ears_, and without commentingmyself. Who is he that had not rather not be read at all, than after adrowsy or _cursory_ manner? Seeing I cannot fix the reader's attentionby the _weight_ of what I write, _maneo male_, if I should chance _todo it by my intricacies_. [Hear]. I mortally hate obscurity and _wouldavoid it if I could. In such an employment_, to whom you will not givean hour you will give nothing; _and you do nothing for him for whomyou only do, whilst you are doing something else_. To which may beadded, that I have, perhaps, some particular obligation to speak only_by halves_, to speak _confusedly and discordantly_. '

But this is, perhaps, enough to show, in the way of direct assertion, that we have here, at least, a philosophical work composed in thatstyle which Lord Bacon calls 'the enigmatical, ' in which he tells usthe _secrets_ of knowledge are reserved for _selected auditors_, orwits of such sharpness as can pierce the veil; a style which he, too, tells us was sometimes used by the discretion of the ancients, thoughhe does not specify either Plutarch or Plato; in that place, and onewhich he introduces in connection with his new method of progression, in consequence of its having, as he tells us, _some affinity_ with it, and that we have here also a specimen of that new method itself, bymeans of which knowledge is to be delivered as a thread to be spun on. 

But let us leave, for the present, this wondrous Gascon, though it isnot very easy to do so, so long as we have our present subject inhand, --this philosopher, whose fancies look towards one another atsuch long, such very long distances, sometimes, though not always, with an _oblique_ glance, who dares to depend so much upon the eye ofhis reader, and especially upon the reader of that 'far-off' age hewrites to. It would have been indeed irrelevant to introduce thesubject of this foreign work and its style in this connection withoutfurther explanation, but for the identity of political situationalready referred to, and but for those subtle, interior, incessantconnections with the higher writings of the great Elizabethan school, which form the _main characteristic_ of this production. The fact, that this work was composed in the country in which the chiefElizabethan men attained their maturity, that it dates from the timein which Bacon was completing his education there, that it coversostensibly not the period only, but the scenes and events of Raleigh'ssix years campaigning there, as well as the fact alluded to by thisauthor himself, in a passage already quoted, --the fact that there wasa family then in England, _very well known_, who bore the surname ofhis ancestors, a family of the name of _Eyquem_, he tells us withwhom, perhaps, he still kept up some secret correspondence andrelations, the fact, too, which he mentions in his chapter on Names, that a surname in France is very easily acquired, and is notnecessarily derived from one's ancestors, --that same chapter in whichhe adduces so many instances of men who, notwithstanding thatinveterate innate love of the honour of one's own proper name, whichis in men of genius still more inveterate, --have for one reason oranother been willing to put upon anagrams, or synonyms, or borrowednames, all their honours, so that in the end it is William or Pierrewho takes them into his possession, and bears them, or it's the nameof 'an African slave' perhaps, or the name of a 'groom' (promoted, itmay be, to the rank of a jester, or even to that of a player, ) thatgets all the glory. All these facts, taken in connection with theconclusions already established, though insignificant in themselves, will be found anything but that for the philosophical student who hasleisure to pursue the inquiry. 

And though the latent meanings, in which the interior connections andidentities referred to above are found, are not yet criticallyrecognised, a latent national affinity and liking strong enough topierce this thin, artificial, foreign exterior, appears to have beenat work here from the first. For though the seed of the richer andbolder meanings from which the author anticipated his later harvest, could not yet be reached, that new form of popular writing, thateffective, and vivacious mode of communication with the popular mindon topics of common concern and interest, not heretofore recognised asfit subjects for literature, which this work offered to the world onits surface, was not long in becoming fruitful. But it was on theEnglish mind that it began to operate first. It was in England, thatit began so soon to develop the latent efficacies it held in germ, inthe creation of that new and widening department in letters--that sonew, so vast, and living department of them, which it takes today allour reviews, and magazines, and journals, to cover. And the workitself has been from the first adopted, and appropriated here, asheartily as if it had been an indigenous production, some singularlydistinctive product too, of the so deeply characterised Englishnationality. 

But it is time to leave this wondrous Gascon, this new 'Michael of theMount, ' this man who is 'consubstantial with his book, '--this 'Man ofthe Mountain, ' as he figuratively describes it. Let us yield him thisnew ascent, this new triumphant peak and pyramid in science, which heclaims to have been the first to master, --the unity of the universalman, --the historical unity, --the universal human form, collected fromparticulars, not contemplatively abstracted, --the inducted Man of thenew philosophy. '_Authors_, ' he says, 'have _hitherto_ communicatedthemselves to the people by some _particular_ and _foreign_ mark; _I, the first of any by my universal being_, as _Michael_ de Montaigne, Ipropose a life mean and without lustre: all moral philosophy isapplied as well to a private life as to one of the greatestemployment. _Every man_ carries _the entire form of the humancondition_. .. I, the first of any by my universal being, as_Michael_, '--see the chapter on names, --'as _Michael_ de Montaigne. 'Let us leave him for the present, or attempt to, for it is not veryeasy to do so, so long as we have our present subject in hand. 

For, as we all know, it is from this idle, tattling, rambling oldGascon--it is from this outlandish looker-on of human affairs, thatour Spectators and Ramblers and Idlers and Tattlers, trace theirdescent; and the Times, and the Examiners, and the Observers, and theSpectators, and the Tribunes, and Independents, and all the Monthlies, and all the Quarterlies, that exercise so large a sway in humanaffairs to-day, are only following his lead; and the best of them havenot been able as yet to leave him in the rear. But how it came topass, that a man of this particular turn of mind, who belonged to theold party, and the times that were then passing away, should have felthimself called upon to make this great signal for the humanadvancement, and how it happens that these radical connections withother works of that time, having the same general intention, are foundin the work itself, --these are points which the future _biographers_of this old gentleman will perhaps find it for their interest to lookto. And a little of that more studious kind of reading which hehimself so significantly solicited, and in so many passages, willinevitably tend to the elucidation of them. 

PART II. 

THE BACONIAN RHETORIC, OR THE METHOD OF PROGRESSION. 

'The secrets of nature have not more gift in taciturnity. '

_Troilus and Cressida_. 

'I did not think that Mr. Silence had been a man of this mettle. '

_Falstaff_. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE 'BEGINNERS. '

'PROSPERO. --Go bring THE RABBLE, O'er whom I give thee power, here, to this place. '

_Tempest_. 

But though a foreign philosopher may venture to give us the clue toit, perhaps, in the first instance, a little more roundly, it is notnecessary that we should go the Mayor of Bordeaux, in order toascertain on the highest possible authority, what kind of an art ofcommunication, what kind of an art of delivery and tradition, men, insuch circumstances, find themselves compelled to invent;--that is, ifthey would not be utterly foiled for the want of it, in their noblestpurposes;--we need not go across the channel to find the menthemselves, to whom this art is a necessity, --men so convinced thatthey have a mission of instruction to their kind, that they willpermit no temporary disabilities to divert them from their end, --menwho must needs open their school, no matter what oppositions there maybe, to be encountered, no matter what imposing exhibitions of militaryweapons may be going on just then, in their vicinity; and though theyshould find themselves straitened in time, and not able to fit theirwords to their mouths as they have a mind to, though they should beobliged to accept the hint from the master in the Greek school, andtake their tone _from the ear of those to whom they speak_, thoughmany speeches which would spend their use among the men then livingwould have to be inserted in their most enduring works with a privatehint concerning that necessity, and a private reading of them forthose whom it concerned; though _the audience_ they are prepared toaddress _should be deferred_, though the benches of the inner schoolshould stand empty for ages. We need not go abroad at all to discovermen of this stamp, and their works and pastimes, and their arts oftradition;--men so filled with that which impels men to speak, thatspeak they must, and speak they will, in one form or another, by wordor gesture, by word or deed, though they speak to the void waste, though they must speak till they reach old ocean in his unsunnedcaves, and bring him up with the music of their complainings, thoughthe marble Themis fling back their last appeal, though they speak tothe tempest in his wrath, to the wind and the rain, and the fire andthe thunder, --men so impregnated with that which makes the humanspeech, that speak they will, though they have but a rusty nail, wherewith to etch their story, on their dungeon wall; though they digin the earth and bury their secret, as one buried his of old--thatsame secret still; for it is still those EARS--those 'ears' that'Midas hath' which makes the mystery. 

They know that the days are coming when the light will enter theirprison house, and flash in its dimmest recess; when the light theysought in vain, will be there to search out the secrets they areforbid. They know that the day is coming, when the disciple himself, all tutored in the art of their tradition, bringing with him the keyof its delivery, shall be there to unlock those locked-up meanings, tospell out those anagrams, to read those hieroglyphics, to unwind withpatient loving research to its minutest point, that text, that withsuch tools as the most watchful tyranny would give them, they will yetcontrive to leave there. They know that their buried words are seeds, and though they lie long in the earth, they will yet spring up withtheir 'richer and bolder meanings, ' and publish on every breeze, theirboldest mystery. 

For let not men of narrower natures fancy that such action is notproper to the larger one, and cannot be historical. For there aredifferent _kinds_ of men, our _science_ of men tells us, and that isan unscientific judgment which omits 'the _particular addition_, thatbounteous nature hath closed in each, '--her 'addition to the bill thatwrites them all alike. ' For there is a kind of men 'whose minds areproportioned to that which may be dispatched at once, or within ashort return of time, and there is another kind, whose minds areproportioned to that which begins afar off, and is to be won withlength of pursuit, '--so the Coryphĉus of those choir that the latterkind compose, informs us, 'so that there may be fitly said to be a_longanimity_, which is commonly also ascribed to God as amagnanimity. '

And our English philosophers had to light what this one calls a new'Lamp of Tradition, ' before they could make sure of transmitting theirnew science, through such mediums as those that their time gave them;and a very gorgeous many-branched lamp it is, that the great Englishphilosopher brings out from that 'secret school of living Learning andliving Art' to which he secretly belongs, for the admiration of theprofessionally learned of his time, and a very lustrous one too, as itwill yet prove to be, when once it enters the scholar's apprehensionthat it was ever meant be lighted, when once the little movement thatturns on the dazzling jet is ordered. 

For we have all been so taken up with the Baconian _Logic_ hithertoand its wonderful effects in the relief of the human estate, that theBaconian RHETORIC has all this time escaped our notice; and nobodyappears to have suspected that there was anything in _that_ worthlooking at; any more than they suspect that there is anything in someof those other divisions which the philosopher himself lays so muchstress on his proposal for the Advancement of Learning, --in hisproposal for the advancement of it into _all_ the fields of humanactivity. But we read this proposition still, as James the First wasexpected to read it, and all these departments which are brought intothat general view in such a dry and formal and studiously scholasticmanner, appear to be put there merely to fill up a space; and becausethe general plan of this so erudite performance happened to includethem. 

For inasmuch as the real scope and main bearing of this proposition, though it is in fact _there_, is of course _not_ there, in any suchform as to attract the particular attention of the monarch to whoseeye the work is commended; and inasmuch as the new art of a scientificRhetoric is already put to its most masterly use in reserving thatmain design, for such as may find themselves able to receive it, ofcourse, the need of any such invention is not apparent on the surfaceof the work, and the real significance of this new doctrine of Art andits radical relation to the new science, is also reserved for thatclass of readers who are able to adopt the rules of interpretationwhich the work itself lays down. Because the real applications of theNew Logic could not yet be openly discussed, no one sees as yet, thatthere was, and had to be, a Rhetoric to match it. 

For this author, who was not any less shrewd than the one whosemethods we have just been observing a little, had also earlydiscovered in the great personages of his time, a disposition tomoderate his voice whenever he went to speak to them on matters ofimportance, in his natural key, for his voice too, was naturally loud, and high as he gives us to understand, though he '_could_ speak smalllike a woman'; he too had learned to take the tone _from the ear ofhim to whom he spake_, and he too had learned, that it was not enoughmerely to speak so as to make himself heard by those whom he wished toaffect. He also had learned to speak according to the affair he had inhand, according to the purpose which he wished to accomplish. He alsois of the opinion that different kinds of _audiences_ and different_times_, require different modes of speech, and though he found itnecessary to compose his works in the style and language of his owntime, he was confident that it was a language which would not remainin use for many ages; and he has therefore provided himself withanother, more to his mind which he has taken pains to fold carefullywithin the other, and one which lie thinks will bear the wear and tearof those revolutions that he perceives to be imminent. 

But in consequence of our persistent oversight of this Art ofTradition, on which he relies so much, (which is as fine an inventionof his, as any other of his inventions which we find ourselves so muchthe better for), that appeal to 'the times that are farther off, ' hasnot yet taken effect, and the audience for whom he chiefly laboured isstill 'deferred. '

This so noble and benign art which he calls, with his own naturalmodesty and simplicity, the Art of _Tradition_, this art which growsso truly noble and worthy, so distinctively human, in his clear, scientific treatment of it, --in his scientific clearance of it fromthe wildnesses and spontaneities of accident, or the superfluities andtrickery of an art without science, --that stops short of the ultimate, the human principle, --this so noble art of speech or tradition is, indeed, an art which this great teacher and leader of men will thinkit no scorn to labour: it is one on which, even such a teacher canfind time to stop; it is one which even such a teacher can stop tobuild from the foundation upwards, he will not care how splendidly; itis one on which he will spend without stint, and think it gain tospend, the wealth of his invention. 

But, at the same time, it is with him a _subordinate_ art. It has noworth or substance in itself; it borrows all its worth from that whichmasters and rigorously subdues it to its end. Here, too, we findourselves coming down on all its old ceremonial and observance, fromthat new height which we found our foreign philosopher in such quietpossession of, --taking his way at a puff through poor Cicero'speriods, --those periods which the old orator had taken so much painswith, and laughing at his pains:--but this English philosopher is moredaring still, for it is he who disposes, at a word, without anycomment, just in passing merely, --from his practical stand-point, --of'the flutes and trumpets of the Greeks, ' like the other making nothingat all in his theory of criticism of _mere_ elegance, though it is theGascon, it is true, who undertakes the more lively and extremepractical demonstrations of this theoretical contempt of it, --settingit at nought, and flying in the face of it, --writing in as loquaciousand homely a style as he possibly can, just for the purpose forsetting it at nought, though not without giving us a glimpseoccasionally, of a faculty that would enable him to mince the matteras fine as another if he should see occasion--as, perhaps, he may. Forhe talks very emphatically about his _poetry_ here and there, andseems to intimate that he has a gift that way; and that he has, moreover, some works of value in that department of letters, which heis anxious to 'save up' for posterity, if he can. But here, it is thescholar, and not the loquacious old gentleman at all, who is giving usin his choicest, selectest, courtliest phrase, in his most stately andcondensed style, _his_ views of this subject; but that which isnoticeable is, that _the art_ in its fresh, new upspringing from thesecret of life and nature, from the soul of _things_, the art and thatwhich it springs from, is in these two so different forms _identical_. Here, too, the point of its criticism and review is the same. 'Awaywith that eloquence that so enchants us with _its harmony_ that weshould more study it than _things_'; but here the old Roman mastersthe philosopher, for a moment, and he puts in a scholarly parenthesis, 'unless you will affirm that of Cicero to be of so supreme perfectionas to form _a body of itself_. '

But Hamlet, in his discourse with that wise reasoner, and unfortunatepractitioner, who thought that brevity was the soul of wit, andtediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, puts it more brieflystill. 

 _Polonius_. What do you read, my lord? _Hamlet_. Words, words, words!

'More matter, and less art, ' another says in that same treatise on artand speculation. Now inasmuch as this art and science derives all itsdistinction and lustre from that new light on the human estate ofwhich it was to be the vehicle, somebody must find the trick of it, soas to be able to bring out _that doctrine_ by its help, before we canbe prepared to understand the real worth of this invention. It wouldbe premature to undertake to set it forth fully, till that isaccomplished. There must be a more elaborate exhibition of thatscience, before the art of its transmission can be fully treated; wecannot estimate it, till we see how it strikes to the root of the newdoctrine, how it begins with its beginning, and reaches to its end: wecannot estimate it till we see its relation, its essential relation, to that new doctrine of the human nature, and that new doctrine ofstate, which spring from the doctrine of nature in general, which is_the_ doctrine, which is the beginning and the end of the new science. 

We find here on the surface, as we find everywhere in thiscomprehensive treatise, much apparent parade of division andsubdivision, and the author appears to lay much stress upon this, andseems disposed to pride himself upon his dexterity in chopping up thesubject as finely as possible, and keeping the parts quite clear ofone another; and sometimes, in his distributions, putting those pointsthe farthest apart which are the most nearly related, though not sofar, that they cannot 'look towards each other, ' though it may be, asthe other says, '_obliquely_. ' He evidently depends very much on hisarrangement, and seems, indeed, to be chiefly concerned about that, when he comes to the more critical parts of his subject. But it is to_the continuities_ which underlie these separations, to which hedirects the attention of those to whom he speaks in earnest, and notin particular cases only. '_Generally_, ' he says, '_let this be arule_, that all partitions of knowledge be accepted rather for LINESand VEINS, than for _sections_ and _separations_, and that _thecontinuance and entireness of knowledge_ be preserved. For the_contrary hereof_, ' he says, 'is that which has made PARTICULARSCIENCES BARREN, SHALLOW, and ERRONEOUS, while they have not beennourished and maintained from the _common_ fountain. ' For this is theONE SCIENCE, the deep, the true, the fruitful one, the fruitfulbecause the ONE. 

These lines, then, which he cautions us against regarding asdivisions, which are brought in with such parade of scholasticism, with such a profound appearance of artifice, will always be found bythose who have leisure to go below the surface, to be but theindications of those natural articulations and branches into which thesubject divides and breaks itself, and the conducting lines to thattrunk and heart of sciences, that common fountain from which all thisnew vitality, this sudden up-springing and new blossoming of learningproceeds, that fountain in which its flowers, as well as its fruits, and its thick leaves are nourished. 

Here in this Art of Tradition, which comprehends the whole subject ofthe human speech from the new ground of the common nature in man--that_double_ nature which tends to isolation on the one hand, and whichmakes him a part and a member of society on the other; we find ittreated, first, as a means by which men come simply to a commonunderstanding with each other, by which that _common ground_, thatground of _community_, and _communication_, and _identity_, which acommon _understanding_ in this kind makes, can be best reached; andnext we find it treated as a means by which _more than theunderstanding_ shall be reached, by which _the sentiment_, the _commonsentiment_, which also belongs to the larger nature, shall bestrengthened and developed, --by which the counteracting and partialsentiments shall be put in their place, and the _will_ compelled;whereby that common human form, which in its perfection is the objectof the human love and reverence shall be scientifically developed; bywhich the particular form with its diseases shall be artisticallydisciplined and treated. This Art of Tradition concerns, first, theunderstanding; and secondly, the affections and the will. As man isconstituted, it is not enough to convince his understanding. 

First, then, it is 'the organ' and 'method' of tradition; and next, itis what he calls the _illustration_ of it. First, the object is, tobring truth to the understanding in as clear and unobstructed a manneras the previous condition--as the diseases and pre-occupations of themind addressed will admit of, and next to bring all the other helpsand arts by which the sentiments are touched and the will mastered. First, he will speak true, or as true as they will let him; but it isnot enough to speak true. He must be able to speak sharply too, perhaps--or humorously, or touchingly, or melodiously, oroverwhelmingly, with words that burn. It is not enough, perhaps, toreach the ear of his auditor: 'peradventure' he too 'will also pierceit. ' It is not enough to draw diagrams in chalk on a black board inthis kind of mathematics, where the will and the affections are thepupils, and standing ready to defy axioms, prepared at any moment todemonstrate practically, that the part is greater than the whole, andface down the universe with it, 'murdering impossibility to make whatcannot be, slight work. ' It is not enough to have a tradition that is_clear_, or as clear a one as will pass muster with the government andwith the preconceptions of the people themselves. He must have apictured one--a pictorial, an illuminated one--a beautiful one, --hemust have what he calls an ILLUSTRATED TRADITION. 

'Why not, ' he says. He runs his eye over the human instrumentalities, and this art which we call _art--par excellence_, which he seessetting up for itself, or ministering to ignorance and error, andfeeding the diseased affections with 'the sweet that is their poison, 'he seizes on at once, in behalf of his science, and declares that itis her lawful property, 'her slave, born in her house, ' and fit fornothing in the world but to minister to her; and what is more, hesuits the action to the word--he brings the truant home, and reformsher, and sets her about her proper business. That is what he proposesto have done in his theory of art, and it is what he tells us he hasdone himself; and he has: there is no mistake about it. That is whathe means when he talks about his illustrated tradition of science--hisillustrated tradition of the science of HUMAN NATURE and its_differences_, _original_ and _acquired_, and the _diseases_ to whichit is liable, and the artificial growths which appertain to it. It isvery curious, that no one has seen this tradition--this illustratedtradition, or anything else, indeed, that was at all worthy of thisnew interpreter of mysteries, who goes about to this day as theinventor of a method which he was not able himself to put to anypractical use; an inventor who was obliged to leave his machine formen of a more quick and subtle genius, or to men of a more practicalturn of mind to manage, men who had a closer acquaintance with nature. 

That which is first to be noted in looking carefully at this draughtof a new Art of Tradition which the plan of the Advancement ofLearning includes, --that which the careful reader cannot fail to note, is the fact, that throughout all this most complete and radicalexhibition of the subject (for brief and casual as that exhibitionseems on the surface, the science and art from its root to itsoutermost branches, is there)--throughout all this exhibition, underall the superficial divisions and subdivisions of the subject, it isstill the method of PROGRESSION which is set forth here: under allthese divisions, there is still one point made; it is still the Art ofa Tradition which is designed to reserve the _secrets_ of science, andthe nobler arts of it, for the minds and ages that are able to receivethem. This new art of tradition, with its new organs and methods, andits living and beautiful illustration, when once we look through thenetwork of it to the unity within, this new rhetoric of science, is infact the instrument which the philosopher would substitute, if hecould, for those more cruel weapons which the men of his time wereready to take in hand; and it is the instrument with which he wouldforestall those yet more fearful political convulsions that alreadyseemed to his eye to threaten from afar the social structures ofChristendom; it is the beautiful and bloodless instrumentality wherebythe mind of the world is to be wrenched insensibly from its old placewithout 'breaking all. '

For neither does this author, any more than that other, who has beenquoted here on this point, think it wise for the philosopher to rushmadly out of his study with his EUREKA, and bawl to the first passerby in scientific terms the last result of his science, 'lording itover his ignorance' with what can be to him only a _magisterial_announcement. For what else but that can it be, for instance, to tellthe poor peasant, on his way to market, with his butter and eggs inhis basket, planting his feet on the firm earth without any qualms ormisgivings, and measuring his day by the sun's great toil andrejoicing race in heaven, what but this same magisterial teaching isit, to stop him, and tell him to his bewildered face that the sunnever rises or sets, and that the earth is but a revolving ball?Instead of giving him a truth you have given him a falsehood. You havebrought him a truth out of a sphere with which he is not conversant, which he cannot ascend to--whose truths he cannot translate into hisown, without jarring all. Either you have told him what must be to hima lie, or you have upset all his little world of beliefs with yourmagisterial doctrine, and confounded and troubled him to no purpose. 

But the Method of Progression, as set forth by Lord Bacon, requiresthat the new scientific truth shall be, not nakedly and flatly, butartistically exhibited; because, as he tells us, 'the great labour iswith the people, and this people who knoweth not the law are cursed. 'He will not have it exhibited in bare propositions, but translatedinto the people's dialect. He would not begin if he could--if therewere no political or social restriction to forbid it--by overthrowingon all points the popular belief, or wherever it differs from thescientific conclusion. It is a very different kind of philosophy thatproceeds in that manner. This is one which comprehends and respectsall actualities. The popular belief, even to its least absurdity 'issomething more than nothing in nature'; and the popular belief withall its admixture of error, is better than the half-truths of amisunderstood, untranslated science; better than these would be in itsplace. That truth of nature which it contains for those who are ableto receive it, and live by it, you would destroy for them, if youshould attempt to make them read it _prematurely_, in your language. Any kind of organism which by means of those adjustments andcompensations, with which nature is always ready to help out anythingreally hers, --any organism that is capable of serving as the means ofan historical social continuance, is already some gain on chaos andsocial dissolution; and is, perhaps, better than a series ofphilosophical experiments. The difficulty is not to overthrow thepopular errors, but to get something better in their place, he tellsus; and that there are men who have succeeded in the first attempt, and very signally failed in the second. Beautiful and vigorous unionsgrew up under the classic mythologies, that dissolved and went downfor ever, in the sunshine of the classic philosophies. For there weremore things in heaven and earth than were included in those last, ordreamt of in them. 

In your expurgation, of the popular errors, you must be sure that thetruth they contain, is in some form as strongly, as _effectively_composed in your text, or the popular error is truer and better thanthe truth with which you would replace it. This is a master who willhave no other kind of teaching in his school. His scholars must go sofar in their learning as to be able to come back to this popularbelief, and account for it and understand it; they must be as wise asthe peasant again, and be able to start with him, from his startingpoint, before they can get any diploma in this School of_Advancement_, or leave to practise in it. But when the old is alreadyruinous and decaying, and oppressing and keeping back the new, --whenthe vitality is gone out of it, and it has become deadly instead, whenthe new is struggling for new forms, the man of science though neverso conservative from inclination and principle, will not be wanting tohimself and to the state in this emergency. He 'loves the _fundamentalpart of state_ more' than in _such_ a crisis he will 'doubt the changeof it, ' and will not 'fear to jump a body with a dangerous physic, that's sure of death without it. '

First of all then, the condition of this lamp of tradition, that is toburn on for ages, is, that it shall be able to adapt itself to thesuccessive stages of the advancement it lights. It is the inevitablecondition of this school which begins with the present, which beginswith the people, which descends to the lowest stage of thecontemporary popular belief, and takes in the many-headed monsterhimself, without any trimming at all, for its audience, --it is thefirst condition of such a school, conducted by a man of science, thatit shall have its proper grades of courts and platforms, its selecterand selectest audiences. There must be landing places in the ascent, points of rendezvous agreed on, where 'the delicate collateral sounds'are heard, which only those who ascend can hear. There is nojar, --there is no forced advancement in this school; there is noupward step for any, who have not first been taught to see it, whohave not, indeed, already taken it. For it is an artist's school, andnot a pedant's, or a vague speculator's, who knows not how to convergehis speculation, even upon his mode of tradition. 

The founders of this school trust much in their general plan ofinstruction and relief, to the gradual advancement of a commonintelligence, by means of a scientific, but _concealed_ historicalteaching. They will teach their lower classes, their 'beginners, ' asgreat nature teaches--insensibly;--as great nature teaches--in theconcrete, 'in easy instances. ' For the secret of her method is thatwhich they have studied; that is the learning which they havemastered; the spirit of it, which is the poet's gift, the quickest, subtlest, most searching, most analytic, most synthetic spirit of it, is that with which great nature has endowed them. They will speak, asthey tell us, as the masters always have spoken from of old to themwho are without; they will 'open their mouths in parables, ' they will'utter their dark sayings on the harp. ' They know that men are alreadyprepared by nature's own instruction, to feel in a fact, --to receivein historical representations--truths which would startle them in theabstract, truths which they are not yet prepared to disengage from thehistorical combinations in which they receive them; though with everyrepetition, and especially with the pointed, selected, prolongedrepetition of the teacher, where the 'ILLUSTRIOUS INSTANCE' isselected and cleared of its extraneous incident, and made to enter themind alone, and pierce it with its principle, --with every suchrepetition, the step to that generalization and axiom becomesinsensibly shorter and more easy. They know that men are already wiserthan their teachers, in some--in many things; that they have all ofthem a great stock of incommunicative wisdom which all their teachershave not been able to make them give up, which they never will giveup, till the strong man, who is stronger, enters with his largerlearning out of the same book, with his mightier weapons out of thesame armory, and spoils their goods, or makes them old and worthless, by the side of the new, resplendent, magic wealth he brings with him. 

The new philosophy of nature has truths to teach which nature herselfhas already been teaching all men, with more or less effect, miscellaneously, and at odd hours, ever since they were born; and thisphilosopher gives a large place in his history, to that vulgar, practical human wisdom, which all the books till his time had been oftoo high a strain to glance at. But 'art is a second nature, andimitateth that dextrously and compendiously, which nature performs byambages and length of time. ' The scientific interpreter of nature willselect, and unite, and teach continuously, and pointedly, in grand, ideal, representative fact, in 'prerogative instances, ' that whichnature has but faintly and unconsciously impressed with her method;for he has a scientific organum, and what is more, --a great deal more, a thousand times more, --he has the scientific genius that invented it. His soul is a Novum Organum--his mind is a table of rejections thatsifts the historic masses, and brings out the instances that are tohis purpose, the bright, bold instances that flame forth the doubtfultruth, that tell their own story and need no interpreter, the highideal instances that talk in verse because it is their native tongueand they can no other. He has found, --or rather nature lent it to him, the universal historic solvent, and the dull, formless, miscellaneousfacts of the common human experience, spring up in magic orders, inbeautiful, transparent, scientific continuities, as they arrangethemselves by the laws of his thinking. 

For the truth is, and it must be said here, and not here only, buteverywhere, wherever there is a chance to say it, --that Novum Organumwas not made to examine the legs of spiders with, or the toes of 'thegrandfather-long-legs, ' or any of their kindred; though of course itis susceptible of such an application, when it falls into the hands ofpersons whose genius inclines them in those directions; and it is ause, that the inventor would not have disdained to put it to himself, if he had had time, and if his attention had not been so muchdistracted by the habits and history of that 'nobler kind of vermin, 'which he found feeding on the human weal in his time, and eating outthe heart of it. This man was not a fool, but a man. He was anaturalist indeed, of the newest and highest style, but that did nothinder his being a man at the same time. He and his company were thefirst that set the example of going, deliberately, and on principle, out of the human nature for knowledge; but it was that they mightre-return with better axioms for the culture, and nobility, and swayof _that form_, which, 'though it be but a part in the continent ofnature, ' is as this one openly declares, '_the end_ and _term_ ofNATURAL PHILOSOPHY, _in the intention_ of MAN. ' His science includedthe humblest and least agreeable of nature's performances; his NovumOrganum was able to take up the smallest conceivable atom ofexistence, whether animate or not, and make a study of it. He has nodisrespect for caterpillars or any kind of worm or insect; but he isnot a caterpillar himself, or an insect of any kind, or a Saurian, oran Icthyosaurian, but a man; and it was for the sake of building upfrom a new basis a practical doctrine of human life, that he inventedthat instrument, and put so much fine work upon it. 

With his 'PREROGATIVE INSTANCES, ' he will build height after height, the solid, but imperceptible stair-way to his summit of knowledges, sothat men shall tread its utmost floors without knowing what heightsthey are--even as they tread great nature's own solidities, withoutinquiring her secret. 

The shrewd unlearned man of practice shall take that great book ofnature, that illustrated digest of it, on his knees, to while away hisidle hours with, in rich pastime, and smile to see there, all writtenout, that which he faintly knew, and never knew that he knew before;he will find there in sharp points, in accumulations, and percussions, that which his own experience has at length wearily, dimly, worked andworn into him. It is his own experience, exalted indeed, andglorified, but it is that which beckons him on to that which is yetbeyond it; he shall read on, and smile, and laugh, and weep, andwonder at the power; but never dream that it is science, the newscience--the science of nature--the product of the new organum of itapplied to _human_ nature, and _human_ life. The abstract statement ofthat which the concrete exhibition veils, is indeed always there, though it lie never so close, in never so snug a corner; but it isthere so artistically environed, that the reader who is not ready forit, who has not learned to disengage the principle from the instance, who has had no hint of an _illustrated tradition_ in it, will neversee it; or if he sees it, he will think it is there by accident, orinspiration, and pass on. 

Here, in this open treatise upon the art of delivering and teaching ofknowledge, the author lays down, in the most impressive terms, thenecessity of a style which shall serve as a _veil_ of tradition, imperceptible or impenetrable to the uninitiated, and admitting 'onlysuch as have by the help of a master, attained to the interpretationof dark sayings, or are able by their own genius to enter within theveil'; and after having distributed under many heads, the secret ofthis method of scientific communication, he asserts distinctly thatthere is no other mode of dealing with the popular belief andpreconception, but the one just described--that same method which theteachers of the people have always instinctively adopted, wheneverthat which was new and contrary to the received doctrines, was to becommunicated. 'For a man of judgment, ' he says, 'must, of course, perceive, that there should be a difference in the teaching anddelivery of knowledge, according to the _presuppositions, which hefinds infused and impressed upon the mind of the learner_. For _thatwhich is new and foreign from opinions received_, is to be deliveredin ANOTHER FORM, from that which is _agreeable and familiar_. And, therefore, Aristotle, when he says to Democritus, "if we shall indeed_dispute_ and _not_ follow after _similitudes_, " as if he would taxDemocritus with being too full of _comparisons_, where he thought toreprove, really commended him. ' There is no use in disputing in such acase, he thinks. 'For those whose doctrines are already _seated_ inpopular opinion, have only to dispute or prove; but those whosedoctrines are beyond the popular opinions, have a _double labour_; theone to make themselves conceived, and the other to prove anddemonstrate; so that it is of _necessity with them to have recourse tosimilitudes_ AND TRANSLATIONS _to express themselves_. And, therefore, in the _infancy of learning_, and in rude times, when thoseconceptions which are now trivial, were then new, _the world was fullof parables and similitudes_, for else would men either have passedover _without mark, or else_ REJECTED FOR PARADOXES, that which wasoffered _before they had understood or judged_. So in divine learning, we see how frequent parables and tropes are, for it _is a rule in thedoctrine of delivery, that every science_ which is _not consonant withpresuppositions and prejudices_, must pray in aid of _similes_ and_allusions_. '

The true master of the art of teaching will vary his method too, hetells us according to the _subject_ which he handles, --and the readershould note particularly the illustration of this position, theinstance of this general necessity, which the author selects for thesake of pointing his meaning here, for it is here--preciselyhere--that we begin to touch the heart of that new method which thenew science itself prescribed, --'the true teacher will vary his methodaccording to the subject which he handles, ' for there is a greatdifference in the delivery of _mathematics_, which are the mostabstracted of sciences, and POLICY, which is the _most immersed_, andthe opinion that 'uniformity of method, in multiformity of matter, isnecessary, ' has proved very hurtful to learning, for it tends toreduce learning to certain _empty_ and _barren_--note it, --_barren_--'generalities;'--(so important is the method as _that_; that it makesthe difference between the fruitful and the barren, between the oldand the new) 'being but the very _husks_ and _shells_ of sciences, all the _kernel_ being forced out and expressed with the torture andpress of the method; and, _therefore_, as I did allow well of_particular topics_ for invention'--_therefore_--his science requireshim to go into particulars, and as the necessary consequence of that, it requires freedom--_'therefore'_--as I did allow well of particular_topics of invention, 'so_ do I allow likewise of _particular methodsof tradition_. ' Elsewhere, --in his Novum Organum--he quotes thescientific outlines and divisions of this very book, he quotes thevery draught and outline of the new human science, which is theprincipal thing in it, and tells us plainly that he is perfectly awarethat those new divisions, those essential differences, those true andradical forms in nature, which he has introduced here, in his doctrineof _human_ nature, will have no practical effect at all, as they areexhibited _here_; because they _are_ exhibited in this method which heis here criticising, that is, in empty and barren abstractions, --because it was impossible for him to produce here anything but the_husks_ and _shells_ of that principal science, all the kernel beingforced out and expulsed with the torture and press of the method. But, at the same time, he gives us to understand, that these sameshells and husks may be found in another place, with the kernels and_nuts_ in them, and that he has not taken so much pains to let us seein so many places, what new forms of delivery the new philosophy willrequire, merely for the sake of letting us see, at the same time, thatwhen it came to _practice_, he himself stood by the old ones, andcontented himself with barren abstractions, and generalities, thehusks and shells of sciences, instead of aiming at particulars, andavailing himself of these '_particular methods of tradition_. '

He takes also this occasion to recommend a method which was foundextremely serviceable at that time; namely, the method of teaching byaphorism, 'without any _show_ of an art or method; not merely becauseit tries the author, since aphorisms being made out of the _pith_ and_heart_ of sciences, _no man can write them who is not sound andgrounded_, ' who has not a system with its trunk and root, though hemakes no show of it, but buries it and shows you here and there thepoints on the surface that are apt to look as if they had someunderlying connection--not only because it tries the author, _butbecause they point to action_; for particulars being dispersed, dobest agree with dispersed directions; and, moreover, aphorismsrepresenting a BROKEN KNOWLEDGE, invite men _to inquire farther_, whereas methods, _carrying the show of a total_, do secure men as _ifthey were at farthest_, and it is the _advancement_ of learning thathe is proposing. 

He suggests again, distinctly here, the rule he so often claims he hashimself put in practice, elsewhere, that the use of CONFUTATION in thedelivery of science, ought to be very sparing; and to serve to removestrong _preoccupations_ and _prejudgments_, and not to minister andexcite disputations and doubts. For he says in another place, 'AsAlexander Borgia was wont to say of the expedition of the French forNaples, that they came with _chalk_ in their hands, _to mark up theirlodgings_, and not with _weapons to fight_, so _I_ like better thatentry of truth which cometh peaceably, with chalk to mark up thoseminds, which are capable to lodge and harbour it, than that whichcometh with pugnacity and contention. '

He alludes here too, in passing, to some other distinctions of method, which are already received, that of ANALYSIS and _synthesis_, orCONSTITUTION, that of _concealment_, or CRYPTIC, which he says 'heallows well of, though he has himself stood upon those which are leasthandled and observed. ' He brings out his doctrine of the necessity ofa method which shall include _particulars_ for _practical_ purposesalso, under another head: here it is the limit of _rules_, --thepropositions or precepts of _arts_ that he speaks of, and the _degree_of particularity which these precepts ought to descend to. 'For everyknowledge, ' he says, 'may be fitly said to have a latitude andlongitude, accounting the latitude towards _other sciences_' (forthere are rules and propositions of such latitude as to include allarts, all sciences)--'and the longitude towards action, that is, fromthe greatest generality, to the most particular precept: and as to thedegree of particularity to which a knowledge should descend, ' thoughsomething must, of course, be left in all departments to thediscretion of the practitioner, he thinks it is a question which willbear looking into in a general way; and that it might be possible tohave rules in all departments, which would limit very much thenecessity of individual experiment, and not leave us so much at themercy of individual discretion in the most serious matters. Philosophy, as he finds it, does not appear to be very helpful topractice, on account of its keeping to those general propositions, somuch, as well as on some other accounts, and has fallen into badrepute, it seems, among men who find it necessary to make, withoutscience, as they best can, rules of some sort;--rules that are capableof dealing with that quality in particulars which is apt to be called_obstinacy_ in this aspect of it. 'For we see remote and superficialgeneralities do but offer knowledge to scorn of practical men, and areno more aiding to practice, than an Ortelius's _universal map_ is todirect the way between London and York. ' And what is this itself but auniversal map, this map of the advancement of learning?

All this doctrine of the tradition of sciences, he produces under thehead of the _method_ of their tradition, but in speaking of the_organ_ of it, he treats it _exclusively_ as the medium of traditionfor _those sciences which require_ CONCEALMENT, or admit only of asuggestive exhibition. And as he makes, too, the claim that he hashimself given practical proof, in passing, of his proficiency in thisart, and appeals to the skilful for the truth of this statement, thepassage, at least, in which this assertion is made, will be likely torepay the inquiry which it invites. 

He begins by drawing our attention to the fact, that words are not theonly representatives of things, and he says 'this is not aninconsiderable thing, _for while we are treating of the coin ofintellectual_ matters, _it is_ pertinent to observe, that as money maybe made of other materials besides gold and silver, so other marks ofthings may be invented besides words and letters. ' And by way ofillustrating the advantages of such a means of tradition, undercertain disadvantages of position, he adduces as much in point, thecase of Periander, who being consulted how to preserve a tyranny_newly usurped_, bid the messenger _attend_ and _report what he sawhim do_, and went into his garden and _topped all the highestflowers_; signifying that it consisted in the cutting off and keepinglow of the nobility and grandees. And thus other apparently trivial, purely purposeless and sportive actions, might have a traditionarycharacter of no small consequence, if the messenger were only given tounderstand beforehand, that the acts thus performed were axiomatical, pointing to rules of practice, that the forms were representativeforms, whose '_real_' exhibition of the particular natures inquestion, was much more vivid and effective, much more memorable aswell as _safe_, than any abstract statement of that philosophic truth, which is the truth of direction, could be. 

As to the '_accidents_ of words, which are measure, sound, andelevation of accent, and the sweetness and harshness of them, ' evenhere the new science suggests a new rule, which is not without aremarkable relation to _that 'particular method of tradition_, ' whichthe author tells us in another place, some parts of his new sciencerequired. 'This subject, ' he says, 'involves some curious observationsin rhetoric, but chiefly POESY, as we consider it in respect of theverse, and _not of the argument_; wherein, though men in learnedtongues do tie themselves to _the ancient measures_, yet in modernlanguages it seemeth to me as free to make _new measures of verses asof dances_. ' The spirit of the new philosophy had a chance to speakout there for once, without intending, of course, to transcend thatparticular limit just laid down, namely, the measure of _verses_, andwith that literal limitation, to the form of the verse, the remark issufficiently suggestive; for he brings out from it at the next step, in the way of formula, the new principle, the new Shaksperianprinciple of rhetoric: _In these things_ the sense is better judgethan the art. And of the servile expressing antiquity in an unlike andan unfit subject, it is well said:--'_Quod tempore antiquum videtur, id incongruitate est maxime novum_. ''

But when he comes to speak specifically of _writing_ as a means oftradition, he confines his remarks to that particular kind of writing, which is agreed on betwixt particular persons, and called by the nameof _cipher_, giving excellent reasons for this proceeding, impertinentas it may seem, to those who think that his only object is to make outa list and 'muster-roll of the arts and sciences';--stopping to tellus plainly that he knows what he is about, and that he has not broughtin '_these private and retired arts_, ' with so much stress, and underso many heads, in connection with 'the principal and supremesciences, ' and _the mode of their tradition_, without having someoccasion for it. 

'Ciphers are commonly in letters, or alphabets, but _may be_ inwords, ' he says, proceeding to enumerate the different kinds, andfurnishing on the spot, some pretty specimens of what may be done inthe way of that kind which he calls 'doubles, ' a kind which he isparticularly fond of; one hears again the echo of those delicate, collateral sounds, which our friend, over the mountains, warned us of, declining to say any more about them in that place. In the lateredition, he takes occasion to say, in this connection, 'that aswriting in the received manner no way obstructs the _manner ofpronunciation_, but leaves that _free_, an innovation in it is of nopurpose. ' And if a cipher be the proper name for a private method ofwriting, agreed on betwixt particular persons, it is certainly thename for the method which he proposes to adopt in _his_ tradition ofthe principal sciences; as he takes occasion to inform those whom itmay concern, in an early portion of the work, and when he is occupiedin the critical task of putting down some of the primary terms. 'Idoubt not, ' he says, by way of explanation, 'but it will easily appearto men of judgment, that in _this_ and _other particulars_, wheresoever _my conception and notion may differ from the ancient, Iam studious to keep the ancient terms_. ' Surely there is no want offrankness here, so far as the men of judgment are concerned at least. And after condemning those innovators who have taken a differentcourse, he says again, 'But to me on the other side that do desire asmuch as lieth in _my pen_, to ground a sociable intercourse betweenantiquity and _proficience_, it seemeth best to keep way withantiquity _usque ad aras_; and therefore to _retain the ancient_TERMS, though I sometimes alter the _uses and definitions_, accordingto the moderate proceeding in civil government, where, although therebe some alteration, yet that holdeth which Tacitus _wisely_ noteth'eadem magistratuum vocabula. ' Surely that is plain enough, especiallyif one has time to take into account the force and historic reach ofthat last illustration, 'eadem magistratuum vocabula. '

In the later and enlarged edition of his work, he lays much stressupon the point that the cipher 'should be free from suspicion, ' for hesays, 'if a letter should come into the hands of such as have a powerover the writer or receiver, though the cipher itself be trusty andimpossible to decipher, it is still subject to _examination_ and_question_, and (as he says himself), 'to _avoid all suspicion_, ' heintroduces there a cipher in _letters_, which he invented in his youthin Paris, 'having the highest perfection of a cipher, that ofsignifying _omnia per omnia_;' and for the same reason perhaps, thatof 'avoiding all suspicion, ' he quite omits there that very remarkablepassage in the earlier work, in which he treats it as a medium of_tradition_, and takes pains to intimate his reasons for producing itin that connection, _with the principal and supreme sciences_. If itwas, indeed, any object with him to avoid suspicion, and recentdisclosures had then, perhaps, tended to sharpen somewhat thecontemporary criticism; he _did well_, unquestionably, to omit thatpassage. But at the time when _that_ was written, he appears to bechiefly inclined to notice the remarkable facilities, which this styleoffers to an inventive genius. For he says, 'in regard of the rawnessand unskilfulness of _the hands through which they pass_, the greatestmatters, are sometimes carried in the _weakest ciphers_. ' And thatthere may be no difficulty or mistake as to the reading of thatpassage, he immediately adds, 'In the enumeration of these private andretired arts, it may be thought I _seek to make a great muster-roll ofsciences_, naming them for _show_ and _ostentation_, and _to littleother purpose_. But'--note it--'But, let those which are _skilful inthem judge, whether I bring them in only for appearance_, or whether, in that which I speak of them, though in few words, there be not _someseed of proficience_. And this must be remembered, that as there bemany of great account in their countries and provinces, which, whenthey come up to the _seat of the estate_, are but of mean rank, andscarcely regarded; so these arts, ("these private and retired arts, ")being here placed _with the principal and supreme sciences, seem_petty things, YET TO SUCH AS HAVE CHOSEN THEM TO SPEND THEIR LABOURSAND STUDIES IN THEM, THEY SEEM GREAT MATTERS. ("Let those which areskilful in them, judge (after that) whether I bring them in only forappearance" or to _little_ other purpose). '

That apology would seem sufficient, but we must know what theselabours and studies are, before we can perceive the _depth_ of it. Andif we have the patience to follow him but a step or two further, weshall find ourselves in the way of some very direct and accurateinformation, as to that. For we are coming now, in the order of thework we quote from, to that very part, which contains the point of allthese labours and studies, the _end_ of them, --that part to which thescience of nature in general, and the secret of this art of tradition, was a necessary _introduction_. [For this Art of Tradition makes thelink between the new Logic and the application of it to _Human_ Natureand Human Life. ]

Thus far, this art has been treated as a means of simply_transferring_ knowledge, in such forms as the conditions of theAdvancement of Learning prescribe, --forms adapted to the differentstages of mental advancement, commencing with the lowest range of thecommon opinion in his time, --starting with the contemporary opinionsof the majority, and reserving 'the secrets of knowledge, ' for such asare able to receive them. Thus far, it is the Method, and the Organ ofthe tradition of which he has spoken. But it is when he comes to speakof what he calls the _Illustration_ of it, that the convergency of hisdesign begins to be laid open to us, for this work is not what it mayseem on the surface, as he takes pains to intimate to us--a 'meremuster-roll of sciences. '

It is when he comes to tell us that he will have his 'truth in beautydyed, ' that he does not propose to have the new learning left in theform of argument and logic, or in the form of bare scientific fact, that he does not mean to appeal with it to the _reason_ only; that hewill have it in a form in which it will be able to attract and alluremen, and make them in love with it, a form in which it will be able toforce its way into the will and the affections, and make a lodgementin the hearts of men, long ere it is able to reach the judgment;--itis not till he begins to bring out here, his new doctrine of the trueend of rhetoric, and the use to which it ought to be put insubordination to science, that we begin to perceive the significanceof the arrangement which brings this theory of an Illustrated Art ofTradition into immediate connection with the new science of humannature and human life which the Author is about to constitute, --so asto serve as an introduction to it--the arrangement which interposesthis art of Tradition, between the New Logic and its application toHuman Nature and Human Life--to POLICY and MORALITY. 

He will not consent to have this so _powerful_ engine of popularinfluence, which the ĉsthetic art seems, to his eye, to offer, leftout, in his scheme of scientific instrumentalities: he will not passit by scornfully, as some other philosophers have done, treating itmerely as a voluptuary art. He will have of it, something which shalldiffer, not in degree only, but in kind, from the art of theconfectioner. 

He begins by stating frankly his reasons for making so much of it inthis grave treatise, which is what it professes to be, a treatise onLearning and its Advancement. 'For although, ' he says, 'in true value, it is inferior to _wisdom_, as it is said by God to Moses, when hedisabled himself for want of this faculty, "Aaron shall be thy_speaker_, and thou shalt be to him as God;" _yet with people_ it isthe more _mighty_, and it is just that which is mighty with thepeople--which he tells us in another place--is wanting. "For thispeople who knoweth not _the law_ are cursed. "' But here he continues, 'for so Solomon saith, "Sapiens corde appellabitur prudens, sed dulciseloquio majora reperiet;" signifying that profoundness of wisdom willhelp a man to a name or admiration, '--(it is something more than thatwhich he is proposing as _his_ end)--'but that it is eloquence--whichprevails in _active life_;' so that the very movement which broughtphilosophy down to earth, and put her upon reforming the practicallife of men, was the movement which led her to assume, notinstinctively, only, but by theory, and on principle, this new andbeautiful apparel, this deep disguise of pleasure. She comes into thecourt with her case, and claims that this Art, which has been treatedhitherto as if it had some independent rights and laws of its own, isproperly a subordinate of hers; a chattel gone astray, and setting upfor itself as an art voluptuary. 

Works on rhetorics are not wanting, the author reports. Antiquity haslaboured much in this field. Notwithstanding, he says, there issomething to be done here too, and the Elizabethan ĉsthetics must bebegun also in the _prima philosophia_. 'Notwithstanding, ' hecontinues, 'to stir the earth a little about the _roots_ of thisscience, as we have done of the rest; the duty and office of Rhetoricis to apply _reason to imagination for the better moving of_ THE WILL;for we see reason is disturbed in the administration of the will bythree means; by sophism, which pertains to logic; by imagination orimpression, which pertains to rhetoric; and by passion or affection, which pertains to morality. ' So in this negotiation within ourselves, men are _undermined_ by inconsequences, _solicited and importuned_ byimpressions and observations, and _transported_ by _passions_. Neitheris the nature of man so unfortunately built, as that these _powers andarts_ should have force to _disturb_ reason and not to _establish_ and_advance_ it. For the end of logic is to teach a form of logic tosecure reason, not to entrap it. The end of morality is to procure theaffections to obey reason, and not to invade it. The _end_ of rhetoricis to _fill the imagination_ to second reason, and not to _oppress_it. For these abuses of arts come in but _ex obliquo_ for caution. 

That is the real original English doctrine of Art:--that is thedoctrine of the age of Elizabeth, at least, as it stands in thatqueen's English, and though it may be very far from being orthodox atpresent, it is the doctrine which must determine the rule of anysuccessful interpretation of works of art composed on that theory. 'And, therefore, ' he proceeds to say, 'it was great injustice inPlato, though springing out of a just hatred of the rhetoricians ofhis time, to esteem of rhetoric but as a voluptuary art, resembling itto cookery that did mar wholesome meats, and help unwholesome, byvariety of sauces _to the pleasure of the taste_. ' 'And therefore, asPlato said eloquently, "That virtue, if she could be seen, would movegreat love and affection, so, seeing that she cannot be showed to thesense by corporal shape, the next degree is to show her to theimagination _in lively representation_": _for_ to show her to _reasononly_, in _subtilty of argument_ was a thing ever deridedin--_Chrysippus and many of the Stoics--who thought to thrust virtueupon men_ by _sharp disputations and conclusions, which have nosympathy with the will of man_. '

'Again, if the affections in themselves were pliant and obedient toreason, it were true there should be no great use of persuasions andinjunctions to the will, more than of _naked propositions and proofs;_but in regard of the continual mutinies and seditions of theaffections, Video meliora proboque Deteriora sequor;

'Reason would become captive and servile, if eloquence of persuasionsdid not practise and win the imagination from the affections part, andcontract a confederacy between the reason and the imagination, againstthe affections; for _the affections themselves_ carry ever an appetiteto _good_, as reason doth. _The difference is_'--mark it--'thedifference is, that the affection beholdeth merely _the present;reason_ beholdeth the future and _sum_ of time. And therefore thepresent _filling the imagination most_, reason is commonly vanquished;but after that force of eloquence and persuasion hath made thingsfuture and remote, _appear as present_, then, _upon the revolt of theimagination reason prevaileth_. ' Not less important than that is thisart in his scheme of learning. No wonder that the department oflearning which he refers to the imagination should take that primeplace in his grand division of it, and be preferred deliberately andon principle to the two others. 

'Logic differeth from Rhetoric chiefly in this, that logic handlethreason exact and in truth, and rhetoric handleth it as it is plantedin popular opinions and manners. And therefore _Aristotle_ doth_wisely_ place rhetoric as between logic on the one side, and moral orcivil knowledge on the other, (and when we come to put together theworks of this author, we shall find that _that_ and none other is theplace it takes in _his_ system, that that is just the bridge it makesin his plan of operations. )' The proofs and demonstrations of logic_are towards all men indifferent and the same_: but the proofs andpersuasions of rhetoric _ought to differ according to the auditors_. 

 Orpheus in sylvis inter delphinas Arion. 

Which application, in perfection of idea, ought to extend so far, thatif a man should speak of _the same thing to several persons_, heshould speak to them _all respectively, and several ways_; and therewas a great folio written on this plan which came out in those daysdedicated 'to the Great Variety of Readers. From the most able to himthat can but spell'; (this is just the doctrine, too, which theContinental philosopher sets forth we see);--though this '_politic_part of eloquence in private speech, ' he goes on to say here, 'it iseasy for the greatest orators _to want; whilst by observing their wellgraced forms of speech, they lose the volubility_ of APPLICATION; and_therefore_ it shall not be _amiss_ to recommend this _to betterinquiry_, not being curious whether we place it here, or in that partwhich concerneth _policy. _'

Certainly one would not be apt to infer from that decided preferencewhich the author himself manifests here for those stately andwell-graced forms of speech, judging _merely_ from the style of thisperformance at least, one would not be inclined to suspect that hehimself had ever been concerned in any literary enterprises, or waslike to be, in which that _volubility_ of application which he appearsto think desirable, was successfully put in practice. But we mustremember, that he was just the man who was capable of conceiving of a_variety_ of _styles adapted to different exigencies_, if we wouldhave the key to this style in particular. 

But we must look a little at these labours and studies themselves, which required such elaborate and splendid arts of delivery, if wewould fully satisfy ourselves, as to whether this author really hadany purpose after all in bringing them in here beyond that of mereostentation, and for the sake of completing his muster-roll of thesciences. Above, we see an intimation, that the divisions of thesubject are, after all, not so 'curious' but that the inquiry mightpossibly be resumed again in other connections, and in the particularconnection specified, namely, in that part which concerneth _Policy_. 

In that which follows, the new science of human nature and humanlife--which is the end and term of this treatise, we are told--isbrought out under the two heads of Morality and Policy; and it isnecessary to look into _both_ these departments in order to find whatapplication he was proposing to make of this art and science ofTradition and Delivery, and in order to see what place--what vitalplace it occupied in his system. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE SCIENCE OF POLICY. 

 'Policy is the most immersed. '--_Advancement of Learning_. 

Reversing the philosophic order, we glance first into that newdepartment of science which the author is here boldly undertaking toconstitute under the above name, because in this his own practicaldesigns, and rules of proceeding, are more clearly laid open, and theplace which is assigned in his system to that radical science, forwhich these arts of Delivery and Tradition are chiefly wanting, isdistinctly pointed out. 

And, moreover, in this department of Policy itself, in marking out oneof the grand divisions of it, we find him particularly noticing, andopenly insisting on, the form of delivery and inculcation which thenew science must take here, that is, if it is going to be at allavailable as a science of practice. 

In this so-called plan for the advancement of learning, the authorproceeds, as we all know, by noticing _the deficiencies_ in humanlearning as he finds it; and everywhere it is that radical deficiency, which leaves human life and human conduct in the dark, while thephilosophers are busied with their controversies and wordyspeculations. And in that part of his inventory where he puts down aswanting a science of practice in those every-day affairs andincidents, in which the life of man is most conversant, embodyingaxioms of practice that shall save men the wretched mistakes andblunders of which the individual life is so largely made up; blunderswhich are inevitable, so long as men are left here, to natural humanignorance, to uncollected individual experience, or to the shrewdestempiricism;--in this so original and interesting part of the work, hetakes pains to tell us at length, that that which he has before putdown under the head of '_delivery_' as a point of form and method, becomes here essential as a point of substance also. It is not merelythat he will have his axioms and precepts of direction digested fromthe facts, instead of being made out of the teacher's own brains, buthe will have THE FACTS themselves, in all their stubbornness andopposition to the teacher's preconceptions, for the body of thediscourse, and the precepts accommodated thereto, instead of havingthe precepts for the body of the discourse, and the facts brought into wait upon them. That is the form of the practical doctrine. 

He regrets that this part of a true learning has not been collectedhitherto into writing, to the great derogation of learning, and theprofessors of learning; for from this proceeds the popular opinionwhich has passed into an adage, that there is no great concurrencebetween wisdom and learning. The deficiency here is well nigh total hesays: 'but for the wisdom of business, wherein man's life is mostconversant, there be no books of it, except some few scatteredadvertisements, that have no proportion to the _magnitude of thesubject_. For if books were written of this, as of the other, I doubtnot but _learned men_ with _mean experience_ would far excel men of_long experience without learning_, and _outshoot them with their ownbow_. Neither need it be thought that this knowledge is too variableto fall under precept, ' he says; and he mentions the fact, that in oldRome, so renowned for practical ability, in its wisest and saddesttimes, there were professors of this learning, that were known forGENERAL WISE MEN, who used to walk at certain hours in the place, andgive _advice_ to private citizens, who came to consult with them ofthe _marriage_ of _a daughter_, for instance, or the _employing_ of _ason_, or of _an accusation_, or of a _purchase or bargain_, and _everyother occasion incident to man's life_. There is a pretty scheme laidout truly. Have _we_ any general wise man, or ghost of one, who walksup and down at certain hours and gives advice on such topics? Howeverthat may be, this philosopher does not despair of such a science. 'So, ' he says, commenting on that Roman custom, 'there is a wisdom ofcouncil and advice, even in private cases, arising out of a universal_insight into the affairs_ of _the world_, which is _used_ indeed upon_particular cases propounded_, but is gathered by general_observation_ of _cases_ of _like nature_. ' And fortifying himselfwith the example of Solomon, after collecting a string of texts fromthe Sacred Proverbs, he adds, 'though they are capable, of course, ofa more divine interpretation, taking them as instructions for life, they might have received large discourse, if he would have _brokenthem_ and _illustrated them_, by deducements and examples. Nor wasthis in use with the Hebrews only, but it is generally to be found inthe wisdom of the more ancient times, that as men found out anyobservation that they thought was _good for life_, they would gatherit, and express it in _parable_, or _aphorism_, or _fable_. '

But for _fables_, they were vicegerents and supplies, _where examplesfailed_. Now that the times abound with history, THE AIM IS BETTERWHEN THE MARK IS ALIVE. And, therefore, he recommends as the form ofwriting, 'which is of all others fittest for this variable argument, discourses upon histories and examples: for knowledge drawn freshly, _and in our view_, out of particulars, _knoweth the way best toparticulars again_; and it hath much greater life _for practice_, when_the discourse attendeth upon the example_, than when the exampleattendeth upon the discourse. For this is no point of order as itseemeth at first' (indeed it is not, it is a point as substantial asthe difference between the old learning of the world and thenew)--'this is no point of order, but of substance. For when theexample is the _ground_ being set down in a history at large, it isset down with all circumstances, which may _sometimes control_ thediscourse thereupon made, and sometimes supply it as _a very patternfor action_; whereas the examples which are alleged _for thediscourse's sake_, are cited succinctly and without _particularity_, and carry a _servile aspect_ towards the discourse which they arebrought in to make good. '

The question of method is here, as we see, incidentally introduced;but it is to be noted, and it makes one of the rules for theinterpretation of that particular kind of style which is underconsideration, that in this casual and secondary introduction of asubject, we often get shrewder hints of the author's real intentionthan we do in those parts of the work where it is openly anddistinctly treated; at least, these scattered and apparentlyaccidental hints, --these dispersed directions, often contain the keyfor the 'second' reading, which he openly bespeaks for the more openand elaborate discussion. 

And thus we are able to collect, from every part of this proposal fora practical and progressive human learning, based on the defects ofthe unpractical and stationary learning which the world has hithertobeen contented with, the author's opinion as to the form of deliveryand inculcation best adapted to effect the proposed object under thegiven conditions. This question of form runs naturally through thewhole work, and comes out in specifications of a very particular andsignificant kind under some of its divisions, as we shall see. Buteverywhere we find the point insisted on, which we have just seen soclearly brought out, in the department which was to contain the axiomsof success in private life. Whatever the particular form may be, everywhere we come upon this general rule. Whatever the particularform may be, everywhere it is to be one in which the facts shall havethe precedence, and the conclusions shall follow; and not one in whichthe conclusions stand first, and the facts are brought in to make themgood. And this very circumstance is enough of itself to show that theform of this new doctrine will be thus far new, as new as the doctrineitself; that the new learning will be found in some form verydifferent, at least, from that which the philosophers and professedteachers were then making use of in their didactic discourses, in someform so much more lively than that, and so much less oracular, that itwould, perhaps, appear at first, to those accustomed only to theother, not to be any kind of learning at all, but something verydifferent from that. 

But this is not the only point in the general doctrine of deliverywhich we find produced again in its specific applications. Through allthe divisions of this discourse on Learning, and not in that part ofit only in which the Art of its Tradition is openly treated, we findthat the prescribed form of it is one which will adapt it to thepopular preconceptions; and that it must be a form which will make itnot only universally acceptable, but universally attractive; that itis not only a form which will throw open the gates of the new schoolto all comers, but one that will bring in mankind to its benches. Notunder the head of Method only, or under the head of Delivery andTradition, but in those parts of the work in which the substance ofthe new learning is treated, we find dispersed intimations andpositive assertions, that the form of it is, at the same time, popularand enigmatical, --not openly philosophical, and not 'magisterial, '--but insensibly didactic; and that it is, in its principal andhigher departments--in those departments on which this plan forthe human relief concentrates its forces--essentially POETICAL. Thatis what we find in the body of the work; and the author repeatsin detail what he has before made a point of telling us, in general, under this head of Delivery and Tradition of knowledge, that hesees no reason why that same instrument, which is so powerful fordelusion and error, should not be restored to its true uses as aninstrument of the human advancement, and a vehicle, though a veiled_one_--a beautiful and universally-welcome vehicle--for bringing in onthis Globe Theatre the knowledges that men are most in need of. 

The doctrine which is to be conveyed in this so subtle and artisticmanner is none other than the Doctrine of Human Nature and Human Life, or, as this author describes it here, the Scientific Doctrine ofMORALITY and POLICY. It is that new doctrine of human nature and humanlife which the science of nature in general creates. It is the lightwhich universal science, collected from the continent of nature, givesto that insular portion of it 'which is the end and term of naturalphilosophy in the intention of man. ' Under these heads of _Morality_and _Policy_, the whole subject is treated here. But to return to thelatter. 

The question of Civil Government is, in the light of this science, avery difficult one; and this philosopher, like the one we have alreadyquoted on this subject, is disposed to look with much suspicion onpropositions for violent and sudden renovations in the state, andimmediate abolitions and cures of social evil. He too takes anaturalist's estimate of those larger wholes, and their virtues, andfaculties of resistance. 

'Civil knowledge is conversant about a subject, ' he says, 'which is, of all others, _most immersed in matter_, and hardliest reduced toaxiom. _Nevertheless_, as Cato, the censor, said, "that the Romanswere like sheep, for that a man might better drive a flock of themthan one of them, for, in a flock, if you could get SOME FEW to goright, the rest would follow;" _so_ in that respect, MORAL PHILOSOPHY_is more difficult than policy_. Again, moral philosophy propoundethto itself the framing of _internal_ goodness, but civil knowledgerequireth only an _external_ goodness, for that, as to society, sufficeth. Again, States, as great engines, move slowly, _and are notso soon put out of frame_;' (that is what our foreign statist thoughtalso) 'for, as in Egypt the seven good years sustained the seven bad, so governments for a time, well grounded, do bear out errorsfollowing. But _the resolution of particular persons_ is _moresuddenly subverted. These respects do somewhat qualify the extremedifficulty of civil knowledge_. '

This is the point of attack, then, --this is the point of scientificattack, --the resolution of particular persons. He has showed us wherethe extreme difficulty of this subject appears to lie in his mind, andhe has quietly pointed, at the same time, to that place of resistancein the structure of the state, which is the key to the whole position. He has marked the spot exactly where he intends to commence hispolitical operations. For he has discovered a point there, whichadmits of being operated on, by such engines as a feeble man like him, or a few such together, perhaps, may command. It is the new sciencethat they are going to converge on that point precisely, namely theresolution of particular persons. It is the _novum organum_ that thisone is bringing up, in all its finish, for the assault of thatparticular quarter. Hard as that old wall is, great as the faculty ofconservation is in these old structures that hold by time, there isone element running all through it, these chemists find, which _is_within their power, namely, the resolution of particular persons. Itis the science of the conformation of the parts, it is theconstitutional structure of the human nature, which, in its scientificdevelopment, makes men, naturally, members of communities, beautifuland felicitous parts of states, --it is that which the man of sciencewill _begin_ with. If you will let him have that part of the field towork in undisturbed, he will agree not to meddle with the state. Andbeside those general reasons, already quoted, which tend to preventhim from urging the immediate application of his science to this'larger whole, ' for its wholesale relief and cure, he ventures uponsome specifications and particulars, when he comes to treat distinctlyof government itself, and assign to it its place in his new science ofaffairs. If one were to judge by the space he has openly given it onhis paper in this plan for the human advancement and relief, one wouldinfer that it must be a very small matter in his estimate of agencies;but looking a little more closely, we find that it is not that at allin his esteem, that it is anything but a matter of little consequence. It was enough for him, at such a time, to be allowed to put down thefact that the art of it was properly scientific, and included in hisplan, and to indicate the kind of science that is wanting to it; forthe rest, he gives us to understand that he has himself fallen on suchfelicitous times, and finds that affair in the hands of a person soextremely learned in it, that there is really nothing to be said. Andbeing thrown into this state of speechless reverence and admiration, he considers that the most meritorious thing he can do, is to pass tothe other parts of his discourse with as little delay as possible. 

It is a very short paragraph indeed for so long a subject; but, shortas it is, it is not less pithy, and it contains reasons why it shouldnot be longer, and why that new torch of science which he is bringingin upon the human affairs generally, cannot be permitted to enter thatdepartment of them in his time. 'The first is, that it is a part ofknowledge secret and retired in _both_ those respects in which thingsare deemed secret; for some things are secret because they are hard toknow, and _some_ because they are not fit to utter. Again, the wisdomof _antiquity_, the _shadows whereof are in the Poets_, in thedescription of torments and pains, _next unto the crime of rebellion_, which was the _giants_ offence, doth detest _the crime of futility_, as in Sisyphus and Tantalus. But this was meant of _particulars_. Nevertheless, _even unto the general rules and discourses_ of policyand government, [it extends; for even here] there is due a _reverent_handling. ' And after having briefly indicated the comprehension 'ofthis science, ' and shown that it is the thing he is treating underother heads, he concludes, 'but considering that _I write to a king_who is a _master_ of it, and is _so well assisted_, I think it decentto pass over _this part_ in silence, as willing to obtain thecertificate which one of the ancient philosophers aspired unto; whobeing silent when others contended to make demonstration of theirabilities by speech, desired it might be certified for _his part_ thatthere was one that knew how to hold his peace. '

And having thus distinctly cleared himself of any suspicion of adisposition to introduce scientific inquiry and innovation intodepartments not then open to a procedure of that sort, his proposalfor an advancement of learning in other quarters was, of course, lessliable to criticism. But even that part of the subject to which helimits himself involves, as we shall see, an incidental reference tothis, from which he here so modestly retires, and affords noinconsiderable scope for that genius which was by nature soirresistibly impelled, in one way or another, to the criticism andreformation of the larger wholes. He retires from the open assault, but it is only to go deeper into his subject. He is constituting thescience of that from which the state proceeds. He is analyzing thestate, and searching out in the integral parts of it, that which makestrue _states_ impossible. He has found the revolutionary forces intheir simple forms, and is content to treat them in these. He isbestowing all his pains upon an art that will develop--on scientificprinciples, by simply attending to the natural laws, as they obtain inthe human kind, royalties, and nobilities, and liege-men of alldegrees--an art that will make all kinds of pieces that the structureof the state requires. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE SCIENCE OF MORALITY. 

Section I. --THE EXEMPLAR OF GOOD. 

 'Nature craves All dues to be rendered to their owners. '

But this great innovator is busying himself here with drawing up areport of THE DEFICIENCIES IN LEARNING; and though he is the first topropose a plan and method by which men shall build up, systematicallyand scientifically, a knowledge of _Nature in general_, instead ofthrowing themselves altogether upon their own preconceptions andabstract controversial theories, after all, the principal deficiencywhich he has to mark--that to which, even in this dry report, he findshimself constrained to affix some notes of admiration--this principaldeficiency is THE SCIENCE OF MAN--THE SCIENCE of _human nature_itself. And the reason of this deficiency is, that very deficiencybefore named; it is that very act of shutting himself up to his owntheories which leaves the thinker without a _science_ of himself. 'Forit is the greatest proof of want of skill, to investigate _the nature_of any object in itself alone; and, in general, those very thingswhich are considered as secret, are manifested and common in otherobjects, but will never be clearly seen if the contemplations andexperiments of men be directed _to themselves alone_. ' It is thisscience of NATURE IN GENERAL which makes the SCIENCE of _Human Nature_for the first time possible; and that is the end and term of the newphilosophy, --so the inventor of it tells us. And the moment that hecomes in with that new torch, which he has been out into 'thecontinent of nature' to light, --the moment that he comes back with it, into this old debateable ground of the schools, and begins to apply itto that element in the human life in which the scientific innovationappears to be chiefly demanded, 'most of the controversies, ' as hetells us very simply--'most of the controversies, wherein moralphilosophy is conversant, are judged and determined by it. '

But here is the bold and startling criticism with which he commenceshis approach to this subject; here is the ground which he makes at thefirst step; this is the ground of his scientific innovation; not lessimportant than this, is the field which he finds unoccupied. In thehandling of this science he says, (the science of 'the Appetite andWill of Man'), 'those which have written seem to me to have done as ifa man that _professed to teach to write_ did only exhibit _faircopies_ of alphabets _and_ letters joined, without giving any preceptsor directions for the carriage of the hand, or the framing of theletters; so have they made good and fair _exemplars_ and _copies_, carrying the _draughts_ and _portraitures_ of _good, virtue, duty, felicity_; propounding them, well described, as the true _objects_ and_scopes_ of man's will and designs; _but how to attain these excellentmarks_, and _how_ to _frame_ and _subdue_ the _will_ of _man_ tobecome _true_ and _conformable_ to _these pursuits_, they _pass itover altogether_, or slightly and _unprofitably_; for it is not, ' hesays, 'certain scattered glances and touches that can excuse the_absence_ of this _part_ of--SCIENCE. 

'The reason of this omission, ' he supposes, 'to be that hidden rock, whereupon both this and many other barks of knowledge have been castaway, which is, that men have despised to be conversant in _ordinaryand common matters_, the _judicious direction whereof, nevertheless_, is the wisest doctrine; for life consisteth not in novelties nor_subtleties_, but, _contrariwise_, they have compounded sciences_chiefly_ of _a certain_ resplendent or lustrous mass of matter, _chosen to give glory_ either to the _subtlety_ of _disputations_, orto the _eloquence_ of _discourses_. ' But his theory of teaching is, that 'Doctrine should be such as should make men in love with the_lesson_, and not with the teacher; being directed to the auditor'sbenefit, and not to the author's commendation. ' _Neither_ needed menof so excellent parts to have despaired of a fortune which the poetVirgil promised himself, and, indeed, obtained, who got as much gloryof eloquence, wit, and learning, in the expressing of the observationsof husbandry _as of the heroical acts of Ĉneas_. 

 'Nec sum animi dubius, verbis ea vincere magnum Quam sit, et angustis hunc addere rebus honorum. ' _Georg_. Iii. 289. 

So, then, there is room for a new Virgil, but his theme is_here_;--one who need not despair, if he be able to bring to hissubject those excellent parts this author speaks of, of getting asmuch glory of eloquence, wit, and learning, in the expressing of the_observations of this husbandry_, as those have had who have sketchedthe ideal forms of the human life, the dream of what should be. Thecopies and exemplars of good, --that vision of heaven, --that idea offelicity, and beauty, and goodness that the human soul brings with it, like a memory, --those celestial shapes that the thought and heart ofman, by a law in nature, project, --that garden of delights that allmen remember, and yearn for, and aspire to, and will have, in one formor another, in delicate air patterns, or gross deceiving images, --thatlarge, intense, ideal good which men desire--that perfection andfelicity, so far above the rude mocking realities which experiencebrings them, --that, _that_ has had its poets. No lack of theseexemplars the historian finds, when he comes to make out his report ofthe condition of his kind--where he comes to bring in his inventory ofthe human estate: when so much is wanting, that good he reports '_not_deficient. ' Edens in plenty, --gods, and demi-gods, and heroes, _not_wanting; the purest abstract notions of virtue and felicity, the mostpoetic embodiments of them, are put down among the goods which thehuman estate, as it is, comprehends. This part of the subject appears, to the critical reviewer, to have been exhausted by the poets andartists that mankind has always employed to supply its wants in thisfield. No room for a poet here! The draught of the ideal Eden isfinished;--the divine exemplar is finished; that which is wantingis, --_the husbandry thereunto_. 

Till now, the philosophers and poetic teachers had always taken theirstand at once, on the topmost peak of Olympus, pouring down volleys ofscorn, and amazement, and reprehension, upon the vulgar nature theysaw beneath, made out of the dust of the ground, and qualified withthe essential attributes of that material, --kindled, indeed, with abreath of heaven, but made out of clay, --different kinds ofclay, --with more or less of the Promethean spark in it; but alwaysclay, of one kind or another, and always compelled to listen to thelaws that are common to the kinds of that substance. And it was tothis creature, thus bound by nature, thus _doubly_ bound, --'crawlingbetween earth and heaven, ' as the poet has it, --that these wingedphilosophers on the ideal cliffs, thought it enough to issue theirmandates, commanding it to renounce its conditions, to ignore itslaws, and come up thither at a word, --at a leap, --making no ado aboutit. 

 'I can call spirits from the vasty deep. ' 'And so can I, and so can any man;'

Says the new philosopher--

 'But will they _come?_ _Will they come_--when you do call for them?'

It was simply a command, that this dirty earth should convert itselfstraight into Elysian lilies, and bloom out, at a word, with roses ofParadise. Excellent patterns, celestial exemplars, of the thingsrequired were held up to it; and endless declamation and argument whyit should be that, and not the other, were not wanting:--but as to anyscientific inquiry into the nature of the thing on which this form wasto be superinduced, as to any _scientific_ exhibition of the formitself which was to be superinduced, these so essential conditions ofthe proposed result, were in this case alike wanting. The positionwhich these reformers occupy, is one so high, that the question ofdifferent kinds of soils, and chemical analyses and experiments, wouldnot come within their range at all; and 'the resplendent or lustrousmass of matter, ' of which their sciences are compounded, chosen togive glory either to the subtilty of disputations or to the eloquenceof discourses, would not bear any such vulgar admixture. It would makea terrible jar in the rhythm, which those large generalizationsnaturally flow in, to undertake to introduce into them any such pointsof detail. 

And the new teacher will have a mountain too; but it will be one that'overlooks the vale, ' and he will have a rock-cut-stair to its utmostsummit. He is one who will undertake this despised unlustrous matterof which our ordinary human life consists, and make a science of it, building up its generalizations from its particulars, and observingthe actual reality, --the thing as it is, freshly, for that purpose;and not omitting any detail, --the poorest. The poets who hadundertaken this theme before had been so absorbed with the idea ofwhat man should be, that they could only glance at him as he is: theidea of a science of him, was not of course, to be thought of. Therewas but one name for the creature, indeed, in their vocabulary anddoctrine, and that was one which simply seized and embodied thegeneral fact, the unquestionable historic fact, that he has not beenable hitherto to attain to his ideal type in nature, or indeed to makeany satisfactory approximation to it. 

But when the Committee of Inquiry sits at last, and the businessbegins to assume a systematic form, even the science of that idealgood, that exemplar and pattern of good, which men have been busy onso long, --the _science_ of it, --is put down as 'wanting, ' and the_science_ of the _husbandry thereunto_, '_wholly deficient_. '

And the report is, that this new argument, notwithstanding itsevery-day theme, is one that admits of being sung also; and that theVirgil who is able to compose 'these Georgies of the Mind, ' maypromise himself fame, though his end is one that will enable him toforego it. Let us see if we can find any further track of him and hisgreat argument, whether in prose or verse;--this poet who cares notwhether he has his 'singing robes' about him or not, so he can expressand put upon record his new 'observations of this husbandry. '

THE EXEMPLAR OF GOOD. --'And surely, ' he continues, 'if the purpose bein good earnest, _not to write at leisure that which men may read atleisure_'--note it--that which men may read at leisure--'but really to_instruct_ and _suborn action and active life_, these GEORGICS of theMIND, concerning the husbandry and tillage thereof, are no less worthythan _the heroical descriptions of virtue, duty_, and _felicity_;therefore the _main and primitive division_ of MORAL KNOWLEDGE, seemeth to be into the EXEMPLAR or PLATFORM of GOOD, and THE REGIMENor CULTURE OF THE MIND, the one describing the NATURE of GOOD, theother prescribing RULES _how_ to SUBDUE, APPLY, and ACCOMMODATE THEWILL OF MAN THEREUNTO. '

As to '_the nature of good_, positive or simple, ' the writers on thissubject have, he says, 'set it down excellently, in describing theforms of virtue and duty, with their situations, and postures, indistributing them into their kinds, parts, provinces, actions, andadministrations, and the like: nay, farther, they have commended themto man's nature and spirit, with great quickness of argument, andbeauty of persuasions; yea, and fortified and entrenched them, _asmuch as discourse can do_, against corrupt and popular opinions. Andfor the degrees and comparative nature of good, they have excellentlyhandled it also. '--That part deserveth to be reported for 'excellentlylaboured. '

What is it that is wanting then? What radical, fatal defect is it thathe finds even in the doctrine of the NATURE OF GOOD? What is thedifficulty with this platform and exemplar of good as he finds it, notwithstanding the praise he has bestowed on it? The difficulty is, that it is not scientific. It is not broad enough. It is _special_, itis limited to the species, but it is not properly, it is noteffectively, specific, because it is not connected with the doctrineof nature in general. It does not strike to those universal originalprinciples, those simple powers which determine the actual historiclaws and make the nature of things itself. This is the criticism, therefore, with which this critic of the learning of the world as hefinds it, is constrained to qualify that commendation. 

_Notwithstanding_, if before they had come to _the popular andreceived notions of 'vice'_ and _'virtue, ' 'pleasure'_ and _'pain, '_and the rest, they had stayed a little longer upon the inquiryconcerning THE ROOTS of GOOD and EVIL, and the strings to those roots, they had given, in my opinion, _a great light to that which followed_, and especially _if they had consulted with nature_, they had madetheir doctrines less prolix and more profound, which being by them inpart omitted, and in part handled with much confusion, we willendeavour to resume and open in a more clear manner. Here then, is thepreparation of the Platform or Exemplar of Good, the scientificplatform of virtue and felicity; going behind the popular notion ofvice and virtue, pain and pleasure, and the like, he strikes at onceto the nature of good, as it is 'formed in everything, ' for thefoundation of this specific science. He lays the beams of it, in theaxioms and definitions of his '_prima philosophia_' 'which do not fallwithin the compass of the special parts of science, but are morecommon and of a higher stage, for the distributions and partitions ofknowledge are _not_ like several lines that meet in one angle, and sotouch but in a point, but are like _branches of a tree that meet in astem_ which hath a dimension and quantity of entireness andcontinuance before it comes to discontinue and break itself into armsand boughs, ' and it is not the narrow and specific observation onwhich the popular notions are framed, but the scientific, which isneeded for the New Ethics, --the new knowledge, which here too, isPOWER. He must detect and recognise here also, he must track even intothe nature of man, those universal 'footsteps' which are but 'the samefootsteps of nature treading or printing in different substances. ''There is formed in _everything_ a double nature of good, the one aseverything is a total or substantive in itself, and the other, as itis a part or member of a greater body whereof the latter is in_degree_ the greater and the worthier, because it tendeth to theconservation of a more general form. .. . This double nature of good, and the comparison thereof, is much more engraven upon MAN, _if hedegenerate not_, unto whom the conservation of duty to the publicought _to be much more precious_ than the conservation of _life andbeing_;' and, by way of illustration, he mentions first the case ofPompey the Great, 'who being in commission of purveyance for a famineat Rome, and being dissuaded with great vehemency by his friends, thathe should not hazard himself to sea in an extremity of weather, hesaid only to them, "_Necesse est ut eam, non ut vivam_. "' But, headds, 'it may be _truly_ affirmed, that there was never anyphilosophy, religion, or other discipline, which did so plainly andhighly _exalt_ the good which is _communicative_, and _depress_ thegood which is private and particular, as the _holy faith_, welldeclaring that it was the _same God_ that gave the _Christian law tomen_, who gave those laws of nature to inanimate creatures that wespake of before; for we read that the elected saints of God havewished themselves anathematised, and razed out of the book of life, inan ecstasy of charity, and infinite feeling of communion. '

And having first made good his assertion, that this being set down, and _strongly planted_, determines most of the _controversies_ whereinmoral philosophy is conversant, he proceeds to develop still furtherthese scientific notions of good and evil, which he has gone below thepopular notions and into the nature of things to find, thesescientific notions, which, because they are scientific, he has stillto go out of the specific nature to define; and when he comes to naildown his scientific platform of the _human_ good with them, when hecomes to strike their clear and simple lines, deep as the universalconstitution of things, through the popular terms, and clear up theold confused theories with them, we find that what he said of thembeforehand was true; they do indeed throw great light upon that whichfollows. 

To that exclusive, incommunicative good which inheres in the privateand particular nature, --and he does not call it any hard names at allfrom his scientific platform; indeed in the vocabulary of theNaturalist we are told, that these names are omitted, 'for we call anettle but a nettle, and the faults of fools their folly, '--thatexclusive good he finds both passive and active, and this also is oneof those primary distinctions which 'is formed in all things, ' and sotoo is the _subdivision_ of passive good which follows. 'For there isimpressed upon _all things_ a triple desire, or appetite, proceedingfrom _love to themselves_; one, of preserving and continuing theirform; another, of _advancing_ and perfecting their form; and a third, of multiplying and extending their form upon other things; whereof themultiplying or signature of it upon other things, is that which wehandled by the name of active good. ' But passive good includes bothconservation and perfection, or _advancement_, which latter is thehighest degree of passive good. For to preserve in state is the less;to preserve with advancement is the greater. As to _man_, his approachor assumption to DIVINE or ANGELICAL NATURE is the perfection of _his_form, the error or false imitation of which good is that which is thetempest of human life. So we have heard before; but in the doctrinewhich we had before, it was the dogma, --the dogma whose inspirationand divinity each soul recognized; to whose utterance each soulresponded, as deep calleth unto deep, --it was the Law, the Divine Law, and not the _science of it_, that was given. 

And having deduced 'that good of man which is private and particular, as far as seemeth fit, ' he returns 'to that good of man which respectsand beholds society, ' which he terms DUTY, because the term of duty ismore proper to a mind well framed and disposed towards others, as theterm of VIRTUE is applied to a mind well formed and composed initself; though neither can a man understand _virtue, without somerelation to society_, nor _duty, without an inward disposition_. 

But he wishes us to understand and remember, now that he comes out ofthe particular nature, and begins to look towards society with thisterm of Duty, that he is still dealing with 'the will of particularpersons, ' that it is still the science of _morals_, and not_politics_, that he is meddling with. 'This part may seem at first, 'he says, 'to pertain to science civil and politic, but not if it bewell observed; for it concerneth the regiment and _government of everyman over himself_, and not over others. ' And this is the plan which hehas marked out in his doctrine of government as the most hopeful pointin which to _commence_ political reformations; and one cannot butobserve, that if this art and science should be successfullycultivated, the one which he dismisses so briefly would be cleared atonce of some of those difficulties, which rendered any more directtreatment of it at that time unadvisable. This part of learningconcerneth then 'the regiment and government of every man overhimself, and not over others. ' '_As_ in architecture _the direction_of _the framing_ the _posts, beams_, and _other parts_ of _building_, is not the same with the manner of joining them and erecting thebuilding; and in mechanicals, the direction _how_ to _frame_ ANINSTRUMENT OR ENGINE is not the same with the manner of _setting it onwork_, and employing it; _and yet, nevertheless_, in expressing of theone, you _incidentally_ express the _aptness_ towards the other [hear]_so_ the doctrine of the conjugation of men in society differeth from_that_ of _their conformity thereunto_. ' The received doctrine of thatconjugation certainly appeared to; and the more this scientificdoctrine of the parts, and the conformity thereunto, is incidentallyexpressed, --the more the scientific direction _how to frame_ theinstrument or engine, is opened, the more this difference becomesapparent. 

But even in limiting himself to the individual human nature as it isdeveloped in particular persons, regarding society only as it isincidental to that, even in putting down his new scientific platformof the good that the appetite and will of man naturally seeks, and inmarking out scientifically its _degrees_ and _kinds_, he gives us anopportunity to perceive in passing, that he is not altogether withoutoccasion for the use of that particular art, with its peculiar'organs' and 'methods' and 'illustration, ' which he recommends underso many heads in his treatise on that subject, for the delivery ortradition of knowledges, which tend to _innovation_ and_advancement_--knowledge which is 'progressive' and 'foreign fromopinions received. '

This doctrine of _duty_ is sub-divided into two parts; the _common_duty of every man as a MAN, or A MEMBER of A STATE, which is that partof the platform and exemplar of good, he has before reported as'extant, and well laboured. ' The other is the _respective_ or_special_ duty of every man in his PROFESSION, VOCATION and PLACE; andit is under this head of the _special_ and _respective_ duties ofplaces, vocations and professions, where the subject begins to grownarrow and pointed, where it assumes immediately, the most criticalaspects, --it is here that his new arts of delivery and tradition comein to such good purpose, and stand him instead of other weapons. Forthis is one of those cases precisely, which the philosopher on theMountain alluded to, where an argument is set on foot at the table ofa man of prodigious fortune, when the man himself is present. Nowhere, perhaps, --in his freest forms of writing, does he give a betterreason, for that so deliberate and settled determination, which he soopenly declares, and everywhere so stedfastly manifests, not to puthimself in an antagonistic attitude towards opinions, and vocations, and professions, as they stood authorized in his time. Nowhere does heventure on a more striking comparison or simile, for the purpose ofsetting forth that point vividly, and impressing it on the imaginationof the reader. 

'The first of these [sub-divisions of duty] is extant, and welllaboured, as hath been said. The second, likewise, I may report ratherdispersed than deficient; which _manner of dispersed argument Iacknowledge to be best_; [it is one he is much given to;] for who cantake upon him to write of the proper duty, virtue, _challenge_ and_right_ of EVERY several vocation, profession and place? [--truly?--]For although sometimes a looker on, may see more than a gamester, andthere be a proverb more arrogant than sound, 'that the _vale_ bestdiscovereth _the hill_, ' yet there is small doubt, that men can writebest, and most really and materially of their own professions, ' and itis to be wished, he says, 'as that which would make learning, indeed, solid and fruitful, that active men would, or could, become writers. 'And he proceeds to mention opportunely in that connection, a case verymuch in point, as far as he is concerned, but not on the face of it, so immediately to the purpose, as that which follows. It will, however, perhaps, repay that very careful reading of it, which will benecessary, in order to bring out its pertinence in this connection. And we shall, perhaps, not lose time ourselves, by taking, as we pass, the glimpse which this author sees fit to give us, of the facilitiesand encouragements which existed then, for the scientific treatment ofthis so important question of the duties and vices of vocations andprofessions. 

'In which I _cannot but_ mention, _honoris causa, your majesty's_excellent book, touching the _duty_ of A KING' [and he goes on to givea description which applies, without much 'forcing, ' to the work ofanother king, which he takes occasion to introduce, with a directcommendation, a few pages further on]--'a work richly compounded ofdivinity, morality, and policy, with great _aspersion_ of all otherarts; and being, in mine opinion, one of the most sound and healthfulwritings that I have read. Not sick of business, as those are who losethemselves in their order, nor of convulsions, as those which cramp inmatters impertinent; not savoring of perfumes and paintings as thosedo, who seek to please the reader more than nature beareth, andchiefly _well disposed_ in the _spirits_ thereof, being _agreeable totruth_, and _apt for action_;'--[this passage contains some hints asto this author's notion of what a book should be, in form, as well assubstance, and, therefore, it would not be strange, if it should applyto some other books, as well]--'and far removed from _that naturalinfirmity_, whereunto _I noted those that write in their ownprofessions_, to be _subject_, which is that they _exalt it abovemeasure_; for your majesty hath truly described, _not_ a king ofAssyria or Persia, in their _external_ glory, [and not that kind ofking, or kingly author is he talking of] but a _Moses_, or a _David, pastors of their people_. 

'Neither can I _ever lose out of my remembrance_, what I heard yourmajesty, in the same sacred spirit of government, deliver in a greatcause of judicature, which was, that kings ruled by _their laws_, asGod did by the laws of nature, and ought rarely to put in use theirsupreme prerogative, as God doth his power of working miracles. _Andyet, notwithstanding_, in your book of _a free monarchy_, you do wellgive men to understand, that you know the plenitude of the _power_ and_right_ of a king, as well as _the circle of his office and duty. Thushave I presumed to _allege_ this excellent writing of your majesty, _as a prime_ or _eminent example_ of Tractates, concerning _special_and _respective_ duties. ' [It is, indeed, an _exemplar_ that he talksof here. ] 'Wherein _I should have said as much, if it had been writtena thousand years since_: neither am I moved with certain courtlydecencies, which I esteem it flattery to praise in presence; no, it isflattery to _praise in absence: that is_, when _either_ the virtue isabsent, _or--the occasion_ is absent, and so the praise is _notnatural_, but _forced_, either in truth, _or--in time_. But let Cicerobe read in his oration _pro Marcello_, which is nothing but anexcellent TABLE of _Caesar's_ VIRTUE, and _made to his face_; besidesthe _example_ of many other excellent persons, _wiser a great dealthan such observers_, and we will never doubt upon a _full occasion_, to give _just_ praises to _present_ or _absent_. '

The reader who does not think that is, on the whole, a successfulparagraph, considering the general slipperiness of the subject, andthe state of the ice in those parts of it, in particular where themovements appear to be the most free and graceful; such a one has, probably, failed in applying to it, that key of 'times, ' which a _fulloccasion_ is expected to produce for this kind of delivery. But if anydoubt exists in any mind, in regard to this author's opinion of therights of his own profession and vocation, and _the circle_ of _its_office and duties, --if any one really doubts what only allegiance thisauthor professionally acknowledges, and what kingship it is to whichthis great argument is internally dedicated, it may be well to recallthe statement on that subject, which he has taken occasion to insertin another part of the work, so that that point, at least, may besatisfactorily determined. 

He is speaking of 'certain base conditions and courses, ' in hiscriticism on the manners of learned men, which he says 'he has nopurpose to give allowance to, wherein divers professors of learninghave wronged themselves and gone too far, '--glancing in particular atthe trencher philosophers of the later age of the Roman state, 'whowere little better than parasites in the houses of the great. Butabove all the rest, ' he continues, 'the _gross_ and _palpableflattery_, whereunto, many, not unlearned, have abased and abusedtheir wits and pens, turning, as Du Bartas saith, Hecuba into Helena, and Faustina into Lucretia, hath most diminished the price andestimation of learning. Neither is the _modern dedication_, of booksand writings _as to patrons_, to be commended: for that books--such asare _worthy the name of books_, ought to have _no patrons, but_--(hear) but--Truth and Reason. And the ancient custom was todedicate them only to _private and equal friends_, or to _entitle_ thebooks with their names, or if to _kings_ and _great persons_, it was_some such_ as the argument of the book was fit and proper for: butthese and the like courses may deserve rather _reprehension_ thandefence. 

'Not that I can tax, ' he continues, however, 'or condemn theapplication of learned men to men in fortune. ' And he proceeds toquote here, approvingly, a series of speeches on this very point, which appear to be full of pertinence; the first of the philosopherwho, when he was asked in mockery, 'How it came to pass thatphilosophers were followers of rich men, and not rich men ofphilosophers, ' answered soberly, and yet sharply, 'Because the onesort knew what they had need of, and the other did not'. And then thespeech of Aristippus, who, when some one, tender on behalf ofphilosophy, reproved him that he would offer the profession ofphilosophy such an indignity, as for a private suit to fall at atyrant's feet, replied, 'It was not his fault, but it was the fault ofDionysius, that he had his ears in his feet'; and, lastly, the replyof another, who, yielding his point in disputing with Caesar, claimed, 'That it was reason to yield to him who commanded thirty legions, ' and'these, ' he says, 'these, and _the like_ applications, and stooping topoints of necessity and convenience, cannot be disallowed; for, thoughthey may have _some outward baseness_, yet, in a _judgment trulymade_, they are to be accounted submissions _to the occasion_, and_not to the person_. '

And that is just _Volumnia's_ view of the subject, as will be seen inanother place. 

 Now, this no more dishonors you at all, Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune, and The hazard of much blood. -- And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown, than spend a _fawn_ upon them, For the inheritance of their loves, and _safeguard_ Of _what that want might ruin_. 

But then, in the dramatic exhibition, the other side comes in too:--

 I will not do't; Lest I surcease to honor mine own truth, And by my body's action, teach my mind _A most inherent baseness. _

It is the same poet who says in another place:--

 Almost my nature is subdued to that it works in. 

'But to return, ' as our author himself says, after his complimentarynotice of the king's book, accompanied with that emphatic promise togive an account of himself upon a full occasion, and we have here, apparently, a longer digression to apologize for, and return from;but, in the book we are considering, it is, in fact, rather apparentthan real, as are most of the author's digressions, and casualintroductions of impertinent matter; for, in fact, the exterior orderof the discourse is often a submission to the _occasion_, and is notso essential as the author's apparent concern about it would lead usto infer; indeed he has left dispersed directions to have thistreatise broken up, and recomposed in a more lively manner, upon afull occasion, and when time shall serve; for, at present, this too ischiefly well disposed in the spirits thereof. 

And in marking out the grounds in human life, then lying waste, orcovered with superstitious and empirical arts and inventions, inmerely showing the fields into which the inventor of this newinstrument of observation and inference by rule, was then proposing tointroduce it, and in presenting this new report, and this so startlingproposition, in those differing aspects and shifting lights, and underthose various divisions which the art of delivery and tradition undersuch circumstances appeared to prescribe; having come, in the order ofhis report, to that main ground of the good which the will andappetite of man aspires to, and the direction thereto, --this solabored ground of philosophy, --when it was found that the newscientific platform of good, included--not the exclusive good of theindividual form only, but that of those 'larger wholes, ' of which menare _constitutionally_ parts and members, and the special DUTY, --forthat is the specific name of this principle of integrity in the_human_ kind, that is the name of that larger law, that spiritualprinciple, which informs and claims the parts, and conserves thelarger form which is the worthier, --when it was found that this partincluded the particular duty of every man in his _place, vocation_, and _profession_, as well as the common duty of men as men, surely itwas natural enough to glance here, at that _particular profession andvocation_ of authorship, and the claims of the respective _places_ of_king_ and _subject_ in that regard, as well as at the _duty_ of the_king_, and the superior advantages of a government of laws ingeneral, as being more in accordance with the order of nature, thanthat other mode of government referred to. It was natural enough, since this subject lies always in abeyance, and is essentiallyinvolved in the work throughout, that it should be touched here, inits proper place, though never so casually, with a glance at thosenice questions of conflicting claims, which are more fully debatedelsewhere, distinguishing that which is forced in _time_, from thatwhich is forced in _truth_, and the absence of the person, from theabsence of the occasion. 

But the approval of that man of prodigious fortune, to whom this workis openly dedicated, is always, with this author, who understands hisground here so well, that he hardly ever fails to indulge himself inpassing, with a good humoured, side-long, glance at 'the situation, 'this approval is the least part of the achievement. That which he, too, adores in kings, is 'the throng of their adorers'. It is thesovereignty which makes kings, and puts them in its liveries, that hebends to; it is that that he reserves his art for. And this proposalto run the track of the science of nature through this new field ofhuman nature and its higher and highest aims, and into the very fieldof _every man's_ special place, and vocation, and profession, couldnot well be made without a glance at those difficulties, which theclashing claims of authorship, and _other professions_, would in thiscase create; without a glance at the imperious necessities whichthreaten the life of the new science, which here also imperiouslyprescribe the form of its TRADITION; he could not go by this place, without putting into the reader's hands, with one bold stroke, the keyof its DELIVERY. 

For it is in the paragraph which follows the compliment to the king inhis character as an author, in pursuing still further this subject ofvocations and professions, that we find in the form of '_fable_' and'_allusion_, '--that form which the author himself lays down in his Artof Tradition, as _the_ form of inculcation for new truth, --the preciseposition, which is the key to this whole method of new sciences, whichmakes the method and the interpretation, the vital points, in thewriting and the reading of them. 

'But, to return, there belongeth farther to the handling of this part, touching the _Duties_ of Professions and Vocations, a relative, or_opposite_, touching the _frauds, impostures and vices of everyprofession_, which hath been likewise handled. But how? Rather in _asatire_ and _cynically_, than _seriously_ and _wisely_; for men haverather sought by _wit_ to deride and traduce _much of that which isgood in_ PROFESSIONS, than _with judgment to discover and sever thatwhich is corrupt_. For, as Solomon saith, he that cometh to seek afterknowledge with a mind to scorn and censure, shall be sure to findmatter for his humour, but no matter for his instruction. But _themanaging of this argument_ with _integrity_ and _truth_, _which I noteas deficient_, seemeth to me to be _one of the best fortifications forhonesty and virtue that can be planted_. _For_, as the fable goeth ofthe _basilisk_, that if _he see you first_, you die for it, but if YOUSEE HIM FIRST--HE DIETH; _so_ it is with deceits and _evil arts_, which if they be first ESPIED _lose their life_, but if they_prevent_, endanger. ' [If they see you first, you die for it; and notyou only, but your science. 

 Yet were there but this single plot to lose, This _mould_ of Marcius, they to dust should grind it, And throw it against the wind. ]

'So that we are much beholden' he continues, 'to Machiavel _andothers_ that write _what men do_, and not what they ought to do, [perhaps he refers here to that writer before quoted, who writes, "others _form_ men, --_I_ report him"]; for it is not possible, 'continues the proposer of the science of special duties of _place_, and _vocation_, and _profession_, 'the _critic_ of this department, too, --it is not possible to join the serpentine wisdom with thecolumbine innocency, except men know exactly all the conditions of theserpent, --that is, _all forms_ and _natures of evil_, for withoutthis, _virtue_ lieth open and un-fenced. Nay, an honest man can do nogood upon those that are wicked, to reclaim them, without the help ofthe knowledge of evil: for men of corrupted minds pre-suppose thathonesty groweth out of simplicity of manners, and believing ofpreachers, schoolmasters, and _men's exterior language_; so as, exceptyou can make them perceive that you know the utmost reaches of theirown corrupt opinions, they despise all morality. ' A book composed forthe express purpose of meeting the difficulty here alluded to, hasbeen already noticed in the preceding pages, on account of its beingone of the most striking samples of that peculiar style of_tradition_, which the advancement of Learning prescribes, and here isanother, in which the same invention and discovery appears to beindicated:--'Why I can teach you'--says a somewhat doubtful claimantto supernatural gifts:

 'Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command The devil. ' 'And I can teach _thee_, coz, to shame the devil; By telling truth; If thou hast power to raise him, bring him hither, And I'll be sworn I have power to shame him hence: Oh, while you live, TELL TRUTH. '

But _this_ is the style, in which the one before referred to, falls inwith the humour of this Advancer of Learning. 'As to the rest, I haveenjoined _myself_ to dare to _say_, all that I dare _to do_, and even_thoughts_ that are not to be published, displease me. The worst of myactions and qualities do not appear to me so foul, as I find it fouland base not to dare to own them. Every one is wary and discreet in_confession_, but men ought to be so in _action_. I wish that thisexcessive license of mine, may draw men to freedom _above thesetimorous and mincing pretended virtues, sprung from ourimperfections_, and that at the expense of my immoderation, I mayreduce them to reason. A man must see and study his vice to correctit, they who conceal it from others, commonly conceal it fromthemselves and do not think it covered enough, if they themselves seeit. .. . The diseases of the soul, the greater they are, keep themselvesthe more obscure; the most sick are the least sensible of them: forthese reasons they must often be dragged into light, by an unrelentingand pitiless hand; they must be opened and torn from the caverns andsecret recesses of the heart. ' 'To meet the Huguenots, who condemn ourauricular and private confession, I confess myself in public, religiously and purely, --others have published the errors of their_opinions_, I of my _manners_. I am greedy of making myself known, andI care not to how many, provided it be truly; or rather, I hunger fornothing, but I mortally hate to be _mistaken_ by those who happen tocome across _my name_. _He that does_ all things for honor and glory[as some great men in that time were supposed to], what can he thinkto gain by showing himself to the world _in a mask, and by concealinghis true being from the people_? Commend a hunchback for his fineshape, he has a right to take it for an affront: if you are a coward, and men commend you for your valor, is it of _you_ that they speak?They take you for another. Archelaus, king of Macedon, walking alongthe street, somebody threw water on his head; which they who were withhim said he ought to punish, "Ay, but, " said the other, "he did notthrow the water upon _me_, but upon _him_ whom he took me to be. "Socrates being told that people spoke ill of him, "Not at all, " saidhe, "there is nothing in me of what they say!" _I am content to beless commended provided I am better known_. I may be reputed a wiseman, in such a sort of wisdom as I take to be folly. ' Truly theAdvancement of Learning would seem to be not all in the hands of oneperson in this time. It appears, indeed, to have been in the hands ofsome persons who were not content with simply propounding it, andnoting deficiencies, but who busied themselves with actively carryingout, the precise plan propounded. Here is one who does not contenthimself with merely criticising '_professions_ and _vocations_' andsuggesting improvements, but one who appears to have an inward callhimself to the cure of diseases. Whoever he may be, and since he seemsto care so very little for his name himself, and looks at it from sucha philosophical point of view, we ought not, perhaps, to be tooparticular about it; whoever he may be, he is unquestionably a Doctorof the New School, the scientific school, and will be able to producehis diploma when properly challenged; whoever he may be, he belongs to'the Globe' for the manager of that theatre is incessantly quotinghim, and dramatizing his philosophy, and he says himself, 'I look onall men as my compatriots, and prefer the _universal and common tie tothe national_. '

But in marking out and indicating the plan and method of the newoperation, which has for its end to substitute a scientific, in theplace of an empirical procedure, in the main pursuits of human life, the philosopher does not limit himself in this survey of the specialsocial duties to the special duties of professions and vocations. 'Unto this part, ' he says, 'touching _respective_ duty, doth alsoappertain the duties between husband and wife, parent and child, master and servant: so likewise the laws of _friendship_ and_gratitude_, the civil bond of _companies, colleges_, and _politicbodies_, of _neighbourhood_, and all other proportionate duties; _not_as they are parts of a government and society, _but as to the framingof the mind of particular persons_. '

The reader will observe, that that portion of moral philosophy whichis here indicated, contains, according to this index, some extremelyimportant points, points which require learned treatment; and in ourfurther pursuit of this inquiry, we shall find, that the new lightwhich the science of nature in general throws upon the doctrine of thespecial duties and upon these points here emphasized, has been mostably and elaborately exhibited by a contemporary of this philosopher, and in the form which he has so specially recommended, --with all thatrhetorical power which he conceives to be the natural and fittingaccompaniment of this part of learning. And the same is true alsothroughout of that which follows. 

'The knowledge concerning good respecting society, doth handle it alsonot simply alone, but _comparatively_, whereunto belongeth theweighing of duties _between person and person, case and case, particular and public_: as we see in the proceeding of Lucius Brutusagainst his own sons, which was so much extolled, yet what was said?

Infelix utcunque ferent ea fata minores. 

'So the case was doubtful, and had opinion on both sides. [So thephilosopher on the mountain tells us, too, for his common-place bookand this author's happen to be the same. ] Again we see when M. Brutusand Cassius _invited to a supper_ certain _whose opinions they meantto feel_, whether they were fit to be made their associates, and castforth the question touching the killing of a tyrant, --being anusurper, --_they were divided in opinion_;' [this of itself is a verygood specimen of the style in which points are sometimes introducedcasually in passing, and by way of illustration merely] some holdingthat _servitude_ was the _extreme_ of evils, and _others_ that tyrannywas _better than a civil war_; and this question also our philosopherof the mountain has considered very carefully from his retreat, weighing all the _pros_ and _cons_ of it. And it is a question whichwas treated also, as we all happen to know, in that other form ofwriting for which this author expresses so decided a preference, inwhich the art of the poet is brought in to enforce and impress theconclusion of the philosopher. Indeed, as we proceed further with theplan of this so radical part of the subject, we shall find, that theground indicated has everywhere been taken up on the spot by somebody, and to purpose. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE SCIENCE OF MORALITY. 

Section II. --THE HUSBANDRY THEREUNTO; OR, THE CURE AND CULTURE OF THEMIND. 

 'Tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed--'

 Hamlet. 

But we have finished now with what he has to say here of the EXEMPLARor science of GOOD, and its _kinds_, and _degrees_, and the comparisonof them, the good that is proper to the individual, and the good thatincludes society. He has found much fine work on that platform ofvirtue, and felicity, --excellent exemplars, the purest doctrine, theloftiest virtue, tried by the scientific standard. And though he hasgone behind those popular names of vice and virtue, pain and pleasure, and the like, in which these doctrines _begin_, to the more simple andoriginal forms, which the doctrine of nature in general and its lawssupplies, for a platform of moral science, his doctrine is largeenough to include all these works, in all their excellence, and givethem their true place. A reviewer so discriminating, then, so far fromthat disposition to scorn and censure, which he reprehends, so carefulto conserve that which is good in his scientific constructions andreformations, so pure in judgment in discovering and severing thatwhich is corrupt, a reporter so clearly scientific, who is able tomaintain through all this astounding report of the deficiences inhuman learning, a tone so quiet, so undemonstrative, such a onedeserves the more attention when he comes now to 'the art and practicpart' of this great science, to which all other sciences aresubordinate, and declares to us that he finds it, as a part ofscience, 'WANTING!' not defective, but _wanting_. 

'Now, therefore, that we have spoken of this FRUIT of LIFE, itremaineth to speak of the HUSBANDRY that belongeth thereunto, withoutwhich part the former seemeth to be no better than a fair image orstatue, which is beautiful to contemplate, but is without life andmotion. '

But as this author is very far, as he confesses, from wishing toclothe himself with the honors of an Innovator, --such honors asawaited the Innovator in that time, --but prefers always to sustainhimself with authority from the past, though at the expense of thatlustre of novelty and originality, which goes far, as he acknowledges, in establishing new opinions, --adopting in this precisely thepractices, and, generally, to save trouble, the quotations of thatother philosopher, so largely quoted here, who frankly gives hisreasons for _his_ procedure, confessing that he pinches his authors alittle, now and then, to make them speak to the purpose; and that hereads them with his pencil in his hand, for the sake of being able toproduce respectable authority, grown gray in trust, with the moss ofcenturies on it, for the views which he has to set forth; culling bitsas he wants them, and putting them together in his mosaics as he findsoccasion; so now, when we come to this so important part of thesubject, where the want is so clearly reported--where the scientificinnovation is so unmistakeably propounded--we find ourselves suddenlyinvolved in a storm of Latin quotations, all tending to prove that thething was perfectly understood among the ancients, and that it is asmuch as a man's scholarship is worth to call it in question. Theauthor marches up to the point under cover of a perfect cannonade ofclassics, no less than five of the most imposing of the Greek andLatin authors being brought out, for the benefit of the stunned andbewildered reader, in the course of one brief paragraph, the wholeconcluding with a reference to the Psalms, which nobody, of course, will undertake to call in question; whereas, in cases of ordinarydifficulty, a proverb or two from Solomon is thought sufficient. 

For this last writer, with his practical inspiration--with hisaphorisms, or 'dispersed directions, ' which the author prefers to amethodical discourse, as they best point to action--with his perpetualapplication of divinity to matters of common life, and to the specialand respective duties, this, of all the sacred writers, is the onewhich he has most frequent occasion to refer to; and when, in hischapter on Policy, he brings out openly his proposal to invade theevery-day practical life of men, in its apparently most unaxiomaticaldepartment, with his scientific rule of procedure--a proposal which hemight not have been 'so prosperously delivered of, ' if it had beenmade in any less considerate manner--he stops to produce whole pagesof solid text from this so unquestionably conservative authority, byway of clearing himself from any suspicion of innovation. 

First, then, in setting forth this so novel opinion of his, that thedoctrine of the FRUIT of LIFE should include not the scientificplatform of good, and its degrees and kinds only, --not the doctrine ofthe ideal excellence and felicity only, but the doctrine--thescientific doctrine--the scientific art of the Husbandrythereunto;--in setting forth the opinion, that that first _part_ ofmoral science is _but a part of it_, and that as human nature isconstituted, it is not enough to have a doctrine of good in itsperfection, and the divinest exemplars of it; first of all he producesthe subscription of no less a person than Aristotle, whoseconservative faculties had proved so effectual in the dark ages, thatthe opinion of Solomon himself could hardly have been considered moreto the purpose. 'In such full words, ' he says; and seeing that theadvancement of Learning has already taken us on to a place where theopinions of Aristotle, at least, are not so binding, we need nottrouble ourselves with that long quotation now--'in such full _words_, and with such _iteration_, doth he inculcate this part, so saith_Cicero_ in great commendation of _Cato_ the second, that he hadapplied himself to philosophy--"_Non ita disputandi causa, sed itavivendi_. " And although the neglect of our times, wherein few men dohold any consultations touching _the reformation of their_ LIFE, as_Seneca_ excellently saith, "De partibus vitae, quisque deliberat, desumma nemo, " may make this part seem superfluous, yet I must concludewith that aphorism of _Hippocrates_, "Qui gravi morbo correpti doloresnon sentiunt, iis mens aegrotat"; they need medicines not only toassuage the disease, but _to awake the sense_. 

'And if it be said _that the cure of men's minds belongeth to sacreddivinity_, it is most true; but _yet_ Moral Philosophy'--that is, in_his_ meaning of the term, Moral _Science_, the new science ofnature--'may be _preferred unto her, as a wise servant_ and humblehandmaid. For, as _the Psalm saith_, that "the eye of the handmaidlooketh perpetually towards the mistress, " and yet, _no doubt, manythings are left to the discretion of the handmaid_, to discern of the_mistress's will_; so ought moral philosophy to give _a constantattention to the doctrines of divinity_, and yet so as it may yield ofherself, within due limits, many sound and profitable directions. '_That_ is the doctrine. _That_ is the position of the New Science inrelation to divinity, as defined by the one who was best qualified toplace it--that is the mission of the New Science, as announced by thenew Interpreter of Nature, --the priest of her ignored and violatedlaws, --on whose work the seal of that testimony which he challenged toit has already been set--on whose work it has already been written, inthe large handwriting of that Providence Divine, whose benediction heinvoked, 'accepted'--accepted in the councils from which the effectsof life proceed. 

'This part, therefore, ' having thus defined his position, hecontinues, 'because of the _excellency thereof_, I cannot but find itEXCEEDING STRANGE that it is not reduced _to written inquiry_; therather because it consisteth of much matter, wherein _both speech andaction is often conversant_, and such wherein the common talk of men, _which is rare_, but yet cometh sometimes to pass, is _wiser thantheir books_. It is reasonable, therefore, that we propound it withthe more particularity, both for the worthiness, and _because we mayacquit ourselves for reporting it deficient_' [with such 'iterationand fulness, ' with all his _discrimination_, does he contrive to make_this_ point]; 'which seemeth _almost incredible_, and is otherwiseconceived--[note it]--and is otherwise conceived and _presupposed_ bythose themselves that have written. ' [They do not see that they havemissed it. ] 'We will, therefore, enumerate some HEADS or POINTS_thereof, that it may appear the better what it is_, and __whether itbe extant_. '

A momentous question, truly, for the human race. That was a point, indeed, for this reporter to dare to make, and insist on anddemonstrate. Doctrines of THE FRUIT of LIFE--doctrines of itsperfection, exemplars of it; but no science--no science of the Cultureor the Husbandry thereunto--though it is otherwise conceived andpresupposed by those who have written! Yes, that is the position; andnot taken in the general only, for he will proceed to propound it withmore particularity--he will give us the HEADS of it--he will proceedto the articulation of that which is wanting--he will put down, beforeour eyes, the points and outlines of the new human science, thescience of the husbandry thereto, both for the worthiness thereof, andthat it may appear the better WHAT IT IS, and whether--WHETHER IT BEEXTANT. For who knows but it may be? Who knows, after all, but thepoints and outlines here, may prove but the track of that argumentwhich the new Georgics will be able to hide in the play of theirillustration, as Periander hid his? Who knows but the Naturalist inthis field was then already on the ground, making his collections? Whoknows but this new Virgil, who thought little of that resplendent andlustrous mass of matter, that old poets had taken for their glory, whoseized the common life of men, and not the ideal life only, for histheme--who made the relief of the human estate, and not glory, hisend, but knew that he might promise himself a fame which would makethe old heroic poets' crowns grow dim, --who knows but that _he_--hehimself--is extant, contemplating his theme, and composing itsIndex--claiming as yet its INDEX only? Truly, if the propounder ofthis argument can in any measure supply the _defects_ which heoutlines, and opens here, --if he can point out to us any new andworthy collections in that science for which he claims to break theground--if he can, in any measure, constitute it, he will deserve thatname which he aspired to, and for which he was willing to renounce hisown, 'Benefactor of men, ' and not of an age or nation. 

But let us see where this new science, and scientific art of humanculture begins, --this science and art which is to differ from thosewhich have preceded it, as the other Baconian arts and sciences whichbegan in the new doctrine of nature, differed from those whichpreceded them. 

'FIRST, therefore, in this, _as in all things which are practical_, weought to cast up our account, WHAT is IN OUR POWER, AND WHAT NOT? FORthe one may be dealt with by way of ALTERATION, but the other by wayof APPLICATION _only_. The husbandman cannot command either the_nature of the earth or the seasons_ of the weather, no more can thephysician _the constitution of the patient_, and the _variety ofaccidents. _ So in the CULTURE and CURE of THE MIND of MAN _two things_are without our command, POINTS OF NATURE, and POINTS of FORTUNE: forto the basis of the one, and the conditions of the other, our work islimited and tied. ' That is the first step: that is where the NEWbegins. There is no science or art till that step is taken. 

'_In these things_, therefore, it is left unto us to proceed byAPPLICATION. Vincenda est omnis fortuna ferendo: and solikewise--Vincenda est omnis natura ferendo. But when we speak ofsuffering, we do not speak of a _dull neglected suffering_, but of _awise and industrious suffering_, which draweth and contriveth _use andadvantage out of that which seemeth adverse and contrary_, which isthat properly which we call _accommodating_ or _applying_. ["Sweet arethe uses of it, " and "blest" indeed are they who can translate the_stubbornness_ of fortune into so quiet and so sweet a style. ]

'Now the wisdom of APPLICATION resteth _principally_ in the _exact anddistinct knowledge of the precedent state or disposition, unto whichwe do apply_. '--[This is the process which the Novum Organum setsforth with so much care], 'for we cannot fit a garment, except wefirst take the measure of the body. '

So then THE FIRST ARTICLE OF THIS KNOWLEDGE is--what?--'to set down_sound_ and _true distributions_ and _descriptions_ of THE SEVERALCHARACTERS AND TEMPERS of MEN'S NATURES and DISPOSITIONS, speciallyhaving regard to _those differences_ which are most _radical_, inbeing the fountains and causes of the rest, _or_ most frequent in_concurrence_ or commixture (not _simple_ differences merely, but themost frequent conjunctions), wherein it is not the handling of a fewof them, in passage, the better to describe the _mediocrities_ of_virtues_, that can satisfy this intention'; and he proceeds tointroduce a few points, casually, as it were, and by way ofillustration, but the rule of interpretation for this digest oflearning, in this press of method is, that such points are _never_casual, and usually of primal, and not secondary import; 'for if itdeserve to be considered that there _are_ minds which are proportionedto great matters, and _others_ to small, which Aristotle handleth, orought to have handled, by the name of _magnanimity_, doth it notdeserve as well to be considered, that there are minds proportioned tointend many matters, and _others to few_?' So that some can _dividethemselves_, others can perchance do exactly well, but it must be infew things at once; and so there cometh to be a narrowness of mind, _as well as a_ PUSILLANIMITY. And again, 'that some minds areproportioned to that which may be despatched at once, or within a_short return of time_; others to that _which begins afar off_, and isto be won with length of pursuit. 

 Jam tum tenditque fovetque. 

'So that there may be fitly said to be a _longanimity_, which iscommonly also ascribed to God as a _magnanimity_. ' Undoubtedly, heconsiders this one of those differences in the natures anddispositions of men, that it is most important to note, otherwise itwould not be inserted here. 'So farther deserved it to be consideredby Aristotle that there is a disposition in conversation, supposing itin things which do in no sort touch or concern a man's self, _tosoothe and please_; and a disposition contrary to contradict andcross; and deserveth it not much better to be considered that there isa disposition, not in conversation, or talk, but _in matter of moreserious nature_, and supposing it still in things _merelyindifferent_, to take pleasure in the good of another, and adisposition contrariwise to take distaste at the good of another, which is that _properly_ which we call _good-nature_, or _ill-nature_, benignity or malignity. ' Is not this a field for science, then, withsuch differences as these lying on the surface of it, --does not itbegin to open up with a somewhat inviting aspect? This so remarkableproduct of nature, with such extraordinary 'differences' in him asthese, is he the only thing that is to go without a scientifichistory, all wild and unbooked, while our philosophers are weepingbecause 'there are no more worlds to conquer, ' because every stone andshell and flower and bird and insect and animal has been dragged intothe day and had its portrait taken, and all its history to itssecretest points scientifically detected?

'And therefore, ' says this organizer of the science of nature, whokeeps an eye on practice, in _his_ speculations, and recommends to hisfollowers to observe his lead in that respect, at least, until theaffairs of the world get a little straighter than they were in histime, and there is leisure for _mere_ speculation, --'And, therefore, 'he resumes, having noted these remarkable differences in the naturaland original dispositions of men, --and certainly there is no morecurious thing in science than the points noted, though the carefulreader will observe that they are not curious merely, but that theyslant in one direction very much, and towards a certain kind ofpractice. 'And, therefore, ' he resumes, noticing that fact, 'I _cannotsufficiently marvel_, that this part of knowledge, touching the_several characters_ of _natures_ and _dispositions_ should be omitted_both_ in MORALITY and POLICY, considering that it is of _so great_ministry and suppeditation to them BOTH. ' ['The _several characters_. 'The range of difference is limited. They are comprehensible within ascience, as the differences in other species are. No wonder, then, 'that he cannot sufficiently marvel that this part of knowledge shouldbe omitted. '] But in neither of these two departments, which he heremarks out, as the ultimate field of the naturalist, and his arts, inneither of them unfortunately, lies the practice of mankind, as yet sowholly recovered from that 'lameness, ' which this critical observerremarked in it in his own time, that these observations have ceased tohave a practical interest. 

And having thus ventured to express his surprise at this deficiency, he proceeds to note what only indications he observes of any work atall in this field, and the very quarters he goes to for these littleaccidental hints and beginnings of such a science, show how utterly itwas wanting in those grandiloquent schools of philosophic theory, andthose magisterial chairs of direction, which the author found inpossession of this department in his time. 

'A man shall find in the traditions of ASTROLOGY, some pretty and apt_divisions of men's natures_, '--so in the discussions which occur onthis same point in Lear, where this part of philosophy comes under amore particular consideration, and the great ministry which it wouldyield to morality and policy is suggested in a different form, thissame reference to the astrological observations repeatedly occurs. ThePoet, indeed, discards the astrological _theory _of these naturaldifferences in the dispositions of men, but is evidently in favour ofan observation, and inquiry of some sort, into the second causes ofthese 'sequent effects, ' and an anatomy of the living subject is inone case suggested, by a person who is suffering much from thedeficiencies of science in this field, as a means of throwing light onit. 'Then let Regan be anatomised. ' For in the _Play_, --in the poeticimpersonation, which has a scientific purpose for its object, thehistorical extremes of these natural differences are touched, andbrought into the most vivid dramatic oppositions; so as to force fromthe lips of the by-standers the very inquiries and suggestions whichare put down here; so as to wring from the broken hearts ofmen--tortured and broken on the wheel, which 'blind men' callfortune, --tortured and broken on the rack of an unlearned and barbarichuman society, --or, from hearts that do not break with anything thatsuch a world can do, the imperious direction of the new science. 

'Then let Regan be anatomised, and _see_ what it is that breeds abouther heart. ' He has asked already, 'What is the cause of thunder?' But'_his_ philosopher' must not stop there. 'Is there any _cause_--isthere any cause _in nature_ that makes these hard hearts?'--

 It is _the stars_! The stars above us govern our conditions, Else one self mate and mate could not beget Such different issues. 

'A man shall find in the traditions of astrology some pretty and apt_divisions of men's natures_, ' ('let them be _anatomised_, ' he, too, says, ) 'according to the _predominance_ of the _planets_;' (this isthe '_spherical predominance_, ' which _Edmund_ does not believein)--'_lovers_ of quiet, _lovers_ of action, _lovers_ of victory, _lovers_ of honour, _lovers_ of pleasure, _lovers_ of arts, _lovers_of _change_, and so forth. ' And here, also, is another very singularquarter to go to for a science which is so radical in morality; hereis a place, where men have empirically hit upon the fact that it hassome relation to policy. 'A man shall find in the wisest sorts ofthese relations which the _Italians_ make touching conclaves, thenatures of the several _Cardinals_, handsomely and livelily paintedforth';--and what he has already said in the general, of thisdepartment, he repeats here under this division of it, that theconversation of men in respect to it, is in advance of theirbooks;--'a man shall meet with, in every day's conference, thedenominations of sensitive, dry, formal, real, humorous, "huomo diprima impressione, huomo di ultima impressione, and the like": butthis is no substitute for science in a matter so radical, '--'and yet, nevertheless, _this observation, wandereth in words_, but is not_fixed in inquiry_. For the _distinctions_ are found, many of them, but we conclude _no precepts_ upon them'; it is induction then that wewant here, after all--_here_ also--here as elsewhere: 'thedistinctions are found, many of them, but we _conclude no precepts_upon them: wherein our fault is the greater, because both HISTORY, POESY, and DAILY EXPERIENCE, _are as goodly fields where theseobservations grow_; whereof we make a few poesies to hold in ourhands, but no man bringeth them to the confectionery that _receipts_might be made of them for the use of life. '

How could he say _that_, when there was a man then alive, who wasdoing in all respects, the very thing which he puts down here, as thething which is to be done, the thing which is of such radicalconsequence, which is the beginning of the new philosophy, which isthe beginning of the new _reformation_; who is making this very pointin that science to which the others are subordinate?--how could he sayit, when there was a man then alive, who was ransacking the dailylives of men, and putting all history and poesy under contribution forthese very observations, one, too, who was concluding precepts uponthem, bringing them to the confectionery, and composing receipts ofthem for the use of life; a scholar who did not content himself withmerely _reporting_ a deficiency so radical as this, in the human life;a man who did not think, apparently, that he had fulfilled _his_ dutyto his kind, by composing a paragraph on this subject. 

And how comes it--how comes it that he who is the first to discoverthis so fatal and radical defect in the human science, has himselffailed to put upon record any of these so vital observations? Howcomes it that the one who is at last able to put his finger on thespot where the mischief, where all the boundless mischief, is at workhere, --where the cure must begin, should content himself withobservations and collections in physical history _only_? How comes itthat the man who finds that all the old philosophy has failed tobecome operative for the lack of this historical basis, who finds itso '_exceeding strange_, so _incredible_, ' who 'cannot sufficientlymarvel, ' that these observations should have been omitted in thisscience, heretofore, --the man who is so sharp upon Aristotle andothers, on account of this incomprehensible oversight in theirethics, --_is himself guilty of this very thing_? And how will thisdefect in _his_ work, compare with that same defect which he is at somuch pains to note and describe in the works of others--others who didnot know the value of this history? And how can he answer it to hiskind, that with the views he has dared to put on record here, of therelation, the _essential_ relation, of this knowledge to humanadvancement and relief, _he himself has done nothing at all toconstitute it, except to write this paragraph_. 

And yet, by his own showing, the discoverer of this field was himselfthe man to make collections in it; for he tells us that accidentalobservations are not the kind that are wanted here, and that the truthof direction must precede the severity of observation. Is this so?Whose note book is it then, that has come into our hands, with therules and plummet of the new science running through it, where all theobservation takes, spontaneously, the direction of this new doctrineof nature, and brings home all its collections, in all the lustre oftheir originality, in all their multiplicity, and variety, andcomprehension, in all the novelty and scientific rigour of theirexactness, into the channels of these _defects_ of learning? And whowas he, who thought there were more things in heaven and earth, thanwere dreamt of in old philosophies, who kept his tables always by himfor open questions? and whose tablets--whose many-leaved tablets, arethey then, that are tumbled out upon us here, glowing with 'all saws, all forms, all pressures past, that youth and observation copiedthere. ' And if aphorisms are made out of the pith and heart ofsciences, if 'no man can write good aphorisms who is not sound andgrounded, ' what Wittenberg, what University was he bred in?

Till now there has been no man to claim this new and magnificentcollection in natural science: it is a legacy that came to us withouta donor;--this new and vast collection in natural history, which isput down here, all along, as _that which is wanting_--as that which iswanting to the science of man, to the science of his advancement tohis place in nature, and to the perfection of his form, --as that whichis wanting to the science of the larger wholes, and the art of theirconservation. There was no _man_ to claim it, for the _boast_, thevery boast made on behalf of the thing for whom it was claimed--was--he _did not know it was worth preserving_!--he _did not know_ thatthis mass of new and profoundly scientific observation--this so newand subtle observation, so artistically digested, with all theprecepts concluded on it, strewn, crowded everywhere with thoseaphorisms, those axioms of practice, that are made out of the pith andheart of sciences--he did not know it was of any value! That is hishistory. That is the sum of it, and surely it is enough. Who, that ishimself at all above the condition of an oyster, will undertake tosay, deliberately and upon reflection, that it is not? So long as wehave that one fact in our possession, it is absurd, it is simplydisgraceful, to complain of any deficiency in this person's biography. There is enough of it and to spare. With that fact in our possession, we ought to have been able to dispense long ago with some, at least, of those details that we have of it. The only fault to be found withthe biography of this individual as it stands at present is, thatthere is too much of it, and the public mind is labouring under aplethora of information. 

If that fact be not enough, it is our own fault and not the author's. He was perfectly willing to lie by, till it was. He would not take thetrouble to come out for a time that had not studied his philosophyenough to find it, and to put the books of it together. 

Many years afterwards, the author of this work on the Advancement ofLearning, saw occasion to recast it, and put it in another language. But though he has had so long a time to think about it, and though hedoes not appear to have taken a single step in the interval, towardsthe supplying of this radical deficiency in human science; we do notfind that his views of its importance are at all altered. It is stillthe first point with him in the scientific culture of humannature, --the first point in that Art of Human Life, which is the endand term of _Natural Philosophy_, as _he_ understands the limits ofit. We still find the first Article of the Culture of the Mind putdown, 'THE DIFFERENT NATURES OR DISPOSITIONS OF MEN, ' _not the vulgarpropensities_ to VIRTUES and VICES--note it--'or perturbations andpassions, but of such as are _more internal and radical_, which aregenerally neglected. ' 'This is a study, ' he says, which 'might affordGREAT LIGHT TO THE SCIENCES. ' And again he refers us to the existingsupply, such as it is, and repeats with some amplification, hisprevious suggestions. 'In astrological traditions, the natures anddispositions of men, are tolerably _distinguished_ according to theinfluence of the planets, where _some_ are said to be by nature formedfor _contemplation, others_ for _war_, others for _politics_. 'Apparently it _would_ be 'great ministry to policy, ' if one could getthe occult sources of such differences as these, so as to be able tocommand them at all, in the culture of men, _or_ in the fitting of mento their places. 'But' he proceeds, 'so likewise among the _poets_ ofall kinds, we _everywhere find_ characters of nature, though_commonly_ drawn with excess and _exceeding the limits of nature_. '

Here, too, the philosopher refers us again to the common discourse ofmen, as containing wiser observations on this subject, than theirbooks. 'But much the best matter of all, ' he says, 'for such atreatise, may be _derived from_ the more _prudent_ historians, and notso well from eulogies or panegyrics, which are usually written soonafter the death of _an illustrious person_, but much rather from awhole body of history, as often as such a person appears, for such an_inwoven_ account gives a better description than _panegyrics_. .. . Butwe do not mean that such characters should be received in ethics, asperfect civil images. ' They are to be subjected to an artisticprocess, which will bring out the radical principles in thedispositions and tempers of men in general, as the material ofinexhaustible varieties of combination. He will have these historicportraits merely 'for outlines and first draughts of the imagesthemselves, which, being variously compounded and mixed, afford allkinds of portraits, so that an _artificial and accurate dissection_may be made of MEN'S MINDS AND NATURES, and the _secret disposition ofeach particular man laid open_, that from the knowledge of the_whole_, the PRECEPTS _concerning the_ ERRORS of THE MIND may be MORERIGHTLY FORMED. ' Who did that very thing? Who was it that stood on thespot and put that design into execution?

But this is not all; this is only the beginning of the observation andstudy of _differences_. For he would have also included in it, 'thoseimpressions of nature which are otherwise _imposed_ upon by the mind, by the SEX, AGE, COUNTRY, STATE OF HEALTH, MAKE OF BODY, as of beautyand deformity, and THE LIKE, which are inherent and not external:' andmore, he will have included in it--in these _practical Ethics_ he willhave included--'POINTS OF FORTUNE, ' and the differences that theymake; he will have _all the differences_ that this creature exhibits, under any conditions, put down; he will have his whole nature, so faras his history is able to show it, on his table; and not as it isexhibited accidentally, or spontaneously merely, but under the test ofa studious inquiry, and essay; he will apply to it the trials andvexations of Art, and wring out its last confession. This is thepractical doctrine of this species; this is what the author we havehere in hand, calls the _science_ of it, or the beginning of itsscience. This is one of the _parts of science_ which he says iswanting. Let us follow his running glimpse of the points here, then, and see whether it is extant here, too, and whether there is anythingto justify all this preparation in bringing it in, and all thisexceeding marvelling at the want of it. 

'And again _those differences_ which proceed from FORTUNE, asSOVEREIGNTY, NOBILITY, OBSCURE BIRTH, RICHES, WANT, MAGISTRACY, PRIVATENESS, PROSPERITY, ADVERSITY, constant fortune, variablefortune, rising _per saltum, per gradus_, and the like. ' These arearticles that he puts down for points in his _table of naturalhistory_, points for the collection of instances; this is the tabularpreparation for induction here; for he does not conclude his preceptson the popular, miscellaneous, accidental history. That will do wellenough for books. It won't do to get out axioms of practice from suchloose material. They have to ring with the proof of another kind ofcondensation. All _his_ history is artificial, prepared history more_select_ and _subtle_ and _fit_ than the other kind, hesays, --prepared on purpose; perhaps we shall come across his tables, some day, with these very points on them, filled in with theobservations of one, so qualified by the truth of direction to makethem 'severe'. It would not be strange, for he gives us to understandthat he is not altogether idle in this part of his Instauration, andthat he does not think it enough to lay out work for others, withoutgiving an occasional specimen of his own, of the thing which he notesas deficient, and proposes to have done, so that there may be nomistake about it as to what it really is; for he appears to thinkthere is some danger of that. Even here, he produces a fewillustrations of his meaning, that it may appear the better what is, and whether it be extant. 

'And therefore we see, that _Plautus_ maketh it a wonder to see an OLDman beneficent. _St. Paul_ concludeth that severity of _discipline_was to be used to the _Cretans_, ("increpa eos dure"), upon _thedisposition_ of THEIR COUNTRY. "Cretenses semper mendaces, malĉbestize, ventres pigri. " _Sallust_ noteth that it is usual with KINGSto desire _contradictories_; "Sed plerumque, regiĉ voluntates, utvehementes sunt sic mobiles saepeque ipsĉ sibi adversĉ. " _Tacitus_observeth how rarely THE RAISING OF THE FORTUNE mendeth thedisposition. "Solus Vespasianus mutatus in melius. " _Pindar_ maketh anobservation that great and sudden fortune for the most part defeatethmen. So _the Psalm_ showeth it more easy to keep a measure in theenjoying of fortune, than in the increase of fortune; "Divitiĉ siaffluant nolite cor apponere. "' '_These observations, and thelike_, '--what book is it that has so many of '_the like_'?--'I denynot but are touched a little by Aristotle _as in passage_ in his_Rhetorics_, and are handled in some scattered discourses. ' One wouldthink it was another philosopher, with pretensions not at allinferior, but professedly very much, and altogether superior to thoseof Aristotle, whose short-comings were under criticism here; 'but they(_these observations_) were never INCORPORATED _into moralphilosophy_, to which they do ESSENTIALLY appertain, as THE KNOWLEDGEof THE DIVERSITY of GROUND and MOULDS doth to _agriculture_, and theknowledge of the DIVERSITY of COMPLEXIONS and CONSTITUTIONS doth tothe _physician_; except'--note it--'except we mean to follow theindiscretion of empirics, which minister _the same medicines to allpatients_. '

Truly this does appear to give us some vistas of a _science_, and a'pretty one, ' for these particulars and illustrations are here, thatwe may see the better what it is, and whether it be extant. That isthe question. And it happens singularly enough, to be a question justas pertinent now, as it was when the philosopher put it on his paper, two hundred and fifty years ago. 

_There_ is the first point, then, in the table of this scientifichistory, with its subdivisions and articulations; and here is thesecond, not less essential. 'Another article of this knowledge is theinquiry touching THE AFFECTIONS; for, as in medicining the body, '--andit is a practical science we are on here; it is the cure of the mind, and not a word for show, --'as in medicining the body, it is in order, _first_, to know the divers complexions and constitutions; secondly, the _diseases_; and, lastly, the _cures_; so in medicining of themind, --after knowledge of the _divers characters_ of _men's natures_, it followeth, in order, to know the diseases and infirmities of themind, which are no other than the perturbations and distempers of theaffections. ' And we shall find, under the head of the medicining ofthe body, some things on the subject of medicine in general, whichcould be better said _there_ than _here_, because the wrath ofprofessional dignitaries, --the eye of the 'basilisk, ' was not perhapsquite so terrible in that quarter then, as it was in some others. Forthough 'the Doctors' in that department, did manage, in the dark ages, to possess themselves of certain weapons of their own, which are saidto have proved, on the whole, sufficiently formidable, they were not, as it happened, armed by the State as the others then were; and it wasusually discretionary with the patient to avail himself, or not, oftheir drugs, and receipts, and surgeries; whereas, in the diseased andsuffering soul, no such discretion was tolerated. The drugs wereindeed compounded by the State in person, and the executive stood by, axe in hand, to see that they were taken, accompanying them with suchother remedies as the case might seem to require; the most seriousoperations being constantly performed without ever taking 'the sense'of the patient. 

So we must not be surprised to find that this author who writes undersuch liabilities ventures to bring out the pith of his trunk ofsciences, --that which sciences have in common, --the doctrine of thenature of things, --what he calls '_prima philosophia_, ' when hislearned sock is on--a little more strongly and fully in that branch ofit, with a glance this way, with a distinct intimation that it iscommon to the two, and applies here as well. There, too, he complainsof the ignorance of anatomy, which is just the complaint he has beenmaking here, and that, for want of it, 'they quarrel many times withthe humours which are not in fault, the fault being in the very frameand mechanic of the part, which cannot be removed by medicine_alterative_, but must be _accommodated_ and palliated by diet andmedicines _familiar_. ' There, too, he reports the lack of medicinalhistory, and gives directions for supplying it, just such directionsas he gives here, but that which makes the astounding difference inthe reading of these reports to-day, is, that the one has beenaccepted, and the other has not; nay, that the one has been _read_, and the other has not: for how else can we account for the fact, thatmen of learning, in our time, come out and tell us deliberately, notmerely that this man's place in history, is the place of one whodevoted his genius to the promotion of the personal convenience andbodily welfare of men, but, that it is the place of one who gave upthe nobler nature, deliberately, on principle, and after examinationand reflection, as a thing past help from science, as a thing lyingout of the range of philosophy? How else comes it, that the criticto-day tells us, dares to tell us, that this leader's word to the newages of advancement is, that there is no scientific advancement to belooked for _here_?--how else could he tell us, with such vivid detailof illustration, that this innovator and proposer of advancement, never intended his Novum Organum to be applied to the _cure_ of themoral diseases, to the subduing of the WILL and the AFFECTIONS, --butthought, because the old philosophy had failed, there was no use intrying the new;--because the philosophy of words, and preconceptions, had failed, the philosophy of observation and application, thephilosophy of ideas as they are in nature, and not as they are in themind of man merely, the philosophy of _laws_, must fail also;--becauseARGUMENT had failed, ART was hopeless;--because syllogisms, based onpopular, unscientific notions were of no effect, _practical axioms_based on the scientific knowledge of natural causes, and on theirspecific developments, were going to be of none effect also? If thepassages which are now under consideration, had been so much as_read_, how could a learned man, in our time, tell us that the authorof the 'Advancement of Learning' had come with any such despairfulword as that to us, --to tell us that the new science he wasintroducing upon this Globe theatre, the science of _laws_ in nature, offered to _Divinity_ and Morality no aid, --no ministry, no service inthe _cure of the mind_? And the reason why they have not been read, the reason why this part of the 'Advancement of Learning, ' which isthe principal part of it in the intention of its author, _has_ beenoverlooked hitherto is, that the Art of Tradition, which is described, here--the art of the Tradition, and delivery of knowledges which areforeign from opinions received, was in the hand of its inventor, andable to fulfil his pleasure. 

After the knowledge of the divers characters of men's natures then, the next article of this inquiry is the DISEASES and INFIRMITIES ofthe MIND, which are no other than the perturbations and distempers ofTHE AFFECTIONS. For as the ancient politicians in popular estates werewont to compare the people to the sea, and the _orators_ to the winds, because the sea would of itself be calm and quiet, if the winds didnot move and trouble it; _so_ the _people would be peaceable_ and_tractable_, if the _seditious orators did not set them in working andagitation_; so it may be fitly said, that the mind, in the naturethereof, would be _temperate_ and _stayed_, if _the affections_, aswinds, did not put it into tumult and perturbation. And _here, again_, I find, _strange as before_, that _Aristotle_ should have writtendivers volumes of _Ethics_, and never handled THE AFFECTIONS, which isthe _principal subject thereof_; and yet, in his _Rhetorics_, wherethey are considered but _collaterally_, and in a second degree, asthey may be moved by speech, he findeth place for them, and handleththem well _for the quantity_, but where their _true place_ is, he_permitteth_ them. (Very much the method of procedure adopted by thephilosopher who composes that criticism; who also finds a place forthe affections in passing, where they are considered collaterally, andin a second degree, and for the quantity, he handleth them well, andwho knows how to bring his Rhetorics to bear on them, as well as thepoliticians in popular estates did of old, though for a different end;but where their true place is, he, too, _permitteth_ them; and, in hisNovum Organum, he keeps so clear of them, and _permits_ them so fully, that the critics tell us he never meant it should touch them. ) 'For itis not his disputations about pleasure and pain that can satisfy thisinquiry, no more than he that should _generally_ handle the nature oflight can be said to handle the nature of _colours_; for pleasure andpain are to the particular affections as light is to the particularcolours. ' Is not this a man for particulars, then? And when he comesto the practical doctrine, --to _the art_--to the knowledge, which is_power_, --will he not have particulars here, as well as in those otherarts which are based on them? Will he not have particulars here, aswell as in chemistry and natural philosophy, and botany andmineralogy; or, when it comes to practice here, will he be content, after all, with the old line of argument, and elegant disquisition, with the old generalities and subtleties of definition, which requiredno collection of particulars, which were independent of observation, or for which the popular accidental observation sufficed? 'Bettertravels, I suppose, had the Stoics taken in this argument, as far as Ican gather by that which we have at secondhand. _But yet_ it is likeit was after their manner, rather in subtlety of definitions, which, in a subject of this nature, are _but curiosities_, than _in_ ACTIVE_and_ AMPLE DESCRIPTIONS AND OBSERVATIONS. So, likewise, I find someparticular writings of _an elegant nature_, touching some of theaffections; as of anger, of comfort upon adverse accidents, oftenderness of countenance, and others. ' And such writings were notconfined to the ancients. Some of us have seen elegant writings ofthis nature, published under the name of the philosopher who composesthis criticism, and suggests the possibility of essays of a morelively and _experimental_ kind, and who seems to think that thetreatment should be _ample_, as well as _active_. 

'_But_ the POETS and WRITERS of HISTORY are the best _Doctors_ of_this knowledge_, where we may find, painted forth with great _life_, _how affections are kindled and incited_, and _how pacified_ and_refrained_;'--certainly, that is the kind of learning we wanthere:--'and how, again, contained from _act_ and _furtherdegree_'--very useful knowledge, one would say, and it is a pity itshould not be 'diffused, ' but it is not every poet who can be said tohave it;--'_how_ they disclose themselves--_how_ they work--how theyvary;'--this is the science of them clearly, _whoever_ has it;--'howthey gather and fortify--how they are _enwrapped one withinanother_;'--yes, there is one Poet, one Doctor of this science, inwhom we can find _that_ also;--'and how they do fight and encounterone with another, and other like _particularities_. ' We all know whatPoet it is, to whose lively and ample descriptions of the affectionsand passions--to whose _particularities_--that description bestapplies, and in what age of the world he lived; but no one, who hasnot first studied them as scientific exhibitions, can begin toperceive the force--the exclusive force--of the reference. 'Amongstthe which, this last is of special _use_ in MORAL and CIVIL matters:_how_, I say, to _set affection against affection_, and to master oneby another, even as we used to hunt beast with beast, and fly birdwith bird, which otherwise, percase, we could not so easily recover. 'The Poet has not only exhibited this with very voluminous and livelydetails, but he, too, has concluded his precept;--

 'One fire burns out another's burning'-- 'One desperate grief cures with another's languish'-- 'Take thou some new infection to thine eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. ' _Romeo and Juliet_. 

 'As fire drives out fire, so pity, pity; And pity to the _general wrong of Rome_ Hath, done this deed _on Cĉsar. ' _Julius Cĉsar_. 

for it is the _larger_ form, which is the worthier, in that newdepartment of mixed mathematics which this philosopher wascultivating. 

 'One fire drives out one fire, one nail one nail: Rights by rights fouler, strength by strengths do fail. ' _Coriolanus_. 

And for history of _cases_, see the same author in Hamlet and otherplays. [This philosopher's prose not unfrequently contains the key ofthe poetic paraphrase; and the true reading of the line, which hasoccasioned so much perplexity to the critics, may, perhaps, besuggested by this connection--'to set affection against affection, andto master one by another, even as we hunt beast with beast, and flybird with bird. ']

CHAPTER V. 

THE SCIENCE OF MORALITY. --ALTERATION. 

 Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so, That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded, (Unless thou think'st me devilish, ) is't not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions? _Cymbeline_. 

Thus far, it is the science of Man, _as he is_, that is propounded. Itis a scientific history of the Mind and its diseases, built up fromparticulars, as other scientific histories are; and having disposed, in this general manner, of that which must be dealt with by way of_application_, those points of nature and fortune, which he puts downas the basis and conditions to _which all our_ WORK _is limited andtied_, we come now to that which IS within our power--to those pointswhich we can deal with by way of ALTERATION, and not of _application_merely; and yet points which are operating perpetually on the humancharacter, changing the will and appetite, and altering the conduct, by laws not less sure than those which operate in the occult processesof nature, and determine differences behind the scene, or out of therange of our volition. 

And if after having duly weighed the hints we have already received ofthe importance of the subject, we do not any longer suffer ourselvesto be put off the track, or bewildered by the first rhetorical effectof the sentence in which these agencies are introduced to ourattention, --if we look at that rapid series of words, as somethingelse than the points of a period, if we stop long enough to recoverfrom the confusion which a mere string of names, a catalogue or tableof contents, crowded into single sentence, will, of necessity, create, --if we stop long enough to see that each one of these words isa point in the table of a new science, we shall perceive at once, thatafter having made all this large allowance, this _new_ allowance forthat which is _without_ our power, there is still a very, very largemargin of operation, and discovery, and experiment left; that there isstill a large scope of _alteration_ left--alteration in man as he is. For we shall find that these forces which _are_ within our power, arethe very ones which are making, and always have been making, man whathe is. Running our eye along this table of forces and supplies, withthat understanding of its uses, we shall perceive at once, that wehave the most ample material here, if it were but scientificallyhandled; untried, inexhaustible means and appliances for raising manto the height of his pattern and original, to the stature of a perfectman. 

It is not the material of this regimen of growth and advancement, itis not the Materia Medica that is wanting, --it is the science of it. It is the natural history of these forces, with the preceptsscientifically concluded on them, that is wanting. The appliances arehere; the scientific application of them remains to be made, and untilthese have been tried, it is too early to pronounce on the case; untilthese have been tried, just as other precepts of the new science havebeen, it is too soon to say that that science of nature, --thatknowledge of laws--that foreknowledge of effects, which operates soremedially in all other departments of the human life, is withoutapplication, is of no efficiency here; until these have been tried itis too soon to say that the science of nature is _not_ what the manwho brought it in on this Globe theatre _declared it_ to _be_, thehandmaid of Divinity, the intelligent handmaid and minister ofreligion, to whose discretion in the economy of Providence, much, muchhas evidently been left. 

And it was no assumption in this man to claim, as he did claim, adivine and providential authority for this procedure. And those whointelligently fulfil their parts in this great enterprise for man'srelief, and the Creator's glory, have just as clear a right to say, asthose of old who fulfilled with such means and lights, andinspirations as their time gave them, their part in the plan of thehuman advancement, 'it is God who worketh in us. '

'Now come we to those points which _are_ within our command, and have_force_ and _operation_ upon the mind, to _affect the will andappetite_, and to alter manners: wherein they ought to have handledCUSTOM, EXERCISE, HABIT, EDUCATION, EXAMPLE, IMITATION, EMULATION, COMPANY, FRIENDS, PRAISE, REPROOF, EXHORTATION, FAME, LAWS, BOOKS, STUDIES: these, as they have determinate use in moralities, from these_the mind_ SUFFERETH; and of these are such receipts and regimentscompounded and described, as may serve to recover or preserve thehealth and good estate of the mind, as far as pertaineth to humanmedicine; of which number we will insist upon some one or two, _as anexample of the rest_, because it _were too long_ to prosecute _all_. 'But the careful reader perceives in that which follows, that thetreatment of this so vital subject, though all that the author has tosay upon it _here_, is condensed into these brief paragraphs, is notby any means so miscellaneous, as this introduction and 'the _first_cogitation' on it, might, perhaps, have prepared him to find it. 

To be permitted to handle these forces openly, in the form of literaryreport, and recommendation, would, no doubt, have seemed to thisinventor of sciences, in his day no small privilege. But there wasanother kind of experiment in them which he aspired to. He wished totake these forces in hand more directly, and compound recipes, withthem, and other 'regiments' and cures. For by nature and carefulleststudy he was a Doctor in this degree and kind--and a man thus fitted, inevitably seeks his sphere. Very unlearned in this science of humannature which he has left us, --much wanting in analysis must he be, whocan find in the persistent determination of such a man to possesshimself of places of trust and authority, only the vulgar desire forcourtly distinction, and eagerness for the paraphernalia of office. This man was not wanting in any of the common natural sentiments; theprivate and particular nature was large in him, and that good to whichhe gives the preference in his comparison of those exclusive aims andenjoyments, is 'the good which is _active_, and not that which is_passive_'; both as it tends to secure that individual perpetuitywhich is the especial craving of men thus specially endowed, and onaccount of 'that affection for variety and _proceeding_' which is alsocommon to men, and specially developed in such men, --an affectionwhich the goods of the passive nature are not able to satisfy. 'But in_enterprises_, pursuits and purposes of life, there is much varietywhereof men are sensible with pleasure in their inceptions, progressions, recoils, re-integration, approaches and attainings totheir ends. ' And he gives us a long insight into his own particularnature and history in that sentence. He is careful to distinguish thiskind of good from the good of society, 'though in some cases it hathan incident to it. For that gigantine state of mind which possesseththe _troublers_ of the world, such as was Lucius Sylla, and _infiniteother in smaller model_, who would have all men happy or unhappy, asthey were their friends or enemies, _and would give form to the worldaccording to their own humours_, which is the true _theomachy_, pretendeth and aspireth to _active good_ though it _recedeth farthest_from that _good of society_, which we have determined to be _thegreater_. '

In no troubler or benefactor of the world, on the largest scale, in notheomachist of any age, whether intelligent and benevolent, ordemoniacal and evil, had this nature which he here defines so clearly, ever been more largely incorporated, or more effectively armed. But inhim this tendency to personal aggrandisement was overlooked, andsubordinated by the larger nature, --by the intelligence which includesthe whole, and is able to weigh the part with it, and by thesentiments which enforce or anticipate intelligent decision. 

Both these facts must be taken into the account, if we would read hishistory fairly. For he composed for himself a plan of living, in whichthis naturally intense desire for an individual perpetuity and renown, and this love of action and enterprise for its own sake, was sternlysubordinated to the noblest ends of living, to the largest good of hiskind, to the divine and eternal law of duty, to the relief of man'sestate and the Creator's glory. And without making any claim on hisbehalf, which it would be unworthy to make for one to whom the truthwas dearer than the opinions of men; it may be asserted, that whatevererrors of judgment or passion, we may find, or think we find in him, these ends were with him predominant, and shaped his course. 

He was not naturally a man of _letters_, but a man of action, intensely impelled to action, and it was because he was forbidden tofulfil his enterprise in person, because he had to write letters ofdirection to those to whom he was compelled to entrust it, because hehad to write letters to the future, and leave himself and his will inletters, that letters became, in his hands, _practical_. He, too, knewwhat it was to be compelled 'to unpack his heart in words' when deedsshould have expressed it. 

But even words are forbidden him here. After all the pains he hastaken to show us what the deficiency is which he is reporting here, and what the art and science which he is proposing, he can only putdown a few paragraphs on the subject, casually, as it were, inpassing. Of all these forces which have operation on the mind, andwith which scientific appliances for the human mind should becompounded, he can only 'insist upon some one or two as an example ofthe rest. '

That was all that a writer, who was at the same time a public man, could venture on, --a writer who had once been under violent politicalsuspicion, and was still eagerly watched, and especially by one classof public functionaries, who seemed to feel, that with all hisdeference to their claims, there was something there not quitefriendly to them, this was all that he could undertake to insist upon'in that place. ' But a writer who had the advantage of being alreadydefunct--a writer whose estate on the earth was then already done, andwho was in no kind of danger of losing either his head or his place, could of course manage this part of the subject differently. _He_would not find it too long to prosecute all, perhaps. And if he had atthe same time the advantage of a foreign name and seignorie, he couldcome out in England at this very crisis with the freest exhibitions ofthe points which are _here_ only _indicated_. He could even put themdown openly in his table of contents, every one of them, and make themthe titles of his chapters. 

There was a work published in England, in that age, in which theseforces, of which only the _catalogue_ is inserted here, these forceswhich _are_ in our power, which we _can_ alter, forces from which themind _suffereth_, which have operation upon the mind to affect thewill and appetite, are directly dealt with in the most subtle andartistic manner, in the form of literary _essay_; and in the bolderchapters, the author's observations and criticisms are clearly putdown; his scientific suggestions of alterations and new compounds, hisscientific doctrine of _careful alterations_, his scientific doctrineof surgery, and adaptation of regimen, and cure to different ages, anddiffering social conditions, are all promiscuously filed in, and theEnglish public swallows it without any difficulty at all, andperceives nothing disagreeable or dangerous in it. 

_This_ work contains, also, some of those other parts of the newscience which have just been reported as wanting, parts which are saidby the inventor of this science, to have a great ministry to policy, as well as morality, and the natural history of the creature, which itis here proposed to reform, is brought out without any regard whateverto considerations which would inevitably affect a moralist, looking atthe subject from any less earnest and practical--from any less_elevated_ point of view. 

Of course, it was perfectly competent for a Gascon whose gasconadingwas understood to be without any motive beyond that of vanity andegotism, and without any incidence to effects, to say, in the way ofmere foolery, many things which an English statesman could not then sowell endorse. And in case his personality were called in question, there was the mountain to retreat to, and the saint of the mount, inwhose behalf the goose is annually sacrificed by the English people, the saint under whose shield and name the great English philosophersleeps. In fact, this personage is not so limited in his quarters asthe proper name might seem to imply. One does not have to go to thesouth of France to find him. But it is certainly remarkable, that awork in Natural History, composed by the inventors of the science ofobservation, and the first in the field, containing their observationsin that part of the field too, in which the deficiency appeared tothem most important, should have been able to pass so long under sothin a disguise, under this merest gauze of _egotism_, unchallenged. 

These _essaies_, however, have not been without result. They have beenoperating incessantly, ever since, directly upon the leading minds, and indirectly upon the minds of men in general, (for many who hadnever read the book, have all their lives felt its influence), andtending gradually to the clearing up of the human intelligence in 'thepractice part of life' in general, and to the development of a commonsense on the topics here handled, much more creditable to the speciesthan anything that the author could find stirring in his age. When theworks which the propounders of the Great Instauration took pains toget composed by way of filling up their plan of it, a little, corn tobe collected and bound, this one will have to find its place amongthem. 

But here, at home, in his own historical name and figure, in his ownperson, instead of conducting his magnificent scientific experimentson that scale which the genius of his activity, and the largeness ofhis good will, would have prescribed to him, instead of founding hisHouse of Solomon as he would have founded it, (as that proximity tothe throne, when it was the throne of an absolute monarch might haveenabled him to found it, if the monarch he found there had been, indeed, what he claimed to be, a lover of learning), instead of suchlarge help and countenance as that of the king, to whom this greatproposition was addressed, the philosopher of that time could not evenventure on a literary essay in this field under that protection; itwas as much as he could do, it was as much as his favor with the kingwas worth, to slip in here, in this conspicuous place, where it wouldbe sure to be found, sooner or later, the index of his _essaies_. 

'It would be too _long_, ' he says, 'to inquire here into the operationof all these social forces that are making men, that are doing more tomake them what they are, than nature herself is doing, ' for, 'knowthou, ' the Poet of this Philosophy says, 'know thou MEN ARE as theTIME IS. ' He has included here, in these points which he would havescientifically handled, that which makes _times_, that which _can bealtered_, that which Advancements of Learning, however, set on foot atfirst, are sure in the end to _alter_. 'We will insist upon some oneor two as an example of the rest. ' And we find that the points heresumes to speak of here, are, indeed, points of primary consequence;social forces that do indeed need a scientific control, effectsreported, and precepts concluded. Custom and Habit, Books and Studies, and then a kind of culture, which he says, 'seemeth to be moreaccurate and elaborate than the rest, ' which we find, uponexamination, to be a strictly religious culture, and lastly the methodto which he gives the preference, as the most compendious and summaryin its formative or reforming influence, 'the _electing_ andpropounding unto a man's self _good and virtuous ends of his life_, such as may be in a _reasonable sort within his compass to attain_. 'He says enough under these heads to show the difficulty of writing ona subject where the science has been reported wanting, while the 'Artand Practice' is prescribed. 

He lays much stress on CUSTOM and HABIT, and gives some few preceptsfor its management, 'made out of the pith and heart of sciences, ' buthe speaks briefly, and chiefly for the purpose of indicating the valuehe attaches to this point, for he concludes his precepts andobservations on it, thus: 'Many other axioms there are, touching themanaging of exercise and custom, which being _so conducted_, --scientifically conducted--do prove, _indeed_ ANOTHER NATURE' ['almost, can _change_ the stamp of nature, '--is Hamlet's word on _this_point]; 'but being governed by _chance_, doth commonly prove but ANAPE of nature, and bringeth forth that which is _lame andcounterfeit_. ' For not less than that is the difference between thescientific administration of these things, from which the mind_suffereth_, and the blind, hap-hazard one. 

But in proceeding to the next point on which he ventures to offer somesuggestions, that of BOOKS and STUDIES, we shall do well to take withus that general doctrine of _cure_, founded upon the nature of things, which he produces under the head of the cure of the body, with adistinct allusion to its proper application here. And it is well toobserve how exactly the tone of the criticism in _this department_, chimes in with that of the criticism already reported here. 'In theconsideration of the _cures of diseases_, I find a deficiency in thereceipts of _propriety_ respecting the _particular_ cures of diseases;for the physicians _have frustrated the fruit of tradition, andexperience_, by their _magistralities_ in _adding and taking out_, andchanging _quid pro quo_ in their receipts _at their pleasure_, COMMANDING SO OVER THE MEDICINE, as the medicine _cannot command overthe disease_:' that is a piece of criticism which appears to belong tothe general subject of cure; and here is one which he himself stops toapply to a different branch of it. 

'But, lest I grow more particular than _is agreeable_, either to myintention or _proportion_, I will conclude this part with the note ofone deficiency more, which seemeth to me of GREATEST consequence, which is, that the _prescripts_ in use are too COMPENDIOUS TO ATTAINTHEIR END; for, to my understanding, it is a vain and flatteringopinion to think any _medicine_ can be so sovereign, or so happy, asthat the receipt or use of it can work any great effect upon the bodyof man: it were a strange _speech_, which spoken, or spoken oft, should reclaim a man from a vice to which he were _by nature subject_;it is _order, pursuit, sequence, and interchange of application_ WHICHIS MIGHTY IN NATURE, ' (and it is _power_ we are inquiring for here)'which, although it requires more exact _knowledge_ in prescribing, and more precise _obedience_ in observing, yet it is recompensed withthe magnitude of effects. '

Possessed now of his general theory of cure, we shall betterunderstand his particular suggestions in regard to these medicines andalteratives of the mind and manners, which are here underconsideration. 

'So if we should handle BOOKS and STUDIES, ' he continues, havinghandled custom and habit a little and their powers, in that profoundlysuggestive manner, 'so if we should handle books and studies, and whatinfluence and operation _they_ have upon manners, are there not diversprecepts of _great caution_ and _direction_?' A question to be asked. And he goes on to make some further enquiries and suggestions whichhave considerably more in them than meets the ear. They appear toinvolve the intimation that many of our books on moral philosophy, come to us from the youthful and poetic ages of the world, ages inwhich sentiment and spontaneous conviction supplied the place oflearning; for the accumulations of ages of experiment and conclusion, tend to maturity and sobriety of judgment in the race, as do thecorresponding accumulations in the individual experience and memory. 'And the reason why books' (which are adapted to the popular belief inthese early and unlearned ages) 'are of so little effect towards_honesty of life_, is that they are not read and_revolved_--revolved--as they should be, by _men in mature years_. 'But unlearned people are always beginners. And it is dangerous to putthem upon the task, or to leave them to the task of remodelling theirbeliefs and adapting them to the advancing stages of humandevelopment. He, too, thinks it is easier to overthrow the oldopinions, than it is to discriminate that which is to be conserved inthem. The hints here are of the most profoundly cautious kind--as theyhave need to be--but they point to the danger which attends theadvancement of learning when rashly and unwisely conducted, and thedanger of introducing opinions which are in advance of the popularculture; dangers of which the history of former times furnishedeminent examples and warnings then; warnings which have since beenrepeated in modern instances. He proposes that books shall be tried bytheir effects on manners. If they fail to produce HONESTY OF LIFE, andif certain particular forms of truth which were once effective to thatend, in the course of a popular advancement, or change of any kind, have lost that virtue, let them be examined; let the translation ofthem be scientifically accomplished, so that the main truth be notlost in the process, so that men be not compelled by fearfulexperience to retrace their steps in search of it, even, perhaps, tothe resuming of the old, dead form again, with all its cumbrousinefficacies; for the lack of a leadership which should have been ableto discriminate for them, and forestall this empirical procedure. 

Speaking of books of Moral science in general, and their adaptation todifferent ages, he says--'Did not one of the _fathers_, in greatindignation, call POESY "_vinum demonum_, " because it increaseth_temptations_, _perturbations_, and _vain opinions_? Is not theopinion of Aristotle worthy to be regarded, wherein he saith, "That_young men_ are no fit _auditors_ of moral philosophy, " because theyare not settled from the boiling heat of their _affections_, norattempered with _time_ and _experience_?' [And our Poet, we may remarkin passing, seems to have been struck with that same observation; forby a happy coincidence, he appears to have it in his commonplace booktoo, and he has not only made a note of it, as this one has, but hastaken the trouble to translate it into verse. He does, indeed, go alittle out of his way _in time_, to introduce it; but he is a poet whois fond of an anachronism, when it happens to serve his purpose--

 'Paris and Troilus, you have both said well; And on the cause and question now in hand Have _glozed_; but, superficially, not much Unlike _young men_ whom _Aristotle_ thought Unfit to hear _moral philosophy_. ']

The question is, then, as to the adaptations of forms, of moralinstruction to different _ages_ of the human development. For when adecided want of 'honesty of life' shows itself, in any very generalmanner, under the fullest operation of _any_ given doctrine which isthe received one, it is time for men of learning to begin to lookabout them a little; and it is a time when directions so cautious asthese should not by any means be despised by those on whom theresponsibility of direction, here, is in any way devolved. 

'And doth it not hereof come, that those excellent books anddiscourses of the ancient writers, _whereby_ they have _persuaded untovirtue most effectually_, by representing her in _state_ and_majesty_, and popular opinions against virtue in their _parasites'coats_, fit to be scorned and derided, are of so little effect towardshonesty of life--

 [_Polonius. --Honest_, my lord? _Hamlet_. --Ay, honest. ]

'--because they are not read and _revolved_ by men, in their matureand settled years, but confined almost _to boys and beginners_? But isit not true, also, that _much less_ young men are fit auditors of_matters of policy_ till they have been _thoroughly seasoned_ in_religion and morality_, lest their judgments be corrupted, and madeapt to think that there are no true differences of things, butaccording to utility and fortune. '

By putting in here two or three of those 'elegant sentences' which theauthor has taken out from their connections in his discourses, andstrung together, by way of making more perceptible points and strongerimpressions with them, according to that theory of his in regard toaphorisms already quoted, we shall better understand this passage, forthe connection in which it is introduced here tends somewhat toinvolve and obscure the meaning. 'In removing superstitions, ' he tellsus, then, in this so pointed manner, 'care should be had _the good_ benot taken away with the bad, which commonly is done _when the peopleis the physician_. ' '_Things will have_ their _first_ or _second_agitation. ' [Prima Philosophia--pith and heart of sciences: the authorof this aphorism is sound and grounded. ] 'If they be not tossed on thewaves of _counsel_, they will be _tossed on the waves of fortune_. 'That last 'tossing' requires a second cogitation. There might havebeen a more direct way of expressing it; but this author preferssimiles in such cases, he tells us. But here is more on the samesubject. 'It were good that men in their RENOVATIONS follow theexample of time itself, which, indeed, innovateth greatly, butquietly, and by degrees scarce to be perceived;' and 'Discretion inspeech is more than eloquence. ' These are the sentiments and opinionsof that man of science, whose works we are now opening, not caringunder what particular name or form we may find them. One or two ofthese observations do not sound at all like prescience _now_; but atthe time when they were given out as precepts of direction, itrequired that acquaintance with the nature of things in general whichis derived from a large and studious observation of particulars, toput them into a form so oracular. 

But this general suggestion with regard to our books of moralphilosophy, and their adaptation to the largest effect on the will andappetite under the given conditions of time--conditions which involvethe instruction of masses of men, in whom _affection_ predominates--men in whom judgment is not yet matured--men not attempered with thetime and experience of ages, by means of those preservations of itwhich the traditions of learning make; beside this general suggestionin regard to these so potent instrumentalities in manners, he hasanother to make, one in which this general proposition to substitutelearning for preconception in _practical matters_, --at least, as faras may be, comes out again in the form of criticism, and of a mostspecially significant kind. It is a point which he touches lightlyhere; but one which he touches again and again in other parts ofthis work, and one which he resumes at large in his practical ethics. 

'Again, is there not a caution likewise to be given of the doctrinesof moralities themselves, some kinds of them, lest they make men too_precise, arrogant, incompatible_, as Cicero saith of Cato, in _MarcoCatone_: "Haec bona quae videmus divina et egregia ipsius scitote essepropria: quae nonnunquam requirimus, ea sunt omnia non a natura, sed amagistro?"'

And after glancing at the specific subject of remedial agencies which_are_ within the scope of our revision and renovation, under someother heads, concluding with that which is of all others the mostcompendious and summary, and again the most noble and effectual to thereducing of the mind unto virtue and good estate, he concludes thiswhole part, this part in which the points and outlines of the newscience--that radical human science which he has dared to reportdeficient, come out with such masterly grasp and precision, --heconcludes this _whole part_ in the words which follow, --words which itwill take the author's own doctrine of interpretation to open. Forthis is one of those passages which he commends to the secondcogitation of the reader, and he knew if 'the times that were nearer'were not able to read it, 'the times that were farther off' would findit clear enough. 

'Therefore I do conclude this part of Moral _Knowledge_ concerning theculture and regiment of the Mind; wherein if any man, _considering thefacts thereof which I have enumerated_, do judge that _my labour is_to COLLECT INTO AN ART OR SCIENCE, that which hath been _pretermittedby others_, as matters of common sense and experience, he judgethwell. ' The practised eye will detect on the surface here, some marksof that style which this author recommends in such cases: especiallywhere such strong pre-occupations exist; already we perceive that thisis one of those sentences which is addressed to the skill of theinterpreter; in which, by means of a careful selection and collocationof words, two or more meanings are conveyed under one form ofexpression. And it may not be amiss to remember here, that this is astyle, according to the author's own description of it elsewhere, inwhich the more involved and enigmatical passages sometimes admit of_several_ readings, each having its own pertinence and value, according to the mental condition of the reader; and that it is astyle in which even the _delicate, collateral sounds_, that aredistinctly included in this art of tradition, must come in sometimesin the more critical places, in aid of the interpretation. 'But whatif it be an harangue whereon his life depends?'

l. --If any man considering the parts thereof, which I have enumerated, do judge that MY LABOUR IS to _collect into an_ ART or SCIENCE thatwhich hath been PRETER-MITTED by others, _he_ judgeth well. 

2. --If any man do judge that my labour is to collect into an ART orSCIENCE that which hath been pretermitted by others AS MATTERS OFCOMMON SENSE and EXPERIENCE, _he_ judgeth well. 

3. --If any man _considering_ the PARTS THEREOF WHICH I HAVEENUMERATED, do judge that my labor is to collect into an ART orSCIENCE, that which hath been pretermitted _by_ OTHERS, as matters ofcommon sense and experience, _he_ judgeth well. 

But if there be any doubt, about the more critical of these meanings, let us read on, and we shall find the criticism of this great andgreatest proposition, the proposition to substitute learning forpreconception, in the main department of human practice, brought outwith all the emphasis and significance which becomes the close of sogreat a period in sciences, and not without a little flowering of thatrhetoric, in which beauty is the incident, and discretion is more thaneloquence. 

'But as Philocrates sported with Demosthenes you may not marvel, Athenians, that _Demosthenes_ and I do differ, for _he_ drinkethwater, and _I_ drink wine. And like as we read of an ancient parableof the two gates of sleep--

 Sunt geminae somni portae, quarum altera fertur Cornea, qua veris facilis datur exitus umbris: Altera candenti perfecta nitens elephanto, Sed falsa ad coelum mittunt insomnia manes. 

'So if we put on _sobriety and attention_ we shall find it a suremaxim in knowledge, _that the more pleasant liquor of wine is the morevaporous_, and the braver gate of ivory sendeth forth the falserdreams. '

CHAPTER VI. 

METHOD OF CONVEYING THE WISDOM OF THE MODERNS

 It is a basilisk unto mine eyes, -- _Kills me to look_ on't, This fierce abridgment Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. 

 _Cymbeline_. 

This whole subject is introduced here in its natural and inevitableconnection with that special form of Delivery and Tradition which itrequired. For we find that connection indicated here, where the matterof the tradition, and that part of it which specially requires thisform is treated, and we find the form itself specified hereincidentally, but not less unmistakeably, that it is in that part ofthe work where the Art of Tradition is the primary subject. Inbestowing on 'the parts' of this science, which the propounder of itis here enumerating--that consideration which the concluding paragraphinvites to them, we find, not only the fields clearly marked out, inwhich he is labouring to collect into an art and science, that whichhas hitherto been conducted without art or science, and left to commonsense and experience, the fields in which these goodly observationsgrow, of which men have hitherto been content to gather a poesy tocarry in their hands, --(observations which he will bring home to hisconfectionery, in such new and amazing prodigality and selection), butwe find also _the very form_ which these new collections, with the newprecepts concluded on them, would naturally take, and that it is onein which these new parts of the new science and its art, which he islabouring to constitute, might very well come out, at such a time, without being recognised as philosophy at all, --might even be broughtout by _other_ men without science, as matters of common sense andexperience; though the world would have to concede, and the longer thestudy went on, the more it would be inclined to concede, that thecommon sense and experience was upon the whole somewhat uncommon, andsome who perceived its reaches, without finding that it was _art orscience_, would even be inclined to call it preternatural. 

And when he tells us, that the first step in the New Science is _thedissection_ of _character_, and the production and exhibition ofcertain scientifically constructed portraits, by means of which thismay be effected, portraits which shall represent in their type-form bymeans of 'illustrious instances, ' the several characters and tempersof men's _natures_ and _dispositions_ 'that the _secret disposition ofeach particular man_ may be laid open, and from a knowledge of thewhole, the precepts concerning the cures of the mind may be morerightly concluded, '--surely _here_, to a man of learning, _theform_, --the form in which these artistically composed diagrams will befound, is not doubtfully indicated. 

And when, at the next step, we come to the history of 'theaffections, ' and are told distinctly that _here_ philosophy, thephilosophy of practice, must needs descend from the abstraction, andgeneralities of the ancient morality, for those observations andexperiments which it is the legitimate business of the poet toconduct, though the poet, in conducting these observations andexperiments, has hitherto been wanting in the rigor which sciencerequires, when we are told that philosophy must _inevitably_ enterhere, that department of learning, of which the true poet is 'thedoctor, '--surely here at least, we know where we are. Certainly it isnot the fault of the author of the Great Instauration if we do _not_know what department of learning the collections of the new learningwhich he claims to have made will be found in--if found at all, _must_be found in. It is not his fault if we do not know in what departmentto look for the applications of the Novum Organum to those 'noblestsubjects' on which he preferred to try its powers, he tells us. Hereat least--the Index to these missing books--is clear enough. 

But in his treatment of Poetry, as one of the three grand departmentsof Human Learning, for not less noble than that is the place he openlyassigns to it, though that open and primary treatment of it, issuperficially brief, he contrives to insert in it, his deliberate, scientific preference of it, as a means of effective scientificexhibition, to either of the two graver parts, which he has associatedwith it--to history on the one hand, as corresponding to the facultyof memory, and to philosophy or mere abstract statement on the other, as corresponding to the faculty of Reason; for it is that greatradical department of learning, which is referred to the Imagination, that constitutes in this distribution of learning the third granddivision of it. He shows us here, in a few words, under differentpoints and heads, what masterly facilities, what indispensable, incomparable powers it has for that purpose. There is a form of it, 'which is as A VISIBLE HISTORY, and is an image of actions as if _theywere present_, as history is, of actions that _are past_. ' There is aform of it which is applied only to express some _special purpose_ or_conceit_, which was used of old by _philosophers_ to express anypoint of _reason_ more sharp and subtle than the vulgar, and, nevertheless, _now and at all times_ these _allusive parabolical_poems do retain much life and vigour because--note it, --note thatbecause, --that _two-fold because_, because REASON CANNOT be soSENSIBLE, nor EXAMPLES SO FIT. And he adds, also, 'there remainsanother use of this poesy, opposite to the one just mentioned, forthat use tendeth to _demonstrate_ and _illustrate_ that which istaught or delivered; and this other to _retire_ and _obscure_ it: thatis, when the secrets and mysteries of _religion, policy or philosophy_are involved in fables and parables. '

But under the cover of introducing the 'Wisdom of the Ancients, ' andthe form in which that was conveyed, he explains more at large theconditions which this kind of exhibition best meets; he claims it as aproper form of _learning_, and tells us outright, that the New Science_must be_ conveyed in it. He has left us here, all prepared to ourhands, precisely the argument which the subject now underconsideration requires. 

'Upon deliberate consideration, my judgment is, that a _concealedinstruction_ and _allegory_, was originally intended in many of theancient fables; observing that some fables discover a great andevident similitude, relation, and connection with the things theysignify, as well in the _structure of the fable_, as in the _proprietyof the names_ whereby _the persons or actors are characterised_, insomuch that no one could positively deny a sense and meaning to befrom the first intended and purposely shadowed out in them'; and hementions some instances of this kind; and the first is a veryexplanatory one, tending to throw light upon the proceedings of menwhose rebellions, so far as political action is concerned, have beensuccessfully repressed. And he takes occasion to introduce thisparticular fable repeatedly in similar connections. 'For who can hearthat _Fame_, after the giants were destroyed, sprung up as their_posthumous sister_, and not apply it to the clamour of _parties_, andthe seditious rumours which commonly fly about upon the _quelling ofinsurrections_. _Or_ who, upon hearing that memorable expedition ofthe gods against the giants, when the braying of _Silenus' ass_greatly contributed in putting the giants to flight, does not clearlyconceive that this directly _points_ to the _monstrous_ enterprises of_rebellious subjects_, which are frequently disappointed andfrustrated by _vain fears and empty rumours_. Nor is it wonder ifsometimes a _piece of history_ or other things are introduced by wayof ornament, or if _the times_ of the action are confounded, ' [thevery likeliest thing in the world to happen; things are often 'forcedin _time_' as he has given us to understand in complimenting a king'sbook where the person was absent but not the occasion], 'or if part ofone fable be tacked to another, for all this must necessarily happen, as the fables were the invention of men who lived in _different ages_, and had _different views_, some of them being _ancient_, others more_modern_, some having an eye to _natural philosophy_, _others_ to_morality_ and _civil policy_. '

This appears to be just the kind of criticism we happen to be in needof in conducting our present inquiry, and the passage which follows isnot less to the purpose. 

For, having given some other reasons for this opinion he has expressedin regard to the concealed doctrine of the ancients, he concludes inthis manner: 'But if any one shall, notwithstanding this, contend thatallegories are always adventitious, and no way native or _genuinely_contained in them, we _might here leave him undisturbed in the gravityof that judgment_, though we cannot but think it somewhat dull andphlegmatic, and, _if it were worth the trouble_, proceed to another_kind_ of argument. ' And, apparently, the argument he proceeds to, isworth some trouble, since he takes pains to bring it out socautiously, under so many different heads, with such iteration andfulness, taking care to insert it so many times in his work on theAdvancement of Learning, and here producing it again in hisIntroduction to the Wisdom of the Ancients, accompanied with adistinct assurance that it is _not_ the wisdom of the _ancients_ he isconcerning himself about, and _their_ necessities and helps andinstruments; though if any one persists in thinking that it _is_, heis not disposed to disturb him in the gravity of that judgment. Hehonestly thinks that they had indeed such intentions as those that hedescribes; but that is a question for the curious, and he has otherwork on hand; he happens to be one, whose views of learning and itsuses, do not keep him long on questions of mere curiosity. It is withthe Moderns, and not with the Ancients that he has to deal; it is thepresent and the future, and not the past that he 'breaks his sleeps'for. Whether the Ancients used those fables for purposes ofinnovation, and gradual encroachment on error or not, here is aModern, he tells us, who for one, cannot dispense with them in _his_teaching. 

For having disposed of his _graver_ readers--those of the dull andphlegmatic kind--in the preceding paragraph, and not thinking it worthexactly that kind of trouble it would have cost then to make himselfmore explicit for the sake of reaching _their_ apprehension, heproceeds to the following argument, which is not wanting in clearnessfor 'those who happen to be of his ear. '

'Men have proposed to answer two different and contrary ends by theuse of Parables, for parables serve as well to instruct andillustrate, as to wrap up and envelope:' [and what is more, they serveat once that double purpose] 'so that for _the present we drop theconcealed use_, and suppose the _ancient fables_ to be vagueundeterminate things _formed for amusement, still the other use mustremain_, and can never be given up. And every man of any learning mustreadily allow that THIS METHOD of INSTRUCTION is grave, sober, exceedingly useful, and _sometimes necessary in the sciences_, as itopens an easy and familiar passage to the human understanding, IN ALLNEW DISCOVERIES that are abstruse and _out of the road of vulgaropinion_. Hence, in the first ages, when such inventions andconclusions of the human reason as are _now_ trite and common, wererare and little known, all things abounded with fables, parables, similes, comparisons, allusions, which were not intended to _conceal_, but to _inform and teach_, whilst the minds of men continued rude andunpractised in matters of subtlety and speculation, and evenimpatient, and in a manner _incapable of receiving such things as didnot directly fall under and strike the senses_. ' [And those ages werenot gone by, it seems, for these are the very men of whom Hamletspeaks, 'who for the most part are capable of nothing but_inexplicable dumb-shows_ and _noise_. '] 'For as hieroglyphics were inuse before writings, so were parables in use _before argument_. _Andeven to this day_, if any man would let NEW LIGHT IN upon the humanunderstanding, [who was it that proposed to do that?] and _conquerprejudices without raising animosities_, OPPOSITION, orDISTURBANCE--[who was it that proposed to do that precisely]--he _muststill_--[note it]--he _must still go in the same path_, and haverecourse _to the like method_. ' Where are they then? Search and see. Where are they?--The lost Fables of the New Philosophy? 'To conclude, the knowledge of the earlier ages was either great or happy; _great_, if _by design_ they made use of tropes and figures; happy, if whilst_they had other views_ they afforded _matter_ and _occasion_ to such_noble contemplations_. Let either be the case, _our_ pains perhapswill not be misemployed, _whether we illustrate_ ANTIQUITY _or_ [hear]THINGS THEMSELVES. 

But he complains of those who have attempted such interpretationshitherto, that 'being _unskilled in nature_, and _their learning_ nomore than that of common-place, they have applied the sense of theparables to certain _general_ and _vulgar_ matters, without reachingto their real purport, genuine interpretation and full depth;'certainly it would not be _that kind_ of criticism, then, which wouldbe able to bring out _the_ subtleties of the _new learning_ from thosepopular embodiments, which he tells us it will have to take, in orderto make some impression, at least, on the common understanding. 'Settle that question, then, in regard to the old Fables as you will, _our_ pains will not perhaps be misemployed, whether we illustrateantiquity or things themselves, ' and to that he adds, 'for _myself, therefore, I expect to appear_ NEW in THESE COMMON THINGS, because, leaving untouched such as are sufficiently plain and open, I _shalldrive only those_ that are either deep or rich. ' 'For myself?'--I?--'Iexpect to appear new in these common things. ' But elsewhere, where helays out the argument of them, by the side of that 'resplendent andlustrous mass of matter, ' those _heroical_ descriptions of virtue, duty, and felicity, that _others_ have got glory from, it is some_Poet_ we are given to understand that is going to be found _new_ inthem. _There_, the argument is all--_all_--_poetic_, and it is a themefor one who, if he know how to handle it, need not be afraid to put inhis modest claim, with those who sung of old, the wrath of heroes, andtheir arms. 

Any one who does not perceive that the passages here quoted weredesigned to introduce more than 'the wisdom of the ancients', thereader who is disposed to conclude after a careful perusal of thesereiterated statements, in regard to the form in which doctrinesdiffering from received opinions must be delivered, taken inconnexion, too, with that draught of the new science of the _humanculture_ and its parts and points, which has just been producedhere, --the reader who concludes that _this_ is, after all, a sciencethat _was_ able to dispense with this method of appeal to the sensesand the imagination; that it was _not_ obliged to have recourse tothat path;--that the NEW LEARNING, 'the NEW DISCOVERY, ' had here nofables, no particular topics, and methods of tradition; that itcontented itself with abstractions and generalities, with 'the husksand shells of sciences, '--such an one ought, undoubtedly, to be leftundisturbed in that opinion. He belongs precisely to that class ofpersons which this author himself deliberately proposed to leave tosuch conclusions. He is one whom this philosopher himself would nottake any trouble at all to enlighten on such points. The otherreading, with all its _gravity_, was designed for him. The time forsuch an one to adopt the reading here produced, will be, when 'thosewho are incapable of receiving such things as do not directly fallunder and strike the senses, ' have, at last, got hold of it; when 'thegroundlings, who, for the most part are capable of nothing but dumbshow and noise, ' have had their ears split with it, it will be timeenough for him. 

This Wisdom of the Moderns, then, to resume with those to whom theappeal is made, this new learning which the Wise Man and Innovator ofthe Modern Ages tells us must be clothed in fable, and adorned withverse, this learning that must be made to fall under and strike thesenses; this dumb show of science, that is but show to him who cannotyet take the player's own version of what it means; this illustratedtradition, this beautiful tradition of the New Science of HumanNature, --where is it? This historical collection, this gallery thatwas to contain scientific draughts and portraitures of the humancharacter, that should exhaust its varieties, --where is it? These newGeorgics of the mind whose _argument is here_, --where are they? Thisnew Virgil who might promise himself such glory, --such new glory inthe singing of them, --where is he? Did he make so deep a summer in hisverse, that the track of the precept was lost in it? Were the flowers, and the fruit, so thick, there; was the reed so sweet that theargument of that great husbandry could no point, --could leave nofurrow in it?

 'Where souls do couch, on flowers, we'll hand in hand, And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze: Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops, And all the haunt be ours. '

'The neglect of our times, ' says this author, in proposing this greatargument, this new argument, of the application of SCIENCE to theCulture and Cure of the Mind, 'the neglect of _our times_, wherein_few men do hold any consultations_ touching the _reformation of theirlives, may_ make _this part_ seem superfluous. As Seneca excellentlysaith, "De partibus vitae quisquae deliberat, de summa nemo. "' And isthat, after all, --is that the trouble still? Is it, that thatcharacteristic of Elizabeth's time--that same thing which Senecacomplained of in Nero's, --is it that _that_ is not yet obsolete? Isthat the reason, this so magnificent part, this radical part of thenew discovery of the Modern Ages, is still held 'superfluous?' 'Departibus vitae quisquae deliberat, de summa nemo. ' 'Now that we havespoken, and spoken for so many ages, of this fruit of life, itremaineth to speak of the husbandry thereunto. ' That is the scientificproposition which has waited now two hundred and fifty years, for ascientific audience. The health of the soul, the scientific promotionof it, the FRUIT OF LIFE, and the observations of its husbandry. 'Andif it be said, ' he continues, anticipating the first inconsiderateobjection, 'if it be said that the cure of mens' minds belongeth tosacred divinity, it is most true; but yet, moral philosophy may bepreferred unto her, as a wise servant and humble handmaid. For as thePsalm saith, that the eyes of the handmaid look perpetually towardsthe _mistress_, and yet, no doubt, many things are left to the_discretion_ of the handmaid, to _discern of the mistress' will_; soought moral philosophy to give a constant attention to the doctrinesof divinity, and yet so as it may yield of herself, within due limits, many sound and profitable directions. '

For the times that were 'far off' when that proposition was made, itis brought out anew and reopened. Oh, people of the ages of arts andsciences that are called by this man's name, shall we have the fruitsof his new doctrine of KNOWLEDGE, brought to our relief in all otherfields, and reject it in this, which he himself laid out, and claimedas its only worthy field? Instructed now in the validity of itsclaims, by its 'magnitude of effects' in every department of the humanpractice to which it has yet been applied, shall we permit thedepartment of it, on which _his_ labour was expended, to escape thatapplication? Shall we suffer that wild barbaric tract of the humanlife which the will and affections of man create, --that tract which heseized, --which it was his labour to collect into an art or science, tolie unreclaimed still?

Oh, Man of the new ages of science, will you have the newfore-knowledge, the magical command of effects, which the scientificinquiry into causes as they are actual in nature, puts into our hands, in every other practice, in every other culture and cure, --will youhave the rule of this knowledge imposed upon your fields, andorchards, and gardens, to assist weak nature in her 'conservations'and 'advancements' in these, --to teach her to bring forth here thelatent ideals, towards which she struggles and vainly yearns, and canonly point to, and wait for, till science accepts her hints;--will youhave the Georgics of this new Virgil to load your table with its magicclusters;--will you take the Novum Organum to pile your plate with itsideal advancements on spontaneous nature and her perfections;--willyou have the rule of that Organum applied in its exactest rigors, toall the physical oppositions of your life, to minister to yourphysical safety, and comfort, and luxury, and never relax yourexactions from it, till the last conceivable degree of these has beensecured; and in this department of art and science, --this, in whichthe sum of our good and evil is contained, --in a mere oversight of it, in a disgraceful indifference and carelessness about it, be content toaccept, without criticism, the machinery of thepast--instrumentalities that the unlearned ages of the world have leftto us, --arts whose precepts were concluded ages ere we knew that_knowledge_ is power. 

Shall we be content to accept as a science any longer, a science thatleaves human life and its actualities and particulars, unsearched, uncollected, unreduced to scientific nomenclature and axiom? Shall webe content any longer with a knowledge that is _power_, --shall weboast ourselves any longer of a scientific _art_ that leaves _human_nature, --that makes over human nature to the tampering of anunwatched, unchecked empiricism, that leaves our own souls it may be, and the souls in which ours are garnered up, all wild and hidden, andgnarled within with nature's crudities and spontaneities, or chokedand bitter with artificial, but unscientific, unartistic repression?

Will you have of that divinely appointed and beautiful 'handmaid, 'that was brought in on to this Globe Theatre, with that upwardlook, --with eyes turned to that celestial sovereignty for herdirection, with the sum of good in her intention, with the universaldoctrine of practice in her programme, with the relief 'of man'sestate and the Creator's glory' put down in her role, --with her _newsong_--with her song of man's nature and life _as it is, _ on herlips--will you have of her, only the minister to your physicalluxuries and baser wants? Be it so: but in the name of that truthwhich is able to survive ages of misunderstanding and detraction, inthe name of that honor which is armed with arts of self-delivery andtradition, that will enable it to live again, 'though all the eartho'erwhelm it to men's eyes, ' while this Book of the Advancemement ofLearning stands, do not charge on this man henceforth, that election. 

The times of that ignorance in which it could be thus accredited, arepast; for the leader of this Advancement is already unfolding histradition, and opening his books; and he bids us debase his name nolonger, into a name for these sordid fatuities. The Leader of agesthat are yet to be, --ages whose nobler advancements, whose rationaland scientific advancements to the dignity and perfection of the humanform, it was given to him and to his company to plan and initiate, --hedeclines to be held any longer responsible for the blind, demoniacal, irrational spirit, that would seize on his great instrument ofscience, and wrest it from its nobler object and intent, and debase itinto the _mere_ tool of the senses; the tool of a materialism morebase and sordid than any that the world has ever known; more sordid, athousand-fold, than the materialism of ages, when there was yet a godin the wood and the stone, when there was yet a god in the brick andthe mortar. This '_broken science_' that has no end of ends, thisgodless science, this railway learning that travels with restless, ever quickening speed, no whither, --these dead, rattling 'branches'and slivers of arts and sciences, these _modern_ arts and sciences, hacked and cut away from that tree of sciences, from which theysprang, whereon they grew, are _his_ no longer. He declines to be heldany longer responsible for a materialism that shelters itself underthe name of philosophy, and identifies his own name with it. Call itscience, if you will, though science be the name for unity andcomprehension, and the spirit of life, the spirit of the largestwhole; call it philosophy if you will, if you think philosophy iscapable of being severed from that common trunk, in which thisphilosopher found its pith and heart, --call it science, --call itphilosophy, --but call it not, he says, --call it not henceforth'_Baconian_. '

For _his_ labor is to collect into an art or science the doctrine of_human_ life. He, too, has propounded that problem, --he has translatedinto the modern speech, that problem, which the inspired Leader ofmen, of old propounded. 'What is a man profited if he should gain thewhole world and lose his own soul; or what can a man give in exchangefor his soul?' He, too, has recognized that ideal type of humanexcellence, which the Great Teacher of old revealed and exemplified;he has found scientifically, --he has found in the universal law, --thatdivine dogma, which was taught of old by One who spake as havingauthority--One who also had looked on nature with a loving andobservant eye, and found in its source, the Inspirer of his doctrine. In his study of that old book of divinity which he calls the book ofGod's Power this Modern Innovator has found the scientific version ofthat inspired command 'Be ye therefore perfect. ' This new science ofmorality, which is '_moral knowledge_, ' is able to recognise theinspiration and divinity of that received platform and exemplar ofgood, and pours in on it the light of a universal illustration. And inhis new scientific policy, in his scientific doctrine of success, inhis doctrine of the particular and private good, when he brings out atlast the rule which shall secure it from all the blows of fortune, what is it but that same old '_Primum quĉrite_' which heproduces, --clothing it with the authority and severe exaction of ascientific rule in art, --that same '_Primum quĉrite_' which waspublished of old as a doctrine of faith only. 'But let men ratherbuild, ' he says, 'upon that foundation, which is as a corner-stone ofdivinity and _philosophy, wherein they join close; namely_, that _same'Primum quĉrite_. ' For divinity saith, 'Seek first the kingdom of God, and all other things shall be added to you'; and philosophy saith, 'Primum quĉrite bona animi cĉtera aut aderunt, aut non oberunt. '

And who will now undertake to say that it is, indeed, written in theBook of God, --in the Book of the Providential Design, and CreativeLaw, or that it is written in the Revelation of a divine good will tomen; that those who cultivate and cure the soul--who have a divineappointment to the office of its cure--shall thereby be qualified toignore its actual laws, or that they shall find in the scientificinvestigation of its actual history, or in this new--so new, this sowondrous and beautiful science, which is here laid out in all itsparts and points on the basis of a universal science of practice, --no'ministry' to their end? Who shall say that the Regimen of the mind, that its Education and healthful culture, as well as its cure, shallbe able to accept of no instrumentalities from the _advancement_ oflearning? Who shall say that this department of the human life--_this_alone, is going to be held back to the past, with bonds and cramps ofiron, while all else is advancing; that this is going to be heldforever as a place where the old Aristotelian logic, which we havedriven out of every other field, can keep its hold unchallengedstill, --as a place for the metaphysics of the school-men, the emptyconceits, the old exploded inanities of the Dark Ages, to breed andnestle in undisturbed?

Who shall claim that this department is the only one, which that gift, that is the last gift of Creation and Providence to man is forbiddento enter?

Surely it is the authorised doctrine of a supernatural aid, that it isnever brought in to sanction indolence and the neglect of means andinstruments already in our power; and in that book of these new agesin which the doctrine of a successful human practice was promulgated, is it not written that in no department of the human want, 'can thosenoble effects, which God hath set forth to be bought as the price oflabour, be obtained as the price of a few easy and slothfulobservances?'

And who that looks on the world as it is at this hour, with all ourboasted aids and instrumentalities, --who that hears that cry of sorrowwhich goes up from it day and night, --who that looks at these massesof men as they are, --who that dares to look at all this vice andignorance and suffering which no instrumentality, mighty to relieve, has yet reached, shall think to put back, --as if we had no need ofit, --this great gift of light and healing, --this gift of _power_, which the scientific ages are bringing in; this gift which the ages of'anticipation, ' the ages of inspiration and spontaneous affirmation, could only divinely--diviningly--foresee and promise;--this gift whichthe knowledge of the creative laws, the historic laws, the laws ofkind, as they are actual in the human nature and the human life, putsinto our hands? Who shall think himself competent to oppose thisbenefaction? Alas for such an one! let us take up a lamentation forhim. He has stayed too long. The constitution of things, the universallaws of being, and the Providence of this world are against him. Thetrack of the advancing ages goes over him. He is at variance with thatwhich was and shall be. The world's wheel goes over him. And whosoeverfalls on that stone shall be broken, but on whomsoever it falls itshall grind him to powder. 

It is by means of the scientific Art of Delivery and Tradition, thatthis doctrine of the scientific Culture and Cure of the Mind, which isthe doctrine of the scientific ages, has been made over to us in theabstract; and it is by means of the rule of interpretation, which thisArt of Delivery prescribes, it is by means of the secret of anIllustrated Tradition, or Poetic Tradition of this science, that weare now enabled to unlock at last those magnificent collections init--those inexhaustible treasures and mines of it--which theDiscoverer, in spite of the time, has contrived to leave us, in thatform of Fable and Parable in which the advancing truth has always beenleft, --in that form of Poesy in which the highest truth has, from ofold, been uttered. For over all this ground lay extended, then, inwatchful strength all safe and unespied, the basilisk of whom theFable goes, if he sees you first, you die for it, --_but_ if YOU SEEHIM FIRST, HE DIES. And this is the Bishop who fought with a _mace_, because he would _kill_ his enemy and not _wound_ him. 

BOOK II. 

ELIZABETHAN 'SECRETS OF MORALITY AND POLICY';

OR, THE FABLES OF THE NEW LEARNING. 

Reason cannot be so sensible, nor examples so fit. _Advancement of Learning. _

INTRODUCTORY. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE DESIGN. 

The object of this Volume is merely to open _as a study_, and a studyof primary consequence, those great Works of the Modern Learning whichhave passed among us hitherto, for lack of the historical andscientific key to them, as Works of Amusement, merely. 

But even in that superficial acquaintance which we have had with themin that relation, they have, all the time, been subtly operating uponthe minds in contact with them, and perpetually fulfilling the firstintention of their Inventor. 

'For, ' says the great Innovator of the Modern Ages, --the author of the_Novum_ Organum, and of the _Advancement_ of Learning, --in claimingthis department of Letters as the necessary and proper instrumentalityof a new science, --of a science at least, 'foreign to opinionsreceived, '--as he claims elsewhere that it is, under all conditions, the inevitable essential form of this science in particular. 'Men haveproposed to answer two different and contrary ends by the use ofparables, for they serve as well to _instruct_ and _illustrate_ as to_wrap up and envelope_, so that, though for the present, we drop theconcealed use, and suppose them to be _vague undeterminate things_, formed for AMUSEMENT merely, still the other _use_ remains. 'And everyman of _any_ learning must readily concede, ' he says, 'the value ofthat use of them as a method of popular instruction, grave, sober, exceedingly useful, and sometimes necessary in the _sciences_, as itopens an easy and _familiar_ passage to the human understandings in_all new_ discoveries, that are abstruse and out of the road of vulgaropinion. They were used of old by _philosophers_ to express any pointof reason more sharp and subtle than the vulgar, and nevertheless_now_, and _at all times_, these allusive parabolical forms retainmuch life and vigor, because _reason_ cannot be _so sensible_ nor_examples so fit_. ' That philosophic use of them was to inform andteach, whilst the minds of men continued rude and unpractised inmatters of subtilty and speculation, and even impatient and in amanner incapable of receiving anything that did not directly fallunder and strike the senses. 'And, even to this day, if any man wouldlet new light in upon the human understanding, and conquer prejudiceswithout raising animosities, opposition, or _disturbance_, he muststill go in _the same path_ and have recourse to the like method. '

That is the use which the History and Fables of the New Philosophyhave already _had_ with us. We have been feeding without knowing it, on the 'principal and supreme sciences'--the 'Prima Philosophia' andits noblest branches. We have been taking the application of theInductive Philosophy to the principal concerns of our human life, andto the phenomena of of the human nature itself, as mere sport andpastime; though the precepts concluded, the practical axioms inclosedwith it have already forced their way into our learning, for all ourlearning is, even now, inlaid and glittering with those 'disperseddirections. '

We have profited by this use of them. It has not been pastime merelywith us. We have not spent our time in vain on this first stage of anAdvancing Learning, a learning that will not cease to advance until ithas invaded all our empiricisms, and conquered all our practice; alearning that will recompence the diligence, the exactitude, theseverity of observance which it will require here also (when it comesto put in its claim here, as Learning and not Amusement merely), withthat same magnitude of effects that, in other departments, has alreadyjustified the name which its Inventor gave it--a Learning which willgive us here, also, in return for the severity of observance it willrequire, what no ceremonial, however exacting can give us, thatcontrol of effects, with which, even in its humblest departments, ithas already fulfilled, in the eyes of all the world, the prophecywhich its Inventors uttered when they called it the NEW MAGIC. 

That first use of the Histories and Fables of the Modern Learning, wehave had already; and it is not yet exhausted. But in that rapiddevelopment of a common intelligence, to which the new science ofpractice has itself so largely contributed, even in its lower andlimited developments, we come now to that other and so important useof these Fables, which the philosophic Innovator proposed to drop forthe time, in his argument--that use of them, in which they serve 'towrap up and conceal' for the time, or to limit to the few, who areable to receive them, those new discoveries which are as yet too farin advance of the common beliefs and opinions of men, and too farabove the mental habits and capacities of the masses of men, to besafely or profitably communicated to the many in the abstract. 

But in order to arrive at this second and nobler use of them, it willbe necessary to bestow on them a very different kind of study from anythat we have naturally thought it worth while to spend on them, solong as we regarded them as works of pastime merely; and especiallywhile that insuperable obstacle to any adequate examination of them, which the received history of the works themselves created, was stilloperating on the criticism. The truths which these Parabolic andAllusive Poems wrap up and conceal, have been safely concealedhitherto, because they are not those common-place truths which weusually look for as the point and moral of a tale which is supposed tohave a moral or politic intention, --truths which we are understood tobe in possession of beforehand, while the parable or instance is onlydesigned to impress the sensibility with them anew, and to reach thewill that would not take them from the reason, by means of the sensesor the imagination. It is not that spontaneous, intuitive knowledge, or those conventional opinions, those unanalysed popular beliefs, which we usually expect to find without any trouble at all, on thevery surface of any work that has morality for its object, it is notany such coarse, lazy performance as that, that we need troubleourselves to look for here. This higher intention in these works'their real import, genuine interpretation, and full depth, ' has notyet been found, _because_ the science which is wrapped in them, thoughit is the principal science in the plan of the Advancement ofLearning, has hitherto escaped our notice, and _because_ of theexceeding subtlety of it, --because the truths thus conveyed orconcealed are new, and recondite, and out of the way of any casualobservation, --because in this scientific collection of the phenomenaof the human life, designed to serve as the basis of new social artsand rules of practice, the author has had occasion to go behind thevague, popular, unscientific terms which serve well enough forpurposes of discourse, and mere oratory, to those principles which areactual and historical, those simple radical forms and differences onwhich the doctrine of power and practice must be based. 

It is pastime no longer. It is a study, the most patient, the mostprofoundly earnest to which these works now invite us. Let those whowill, stay in the playground still, and make such sport and pastime ofit there, as they may; and let those who feel the need of inductiverules here also, --here on the ground which this pastime covers--letthose who perceive that we have as yet, set our feet only on thethreshold of the Great Instauration, find here with diligent research, the ascent to the axioms of practice, --that ascent which the author ofthe science of practice in general, made it _his labour_ to hew out_here_, for _he_ undertook 'to collect here into an art or science, that which had been pretermitted by others as matters of common senseand experience. '

It does not consist with the design of the present work to track thatdraught of a new science of morality and policy, that 'table' of aninductive science of human nature, and human life, which the plan ofthe Advancement of Learning contains, with all the lettering of itscompartments put down, into these systematic scientific collections, which the Fables of the Modern Learning, --which these magnificentParabolical Poems have been able hitherto to wrap up and conceal. 

This work is merely introductory, and the design of it is to removethat primary obstacle to the diligent study of these works, which thepresent theory of them contains; since that concealment of their trueintention and history, which was inevitable at the time, no longerserves the author's purpose, and now that the times are ripe for thelearning which they contain, only serves indeed to hinder it. And theillustrations which are here produced, are produced with reference tothat object, and are limited strictly to the unfolding of those'_secrets of policy_, ' which are the necessary introduction to thatwhich follows. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE MISSING BOOKS OF THE GREAT INSTAURATION;OR, PHILOSOPHY ITSELF. 

Did it never occur to the student of the _Novum Organum_ that theconstant application of that '_New Machine_' by the inventor of ithimself, to one particular class of subjects, so constant as toproduce on the mind of the careless reader the common impression, thatit was intended to be applied to that class only, and that the reliefof the human estate, in that one department of the human want, constituted its whole design: did it never occur to the curiousinquirer, or to the active experimenter in this new rule of learning, that this apparently so rigorous limitation of its applications in thehands of its author is--under all the circumstances--a thing worthy ofbeing inquired into? Considering who the author of it is, and that itis on the face of it, a new method of dealing with facts in general, anew method of obtaining axioms of practice from history in general, and not a specific method of obtaining them from that particulardepartment of history from which his instances are taken; and, considering, too, that the author was himself aware of the whole sweepof its applications, and that he has taken pains to include in hisdescription of its powers, the assertion, --the distinct, deliberateassertion--that it is capable of being applied as _efficiently_, tothose nobler departments of the human need, which are marked out forit in the Great Instauration--those very departments in which he wasknown himself to be so deeply interested, and in which he had been allhis life such a diligent explorer and experimenter. Did it never occurto the scholar, to inquire why he did not apply it, then, himself tothose very subjects, instead of keeping so stedfastly to the physicalforces in his illustration of its powers? And has any one ever readthe plan of this man's works? Has any one seen the scheme of thatgreat enterprise, for which he was the responsible person in his owntime--that scheme which he wrote out, and put in among these publishedacknowledged works of his, which he dared to produce in his own name, to show what parts of his '_labor_, '--what part of chief consequencewas _not_ thus produced? Has any one seen that plan of a new system ofUniversal Science, which was published in the reign of James theFirst, under the patronage of that monarch? And if it has been seen, what is the reason there has been no enquiry made for those works, inwhich the author openly proposes to apply his new organum in person tothese very subjects; and that, too, when he takes pains to tell us, inreference to that undertaking, that he is _not_ a vain promiser. 

There is a pretence of supplying that new kind of history, which thenew method of discovery and invention requires as the first steptowards its conclusions, which is put down as the THIRD PART of theInstauration, though the natural history which is produced for thatpurpose is very far from fulfilling the description and promise ofthat division. But where is the FOURTH part of the Great Instauration?Has anybody seen the FOURTH part? Where is that so important part forwhich all that precedes it is a preparation, or to which it issubsidiary? Where is that part which consists of EXAMPLES, that arenothing but a _particular_ application of the SECOND; that is, theNovum Organum, --'and to _subjects of the noblest kind_?' Where is'that part of our work which enters upon PHILOSOPHY ITSELF, ' insteadof dealing any longer, or professing to deal, with THE METHOD merelyof finding that which man's relief requires, or instead of exhibitingthat method any longer _in the abstract_? Where are the works in whichhe undertakes to show it in operation, with its new 'grappling hooks'on the matter of the human life--applied by the inventor himself to'the noblest subjects?' Surely that would be a sight to see. What isthe reason that our editors do not produce these so important works intheir editions? What is the reason that our critics do not includethem in their criticism? What is the reason that our scholars do notquote them? Instead of stopping with that mere report of the conditionof learning and its deficiences, and that outline of what is to bedone, which makes the FIRST PART or Introduction to this work; orstopping with the description of the new method, or the Novum Organum, which makes the SECOND; why don't they go on to the 'new philosophyitself, ' and show us that as well, --the very object of all thispreparation? When he describes in the SECOND part his _method_ offinding true terms, or rather the method of his school, when hedescribes this new method of finding '_ideas_, ' ideas as they are innature, powers, causes, the elements of history, or _forms_, as hemore commonly calls them, when he describes this new method ofdeducing axioms, axioms that are ready for practice, he does, indeed, give us _instances_; but it so happens, that the instances are all of_one kind_ there. They are the physical powers that supply hisexamples in that part. 

In describing this method merely, he produces what he calls his Tablesof Invention, or Tables of REVIEW OF INSTANCES; but where is that partin which he tells us we shall find these same tables again, with 'thenobler subjects' on them? He produces them for careful scrutiny in hissecond part; and he makes no small parade in bringing them in. Heshews them up very industriously, and is very particular to direct theadmiring attention of the reader to their adaptation as means to anend. But certainly there is nothing in that specimen of what can bedone with them which he contents himself with there, that would leadany one to infer that the power of this invention, which is thenovelty of it, was going to be a dangerous thing to society, or, indeed, that they were not the most harmless things in the world. Itis the true cause of HEAT, and the infallible means of producing thatunder the greatest variety of conditions, which he appears to betrying to arrive at there. But what harm can there be in that, or inany other discovery of that kind. And there is no real impression madeon any one's mind by that book, that there is any other kind ofinvention or discovery intended in the practical applications of thismethod? The very free, but of course not pedantic, use of the newterminology of a new school in philosophy, in which this authorindulges--a terminology of a somewhat figurative and poetic kind, onecannot but observe, for a philosopher of so strictly a logical turn ofmind, one whose thoughts were running on abstractions so entirely, toconstruct; his continued preference for these new scholastic terms, and his inflexible adherence to a most profoundly erudite mode ofexpression whenever he approaches 'the part operative' of his work, isindeed calculated to awe and keep at a distance minds not yet preparedto grapple formally with those 'nobler subjects' to which allusion ismade in another place. King James was a man of some erudition himself;but he declared frankly that for his part he could not understand thisbook; and it was not strange that he could not, for the author did notintend that he should. The philosopher drops a hint in passing, however, that all which is essential in this method, might perhaps beretained without quite so much formality and fuss in the use of it, and that the proposed result might be arrived at by means of thesesame tables, without any use of technical language at all, under othercircumstances. 

The results which have since been obtained by the use of this methodin that department of philosophy to which it is specially applied inthe Novum Organum, give to the inquirer into the causes of thephysical phenomena now, some advantages which no invention couldsupply them. That was what the founders of this philosophy expectedand predicted. They left this department to their school. The authorof the Novum Organum orders and initiates this inquiry; but the basisof the induction in this department is as yet wanting; and thecollections and experiments here require combinations of skill andlabour which they cannot at once command. They will do what they canhere too, in their small way, just to make a beginning; but they donot lay much stress upon any thing they can accomplish with the use oftheir own method in this field. It serves, however, a very convenientpurpose with them; neither do they at all underrate its intrinsicimportance. 

But the man who has studiously created for himself a social positionwhich enables him to assume openly, and even ostentatiously, theposition of an innovator--an innovator _in the world of letters_, anadvancer of--_learning_--is compelled to introduce his innovation withthe complaint that he finds the mind of the world so stupified, sobewildered with evil, and so under the influence of dogmas, that thefirst thing to be done is to get so much as a thought admitted of thepossibility of a better state of things. 'The present system ofphilosophy, ' he says, 'cherishes in its bosom certain positions ordogmas which it will be found, are calculated to produce a fullconviction that no difficult, commanding, and powerful operation onnature _ought_ to be anticipated, through the means of art. ' And, therefore, after criticising the theory and practice of the world ashe finds it, reporting as well as he can, --though he can find nowords, he says, in which to do justice to his feeling in regard toit--_the deficiencies_ in its learning, he devotes a considerableportion of the description of his new method to the grounds of 'hope'which he derives from this philosophic survey, and that that hope isnot a hope of a better state of things in respect to the physicalwants of man merely, that it is not a hope of a renovation in the artswhich minister to those wants exclusively, any very careful reader ofthe first book of the Novum Organum will be apt on the whole to infer. But the statements here are very general, and he refers us to anotherplace _for particulars_. 

'Let us then speak of _hope_' he says, '_especially_ as we are notvain promisers, nor are willing to enforce or ensnare men's judgments;but would rather lead them _willingly_ forward. And although we shallemploy the most cogent means of _enforcing hope when we bring them_ TOPARTICULARS, and _especially_ those which are digested and arranged inour Tables of Invention, the subject partly of the SECOND, but--_principally_--mark it, _principally_ of the FOURTH part of theInstauration, which are, indeed, rather the very objects of our hopesthan hope itself. ' Does he dare to tell us, in this very connection, that he is _not_ a vain promiser, when no such PART as that to whichhe refers us here is to be found anywhere among his writings--whenthis _principal_ part of his promise remains unfulfilled. 'The FOURTHpart of the Instauration, ' he says again in his formal description ofit, 'enters upon philosophy itself, furnishing _examples of inquiryand investigation_, according to our own method, _in certain subjectsof the noblest kind_, but greatly differing from each other, that aspecimen may be had of _every sort_. By these examples, we mean _notillustrations of rules and precepts_, ' [He will show the facts in suchorder, in such scientific, select, methodical arrangements, that rulesand precepts will be forced from them; for he will show them, on thetables of invention, and rules and precepts are the vintage that flowsfrom the illustrious instances--the prerogative instances--the ripe, large, cleared, selected clusters of facts, the subtle preparedhistory which the tables of invention collect. The definition of thesimple original elements of history, the pure definition is the firstvintage from these; but 'that which in speculative philosophycorresponds to the cause, in practical philosophy becomes the rule'and _the axiom of practice_, ready for use, is the final result. ] 'butperfect models, which will exemplify the SECOND PART of this work, andrepresent, as it were, to _the eye_ the whole progress of the mind, and _the continued structure and order of invention_ in THE MORECHOSEN SUBJECTS'--note it, in the _more_ chosen subjects; but this isnot at all--'_after the same manner as globes and machines facilitatethe more abstruse and subtle demonstrations in mathematics_. ' But inanother place he tells us, that the poetic form of demonstration isthe form to which it is necessary to have recourse on these subjects, _especially_ when we come to these more abstruse and subtledemonstrations, as it opens an easy and familiar passage to the humanunderstanding in all new discoveries, that are abstruse and out of theroad of vulgar opinion; and that at the time he was writing out thisplan of his works, any one, who would let in new light on the humanunderstanding, and conquer prejudices, without raising animosity, opposition, or disturbance, had no choice--_must go in that samepath_, or none. Where are those diagrams? And what does he mean, whenhe tells us in this connection that he is not a vain promiser? Whereare those particular cases, in which this method of investigation isapplied to the noblest subjects? Where are the diagrams, in which theorder of the investigation is represented, as it were, to the eye, which serve the same purpose, 'that globes and machines serve in themore abstruse and subtle demonstrations in mathematics?' We are allacquainted with one poem, at least, published about that time, inwhich some very abstruse and subtle investigations appear to be inprogress, _not_ without the use of diagrams, and very lively ones too;but one in which the intention of the poet appears to be to the lastdegree 'enigmatical, ' inasmuch as it has engaged the attention of themost philosophical minds ever since, and inasmuch as the most ablecritics have never been able to comprehend that intention fully intheir criticism. And it is bound up with many others, in which thesubjects are not less carefully chosen, and in which the method ofinquiry is the same; in which that same method that is exhibited inthe 'Novum Organum' in the abstract, or in its application to theinvestigation of the physical phenomena, is everywhere illustrated inthe most chosen subjects--in subjects of the noblest kind. Thisvolume, and another which has been mentioned here, contain the THIRDand FOURTH PARTS of the Great Instauration, whether this man whodescribes them here, and who forgot, it would seem, to fulfil hispromise in reference to them, be aware of it or not. 

That is the part of the Great Instauration that we want now, and weare fairly entitled to it, because these are not 'the next ages, ' or'the times which were nearer, ' and which this author seldom speaks ofwithout betraying his clear foresight of the political and socialconvulsions that were then at hand. These are the times, which werefarther off, to which he appeals from those nearer ages, and to whichhe expressly dedicates the opening of his designs. 

Now, what is it that we have to find? What is it that is missing outof this philosophy? Nothing less than the 'principal' part of it. Allthat is good for anything in it, according to the author's ownestimate. The rest serves merely 'to pass the time, ' or it is good asit serves to prepare the way for this. What is it that we have to lookfor? The 'Novum Organum, ' that severe, rigorous method of scientificinquiry, applied to _the more chosen subjects_ in the reigns of QueenElizabeth and James I. Tables of Review of Instances, and all thatLogic which is brought out in the doctrine of the PREROGATIVEINSTANCES, whereby the mind of man is prepared for its encounter withfact in general, brought down to particulars, and applied to thenoblest subjects, and to every sort of subject which the philosophicmind of that age _chose_ to apply it to. That is what we want to find. 

'The prerogative instances' in 'the _more_ chosen subjects. ' The wholefield which that philosophy chose for its field, and called thenoblest, the principal, the chosen, the more chosen one. Every part ofit reduced to scientific inquiry, put under the rule of the 'NovumOrganum'; that is what we want to find. We know that no such thingcould possibly be found in the acknowledged writings of this author. Nothing answering to that description, composed by a statesman and aphilosopher, with an avowed intention in his writing--an intention toeffect changes, too, in the actual condition of men, and 'to subornpractice and actual life, ' no such work by such an author could by anymeans have been got through the press then. No one who studies thesubject will think of looking for that FOURTH PART of the Instaurationamong the author's acknowledged writings. Does he give us any hint asto where we are to look for it? Is there any intimation as to theparticular form of writing in which we are to find it? for find it wemust and shall, because he is _not_ a vain promiser. The _subject_itself determines the form, he says; and the fact that the wholeground of the discovery is ground already necessarily comprehended inthe preconceptions of the many--that it is ground covered all overwith the traditions and rude theories of unlearned ages, this fact, also, imperiously determines the method of the inculcation. Who thatknows what the so-called Baconian method of learning really is, willneed to be told that the principal books of it will be--books ofINSTANCES and PARTICULARS, SPECIMENS--living ones, and that these willoccupy the prominent place in the book; and that the conclusions andprecepts will come in as abstractions from these, drawn freshly and onthe spot from particulars, and, therefore, ready for use, 'knowing theway to particulars again?' Who would ever expect to find the principalbooks of this learning--the books in which it enters upon philosophyitself, and undertakes to leave a specimen of its own method in thenoblest subjects in its own chosen field--who would ever expect tofind these books, books of abstractions, books of precepts, withinstances or examples brought in, to illustrate or make them good? Forthis is not a point of method merely, but a point of substance, as hetakes pains to tell us. And who that has ever once read his ownaccount of the method in which he proposes to _win_ the human mindfrom its preconceptions, instead of undertaking to overcome it withLogic and sharp disputations, --who that knows what place he gives toRhetoric, what place he gives to the Imagination in his scheme ofinnovation, will expect to find these books, books of a dry didacticlearning? Does the student know how many times, in how many forms, under how many different heads, he perseveringly inserts the boldassurance, that the form of poesy and enigmatic allusive writing isthe _only_ form in which the higher applications of his discovery canbe made to any purpose in that age? Who would expect to find this partin any professedly scientific work, when he tells us expressly, 'Reason cannot be so sensible, nor examples so fit, ' as the exampleswhich his scientific terminology includes in the department of_Poesy?_

All the old historical wisdom was in that form, he says; all the firstphilosophy was poetical; all the old divinity came in history andparable; and even to this day, he who would let in new light upon thehuman understanding, without raising opposition or disturbance, muststill go in the same path, and have recourse to the like method. 

He was an innovator; he was _not_ an agitator. And he claims that markof a divine presence in his work, that its benefactions come, withoutnoise or perturbation, _in aura leni_. Of innovations, there has beennone in history like that which he propounded, but neither would hestrive nor cry. There was no voice in the streets, there was no redensign lifted, there was no clarion-swell, or roll of the conqueror'sdrum to signal to the world that entrance. He, too, claims a divineauthority for his innovation, and he declares it to be of God. It isthe providential order of the world's history which is revealed in it;it is the fulfilment of ancient prophecy which this new chief, ladenwith new gifts for men, openly announces. 

'Let us begin from God, ' he says, when he begins to open his ground of_hope_, after he has exposed the wretched condition of men as he findsthem, without any scientific knowledge of the laws and institutes ofthe universe they inhabit, engaged in a perpetual and mad collisionwith them; 'Let us begin from God, and show that our pursuit, from itsexceeding goodness, _clearly_ proceeds from Him, the Author of GOODand Father of LIGHT. Now, _in all divine works_, the smallestbeginnings lead assuredly to some results; and the rule in spiritualmatters, that the Kingdom of God cometh without observation, is alsofound to be true _in every great work of_ PROVIDENCE, so thateverything glides in quietly, without confusion or noise; and thematter is achieved before men even think of perceiving that it iscommenced. ' 'Men, ' he tells us, 'men should imitate Nature, whoinnovateth _greatly_ but _quietly_, and by degrees scarce to beperceived, ' who will not dispense with the old form till the new oneis finished and in its place. 

What is that we want to find? We want to find the new method ofscientific inquiry applied to the questions in which men are mostdeeply interested--questions which were then imperiously and instantlyurged on the thoughtful mind. We want to see it applied to POLITICS inthe reign of James the First. We want to see it applied to the openquestions of another department of inquiry, --certainly not any lessimportant, --in that reign, and in the reign which preceded it. We wantto see the facts sifted through those scientific tables of review, from which the true form of SOVEREIGNTY, the _legitimate_ sovereignty, is to be inducted, and the scientific axioms of government with it. Wewant to see the science of observation and experiment, the science ofnature in general, applied to the cure of the common-weal in the reignof James the First, and to that particular crisis in its disease, inwhich it appeared to the observers to be at its last gasp; and that, too, by the principal doctors in that profession, --men of the verylargest experience in it, who felt obliged to pursue their workconscientiously, whether the patient _objected_ or not. But are thereany such books as these? Certainly. You have the author's own word forit. 'Some may raise this question, ' he says, 'this _question_ ratherthan _objection_'--[it is better that it should come in the form of a_question_, than in the form of _an objection_, as it would have come, if there had been no room to '_raise the question_']--'_whether wetalk_ of perfecting _natural philosophy_' [using the term here in itsusual limited sense], 'whether we talk of perfecting naturalphilosophy _alone_, according to our method, or, _the other_sciences--_such as_, ETHICS, LOGIC, POLITICS. ' _That_ is the question'raised. ' 'We certainly intend to comprehend them ALL. ' _That_ is _theauthor's_ answer to it. 'And as _common logic_ which _regulatesmatters by syllogism_, is applied, not only to natural, but to everyother science, _so_ our inductive method _likewise_ comprehends themALL. ' With such iteration will he think fit to give us this point. Itis put in here for those 'who raise the question'--the question'rather than objection. ' The other sort are taken care of in otherplaces. '_For_, ' he continues, 'we form a history and tables ofinvention, for _anger, fear, shame, _ and _the like_; and _also forexamples in civil life_' [that was to be the principal part of thescience when he laid out the plan of it in the advancement oflearning] 'and the _mental_ operations of _memory, composition, division, judgment_, and the rest; _as well_ as for _heat_ and _cold, light_ and _vegetation_, and _the like_. ' That is the plan of the newscience, as the author sketches it for the benefit of those who raisequestions rather than objections. That is its comprehension precisely, whenever he undertakes to mark out its limits for the satisfaction ofthis class of readers. But this is that same FOURTH PART to which herefers us in the other places for the application of his method tothose nobler subjects, those more chosen subjects; and that is justthe part of his science which appears to be wanting. How happens it?Did he get so occupied with the question of _heat_ and _cold_, _light_and vegetation, and _the like_, that after all he forgot this partwith its nobler applications? How could that be, when he tells usexpressly, that they are the more chosen subjects of his inquiry. Thispart which he speaks of here, is the missing part of his philosophy, unquestionably. These are the books of it which have been missinghitherto; but in that Providential order of events to which he refershimself, the time has come for them to be inquired for; and thisinquiry is itself a part of that movement, in which the smallestbeginnings lead assuredly to some result. For, 'let us begin fromGod, ' he says, 'and show that our pursuit, from its exceedinggoodness, clearly proceeds from Him, the Author of GOOD, and not ofmisery; the Father of LIGHT, and not of darkness. '

Of course, it was impossible to get out any scientific doctrine of thehuman society, without coming at once in collision with that doctrineof the divinity of arbitrary power which the monarchs of England werethen openly sustaining. Who needs to be told, that he who would handlethat argument scientifically, then, without military weapons, as thisinquirer _would_, must indeed 'pray in aid of _similes_. ' And yet avery searching and critical inquiry into the claims of thatinstitution, which the new philosophy found in possession of the humanwelfare, and asserting a divine right to it as a thing of privateproperty and legitimate family inheritance, --such a criticism was, infact, inevitably involved in that inquiry into the principles of a_human_ subjection which appeared to this philosopher to belongproperly to the more chosen subjects of a scientific investigation. 

And notwithstanding the delicacy of the subjects, and the extremelycritical nature of the investigation, when it came to touch thoseparticulars, with which the personal observations and experiments ofthe founders of this new school in philosophy had tended to enrichtheir collections in this department, --'and the aim is better, ' saysthe principal spokesman of this school, who quietly proposes tointroduce this method into _politics_, 'the aim is better _when themark is alive_;' notwithstanding the difficulties which appeared tolie then in the way of such an investigation, the means of conductingit to the entire satisfaction, and, indeed, to the large entertainmentof the persons chiefly concerned, were not wanting. For this was oneof those 'secrets of policy, ' which have always required the aid offable, and the idea of _dramatising_ the fable for the sake ofreaching in some sort those who are incapable of receiving any thing'which does not directly fall under, and strike the senses, ' as thephilosopher has it; those who are capable of nothing but 'dumb showsand noise, ' as Hamlet has it; this idea, though certainly a veryhappy, was not with these men an original one. Men, whose relations tothe state were not so different as the difference in the forms ofgovernment would perhaps lead us to suppose, --men of the gravestlearning and enriched with the choicest accomplishments of their time, had adopted that same method of influencing public opinion, some twothousand years earlier, and even as long before as that, there were'secrets of morality and policy, ' to which this form of writingappeared to offer the most fitting veil. 

Whether 'the new' philosopher, --whether 'the new magician' of thistime, was, in fact, in possession of any art which enabled him tohandle without diffidence or scruple the great political questionwhich was then already the question of the time; whether 'THECROWN'--that double crown of military conquest and priestlyusurpation, which was the one estate of the realm at that crisis inEnglish history, did, among other things in some way, come under theedges of that new analysis which was severing _all_ here then, and getdivided clearly with 'the mind, that divine fire, '--whether any suchthing as that occurred here then, the reader of the following pageswill be able to judge. The careful reader of the extracts theycontain, taken from a work of practical philosophy which made itsappearance about those days, will certainly have no difficulty at allin deciding that question. For, first of all, it is necessary to findthat political key to the Elizabethan art of delivery, which unlocksthe great works of the Elizabethan philosophy, and that is thenecessity which determines the selection of the Plays that areproduced in this volume. They are brought in to illustrate the factalready stated, and already demonstrated, the fact which is thesubject of this volume, the fact that the new practical philosophy ofthe modern ages, which has its beginning here, was not limited, in theplan of its founders, to 'natural philosophy' and 'the part operative'of that, --the fact that it comprehended, as its principal department, the department in which its 'noblest subjects' lay, and in which itsmost vital innovations were included, a field of enquiry which couldnot then be entered without the aid of fable and parable, and onewhich required not then only, 'but now, and at all times, ' the aid ofa vivid poetic illustration; they are brought in to illustrate thefact already demonstrated from other sources, the fact that the newphilosophy was the work of men able to fulfil their work under suchconditions, able to work, if not for the times that were nearer, forthe times that were further off; men who thought it little so theycould fulfil and perfect their work and make their account of it tothe Work-master, to robe another with their glory; men who couldrelinquish the noblest works of the human genius, that they might savethem from the mortal stabs of an age of darkness, that they might makethem over unharmed in their boundless freedom, in their unstainedperfection, to the farthest ages of the advancement of learning, --thatthey might 'teach them how to live and look fresh' still, 'When tyrants' crests, and tombs of brass are spent. '

That is the one fact, the indestructible fact, which this book is todemonstrate. 

PART I. 

LEAR'S PHILOSOPHER

 'Thou'dst shun a bear; But if thy way lay towards the raging sea, Thou'dst meet the bear i' the mouth. '

CHAPTER I. 

PHILOSOPHY IN THE PALACE. 

 'I think the king is but a man, as I am. '--_King Henry_. 'They told me I was everything. '--_Lear_. 

OF course, it was not possible that the prerogative should be openlydealt with at such a time, questioned, discussed, scientificallyexamined, in the very presence of royalty itself, except by personsendowed with extraordinary privileges and immunities, persons, indeed, of quite irresponsible authority, whose right to do and say what theypleased, Elizabeth herself, though they should enter upon a criticalanalysis of the divine rights of kings to her face, and deliberatelylay bare the defects in that title which she was then attempting tomaintain, must needs notwithstanding, concede and respect. 

And such persons, as it happened, were not wanting in the retinue ofthat sovereignty which was working in disguise here then, and layingthe foundations of that throne in the thoughts of men, which wouldreplace old principalities and powers, and not political dominionsmerely. To the creative genius which waited on the philosophic mind ofthat age, making up in the splendour of its gifts for the poverty ofits exterior conditions, such persons, --persons of any amount orvariety of capacity which the necessary question of its play mightrequire, were not wanting:--'came with a thought. '

Of course, poor Bolingbroke, fevered with the weight of his ill-gotcrown, and passing a sleepless night in spite of its supposedexemptions, unable to command on his state-bed, with all his royalmeans and appliances, the luxury that the wet sea boy in the stormenjoys, --and the poet appears, to have had some experience of thismortal ill, which inclines him to put it down among those which oughtto be excluded from a state of supreme earthly felicity, --the poorguilty disgusted usurper, discovering that this so blessed 'invention'was not included in the prerogative he had seized, under theexasperation of the circumstances, might surely be allowed to mutterto himself, in the solitude of his own bed-chamber, a few generalreflections on the subject, and, indeed, disable his own position toany extent, without expecting to be called to an account for it, byany future son or daughter of his usurping lineage. Thatextraordinary, but when one came to look at it, quite incontestablefact, that nature in her sovereignty, imperial still, refused torecognize this artificial difference in men, but still went on her wayin all things, as if 'the golden standard' were not there, classingthe monarch with his 'poorest subject;'--the fact that this charmed'round of sovereignty, ' did not after all secure the least exemptionfrom the common _individual_ human frailty, and helplessness, --thiswould, of course, strike the usurper who had purchased the crown atsuch an expense, as a fact in natural history worth communicating, ifit were only for the benefit of future princes, who might be disposedto embark in a similar undertaking. Here, of course, the moral wasproper, and obvious enough; or close at hand, and ready to beproduced, in case any serious inquiry should be made for it; thoughthe poet might seem, perhaps, to a severely critical mind, disposed topursue his philosophical inquiry a little too curiously into the awfulsecrets of majesty, retired within itself, and pondering its ownposition;--openly searching what Lord Bacon reverently tells us, theScriptures pronounce to be inscrutable, namely, _the hearts_ of_kings_, and audaciously laying bare those private passages, thoseconfessions, and misgivings, and frailties, for which policy andreverence prescribe concealment, and which are supposed in the play, indeed, to be shrouded from the profane and vulgar eye, a circumstancewhich, of course, was expected to modify the impression. 

So, too, that profoundly philosophical suspicion, that a rose, or aviolet, did actually smell, to a person occupying this sublimeposition, very much as it did to another; a suspicion which, in themouth of a common man, would have been literally sufficient to 'make astar-chamber matter of'; and all that thorough-going analysis of thetrick and pageant of majesty which follows it, would, of course, comeonly as a graceful concession, from the mouth of that genuine piece ofroyalty, who contrives to hide so much of the poet's own 'sovereigntyof nature, ' under the mantle of his free and princely humours, thebrave and gentle hero of Agincourt. 

'Though _I_ speak it to you, ' he says, talking in the disguise of a'private, ' '_I think the King is but a man as I am_, the violet smellsto him as it doth to me; all his senses, _have but human conditions_. His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness, he appears but a man; andthough his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when theystoop, they stoop with the like wing. When he sees reason of fears, aswe do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are';and in the same scene, thus the royal philosopher versifies, andsoliloquises on the same delicate question. 

'And what have _kings_ that "_privates_" have not, too, saveceremony, --save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou _idolceremony?_--_What is_ thy _soul_ of _adoration_?'

A grave question, for a man of an inquiring habit of mind, in thosetimes: let us see how a Poet can answer it. 

 'Art thou aught else but _place, degree_ and _form_, Creating awe and fear in _other men?_ Wherein, thou _art less happy, being feared_, _Than they in fearing_?

[Again and again this man has told us, and on his oath, that hecherished no evil intentions, no thought of harm to the king; andthose who know what criticisms on the state, as it was then, he hadauthorised, and what changes in it he was certainly meditating andpreparing the way for, have charged him with falsehood and perjury onthat account; but this is what he means. He thinks that wretchedvictim of that most irrational and monstrous state of things, on whosehead the crown of an arbitrary rule is placed, with all itsresponsibilities, in his infinite unfitness for them, is, in fact, theone whose case most of all requires relief. He is the one, in thistheory, who suffers from this unnatural state of things, not less, butmore, than his meanest subject. 'Thou art less happy being feared, than they in fearing. ']

 What drink'st thou oft _instead of homage sweet_ But _poison'd flattery_? O! be sick, great greatness, And bid thy _ceremony_ give thee _cure_. Thinkest thou the _fiery fever will go out_ With _titles blown from adulation_? Will it give place to flexure and low bending?

Interesting physiological questions! And though the author, forreasons of his own, has seen fit to put them in blank verse here, itis not because he does not understand, as we shall see elsewhere, thatthey are questions of a truly scientific character, which require tobe put in prose in his time--questions of vital consequence to allmen. The effect of 'poisoned flattery, ' and 'titles blown fromadulation' on the minds, of those to whose single will and caprice thewhole welfare of the state, and all the gravest questions for thislife and the next, were then entrusted, naturally appeared to thephilosophical mind, perseveringly addicted to inquiries, in which thepractical interests of men were involved, a question of gravestmoment. 

But here it is the physical difference which accompanies this soimmense human distinction, which he appears to be in quest of; it isthe control over nature with which these '_farcical titles_' investtheir possessor, that he appears to be now pertinaciously bent uponascertaining. For we shall find, as we pursue the subject, that thisis not an accidental point here, a casual incident of the character, or of the plot, a thing which belongs to the play, and not to theauthor; but that this is a poet who is somehow perpetually hauntedwith the impression that those who assume a divine right to control, and dispose of their fellow-men, ought to exhibit some sign of theirauthority; some superior abilities; some magical control; some lightand power that other men have not. How he came by any such notions, the critic of his works is, of course, not bound to show; but thatwhich meets him at the first reading is the fact, the incontestablefact, that the Poet of Shakspere's stage, be he who he may, is a poetwhose mind is in some way deeply occupied with this question; that itis a poet who is infected, and, indeed, perfectly possessed, with theidea, that the true human leadership ought to consist in the abilityto extend the empire of man over nature, --in the ability to unite andcontrol men, and lead them in battalions against those common evilswhich infest the human conditions, --not fevers only but 'worser'evils, and harder to be cured, and to the conquest of those supernalblessings which the human race have always been vainly crying for. 'Iam a king that find thee, ' he says. 

And having this inveterate notion of a true human regality to beginwith, he is naturally the more curious and prying in regard to theclaims of the one which he finds in possession; and when by themystery of his profession and art, he contrives to get the cloak ofthat factitious royalty about him, he asks questions under its coverwhich another man would not think of putting. 

'Canst thou, ' he continues, walking up and down the stage in KingHal's mantle, inquiring narrowly into its virtues and taking advantageof that occasion to ascertain the limits of the prerogative--that verydubious question then, --

 'Canst thou when thou command'st the beggar's knee, _Command the health_ of it?'--

_No_? what mockery of power is it then? But, this in connection withthe preceding inquiry in regard to the effect of titles on theprogress of a fever, or the amenability of its paroxysm, to flexureand low bending, might have seemed perhaps in the mouth of a subjectto savour somewhat of irony; it might have sounded too much like ataunt upon the royal helplessness under cover of a seriousphilosophical inquiry, or it might have betrayed in such an one adisposition to pursue scientific inquiries farther than was perhapsexpedient. But thus it is, that THE KING can dare to pursue thesubject, answering his own questions. 

 'No, thou proud dream That _playst so subtly with a king's repose_; _I_ am a king _that find thee_; and I know 'Tis not the THE BALM, THE SCEPTRE, and THE BALL, THE SWORD, THE MACE, THE CROWN IMPERIAL, _The inter-tissued_ ROBE of _gold and pearl_, The FARCED TITLE--

What is that?--Mark it:--the _farced_ TITLE!--A bold word, one wouldsay, even with _a king_ to authorise it. 

 'The farced TITLE running 'fore the king, THE THRONE he sits on, nor _the tide_ of POMP That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice gorgeous CEREMONY, Not all these laid in BED MAJESTICAL, Can _sleep so soundly_ as the wretched slave Who, with a body filled, and vacant mind, Gets him to rest crammed with distressful bread, Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, But like a lackey from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Phoebus; and all night Sleeps in Elysium. 

Yes, there we have him, at last. There he is exactly. That is thescientific picture of him, 'poor man, ' as this poet calls himelsewhere. What malice could a philosophic poet bear him? That is themonarchy that men were 'sanctifying themselves with, ' and 'turning upthe white of the eye to, ' then. That is the figure that it makes whenit comes to be laid in its state-bed, upon the scientific table ofreview, not in the formal manner of 'the second part' of thisphilosophy, but in that other manner which the author of the _NovumOrganum_, speaks of so frequently, as the one to be used in applyingit to subjects of this nature. That is the anatomy of him, which'_our_ method of inquiry and investigation, ' brings out without muchtrouble 'when we come to particulars. ' 'Truly we were in good hands, 'as the other one says, who finds it more convenient, for his part, todiscourse on these points, from a distance. 

That is the figure the usurping monarch's pretensions make at thefirst blush, in the collections from which '_the vintage_' of the truesovereignty, and the scientific principles of governments are to beexpressed, when the true _monarchy_, the legitimate, 'one only manpower, ' is the thing inquired for. This one goes to 'the negative'side apparently. A wretched fellow that cannot so much as 'sleep o'nights, ' that lies there on the stage in the play of Henry the Fourth, in the sight of all the people, with THE CROWN on his very pillow, byway 'facilitating the demonstration, ' pining for the 'Elysium' at hismeanest subject, --that the poor slave, 'crammed with distressfulbread, ' commands; crying for the luxury that the wet seaboy, on hishigh and giddy couch enjoys;--and from whose note-book came thatimage, dashed with the ocean spray, --who saw that seaboy sleeping in_that_ storm?

But, as for this KING, it is the king which the scientific historybrings out; whereas, in the other sort of history that was in usethen, lie is hardly distinguishable at all from those Mexican kingswho undertook to keep the heavenly bodies in their places, and, at thesame time, to cause all things to be borne by the earth which wererequisite for the comfort and convenience of man; a peculiarity ofthose sovereigns, of which the Man on the Mountains, whose study is sowell situated for observations of that sort, makes such a pleasantnote. 

But whatever other view we may take of it, this, it must be conceded, is a tolerably comprehensive exhibition, in the general, of the merepageant of royalty, and a pretty free mode of handling it; but it isat the same time a privileged and entirely safe one. For the libertyof this great Prince to repeat to himself, in the course of a solitarystroll through his own camp at midnight, when nobody is supposed to bewithin hearing, certain philosophical conclusions which he wasunderstood to have arrived at in the course of his own regalexperience, could hardly be called in question. And as to that mostextraordinary conversation in which, by means of his disguise on thisoccasion, he becomes a participator, if the Prince himself were toogenerous to avail himself of it to the harm of the speakers, it wouldill become any one else to take exceptions at it. 

And yet it is a conversation in which a party of common soldiers arepermitted to 'speak their minds freely' for once, though 'the blankverse has to halt for it, ' on questions which would be considered atpresent questions of 'gravity. ' It is a dialogue in which these menare allowed to discuss one of the most important institutions of theirtime from an ethical point of view, in a tone as free as the presidentof a Peace Society could use to-day in discussing the same topic, intermingling their remarks with criticisms on the government, andpersonal allusions to the king himself, which would seem to be more inaccordance with the manners of the nineteenth century, than with thoseof the Poet's time. 

But then these wicked and treasonous grumblings being fortunatelyencountered on the spot, and corrected by the king himself in his ownaugust person, would only serve for edification in the end; if, indeed, that appeal to the national pride which would conclude thematter, and the glory of that great day which was even then breakingin the East, should leave room for any reflections upon it. For it wasnone other than the field of _Agincourt_ that was subjected to thisphilosophic inquiry. It was the lustre of that immortal victory whichwas to England then, what Waterloo and the victories of Nelson arenow, that was thus chemically treated beforehand. Under the cover ofthat renowned triumph, it was, that these soldiers could venture tosearch so deeply the question of war in general; it was in the personof its imperial hero, that the statesman could venture to touch soboldly, an institution which gave to one man, by his own confession nobetter or wiser than his neighbours, the power to involve nations insuch horrors. 

But let us join the king in his stroll, and hear for ourselves, whatit is that these soldiers are discussing, by the camp-fires of_Agincourt_;--what it is that this first voice from the ranks has tosay for itself. The king has just encountered by the way a poeticalsentinel, who, not satisfied with the watchword--'_a friend_, '--requests the disguised prince 'to discuss to him, and answer, whetherhe is an _officer_, or _base, common_, and _popular_, ' when the kinglights on this little group, and the discussion which Pistol hadsolicited, apparently on his own behalf, actually takes place, forthe benefit of the Poet's audience, and the answer to these inquiriescomes out in due order. 

 _Court_. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?

 _Bates_. I think it be, _but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day_. 

 _Will_. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there?

 _King Henry_. A friend. 

 _Will_. Under what captain serve you?

 _King_. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham. 

 _Will_. A good old commander, and a most kind gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?

 _King. _ Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide. 

 _Bates_. _He hath not told his thought to the king_?

 _King_. No; nor it is not meet that he should; for though _I speak it to you_, I think the king is but a man as I am. 

And it is here that he proceeds to make that important disclosureabove quoted, that all his senses have but human conditions, and thatall his _affections_, though _higher mounted, stoop with the likewing_; and therefore no man should in reason possess him with anyappearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, 'should dishearten hisarmy. '

 _Bates_. He may show what outward courage he will; but, _I_ believe, as cold a night as 'tis, he could wish himself in the Thames, up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here. 

 _King_. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king. I think he would not wish himself anywhere but where he is. 

 _Bates_. Then would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's lives saved. 

 _King_. I dare say you love him not so ill as to wish him here alone; _howsoever you speak this to feel other men's minds_; Methinks I could not die anywhere so contented as in the king's company; _his cause being just, and his quarrel honorable_. 

 _Will. That's more than we know. _

 _Bates_. Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the king's subjects; if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the _king_ wipes the crime of it out of us. 

 _Will_. But _if the cause be not good_, the _king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make_; when all those legs and arms and heads chopped off in a battle shall join together at the latter day, and cry all--We died at such a place; some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them; some upon the debts they owe; some upon their children rawly left. I am afeared that few die well, that die in battle; for how can they _charitably_ dispose of anything _when blood is their argument_? Now if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it; whom to disobey were _against all proportion of subjection_. 

 _King_. So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise, do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him: or if a servant, under his master's command, transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers, and die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant's damnation. --But this is not so. .. . There is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrament of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers. 

But the king pursues this question of the royal responsibility untilhe arrives at the conclusion that _every subject's_ DUTY is THEKING'S, BUT EVERY SUBJECT'S SOUL IS HIS OWN, until he shows, indeed, that there is but one ultimate sovereignty; one to which the king andhis subjects are alike amenable, which pursues them everywhere, withits demands and reckonings, --from whose violated laws there is noescape. 

 _Will_. 'Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill is upon his own head--[no unimportant point in the theology or ethics of that time]--THE KING is not to answer for it. 

 _Bates_. I do not desire the king should answer for me, and yet I determine to fight lustily for him. 

 _King_. I, myself, heard the king say, he would not be ransomed. 

 _Will_. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed and we ne'er the wiser. 

 _King_. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after. 

 _Will_. _Mass, you'll pay him then!_ That's a perilous shot out of an _elder gun_, that a poor and _private_ displeasure can do against a monarch. _You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice_, with fanning in his face with a peacock's feather. 

And, indeed, thus and not any less absurd and monstrous, appeared theidea of subjecting the king to any effect from the subject'sdispleasure, or the idea of calling him to account--this one, helpless, frail, private man, as he has just been conceded by the kinghimself to be, for any amount of fraud or dishonesty to the nation, for any breach of trust or honour. For his relation to the _mass_ andthe source of this fearful irresponsible power was not understoodthen. The soldier states it well. One might, indeed, as well go aboutto turn the sun to ice, _with fanning in his face_ with a peacock'sfeather. 

 'You'll never trust his word after, ' the soldier continues. 'Come, 'tis a foolish saying. '

'Your reproof is something _too round_, ' is the king's reply. It isindeed round. It is one of those round replies that this poet is sofond of, and the king himself becomes 'the private' of it, when oncethe centre of this play is found, and the sweep of its circumferenceis taken. For the sovereignty of law, the kingship of the universallaw _in whomsoever it speaks_, awful with God's power, armed with_his_ pains and penalties is the scientific sovereignty; and in thescientific diagrams the passions, 'the poor and private passions, ' andthe arbitrary will, in whomsoever they speak, no matter what symbolsof sovereignty they have contrived to usurp, make no better figure intheir struggles with that law, than that same which the poet's vividimagination and intense perception of incompatibilities, has seized onhere. The king struggles vainly against the might of the universalnature. It is but the shot out of an '_elder gun_;' he might as well'go about to _turn the sun to ice_ with fanning in his face with a_peacock's_ feather. ' 'I should be angry with you, ' continues theking, after noticing the roundness of that reply, 'I should be angrywith you, if _the time_ were convenient. '

But as to the poet who composes these dialogues, of course he does notknow whether the time is convenient or not;--he has never reflectedupon any of those grave questions which are here so seriouslydiscussed. They are not questions in which he can be supposed to havetaken any interest. Of course he does not know or care what it is thatthese men are talking about. It is only for the sake of an artisticeffect, to pass away the night, and to deepen for his hero the gloomwhich was to serve as the foil and sullen ground of his great victory, that his interlocutors are permitted to go on in this manner. 

It is easy to see, however, what extraordinary capabilities thisparticular form of writing offered to one who _had_ any purpose, or toan author, who wished on any account, to '_infold_' somewhat hismeaning;--that was the term used then in reference to this style ofwriting. For certainly, many things dangerous in themselves could beshuffled in under cover of an artistic effect, which would not strikeat the time, amid the agitations, and the skilful checks, andcounteractions, of the scene, even the quick ear of despotism itself. 

And thus King Lear--that impersonation of absolutism--the veryembodiment of pure will and tyranny in their most frantic form, takenout all at once from that hot bath of flatteries to which he had beenso long accustomed, that his whole self-consciousness had becomesaturated, tinctured in the grain with them, and he believed himselfto be, within and without, indestructibly, essentially, --'ay, everyinch A KING;' with speeches on his supremacy copied, well nighverbatim, from those which Elizabeth's courtiers habitually addressedto her, still ringing in his ears, hurled out into a single-handedcontest with the elements, stripped of all his 'social and artificiallendings, ' the poor, bare, unaccommodated, individual man, this livingsubject of the poet's artistic treatment, --this 'ruined Majesty'anatomized alive, taken to pieces literally before our eyes, pursued, hunted down scientifically, and robbed in detail of all 'the additionsof a king'--must, of course, be expected to evince in some way hissense of it; 'for soul and body, ' this poet tells us, 'rive not morein parting than greatness going off. '

Once conceive the possibility of presenting the action, the dumb show, of this piece upon the stage at that time, (there have been timessince when it could not be done), and the dialogue, with itsillimitable freedoms, follows without any difficulty. For the surpriseof the monarch at the discoveries which this new state of thingsforces upon him, --the speeches he makes, with all the levelling oftheir philosophy, with all the unsurpassable boldness of theirpolitical criticism, are too natural and proper to the circumstances, to excite any surprise or question. 

Indeed, a king, who, nurtured in the flatteries of the palace, wasunlearned enough in the nature of things, to suppose that _the name_of a king was anything but a shadow when _the power_ which hadsustained its prerogative was withdrawn, --a king who thought that hecould still be a king, and maintain 'his state' and 'his hundredknights, ' and their prerogatives, and all his old arbitrary, despotichumours, with their inevitable encroachment on the will and humours, and on the welfare of others, merely on grounds of respect andaffection, or on grounds of duty, when not merely the care of 'thestate, ' but the revenues and power of it had been devolved onothers--such a one appeared, indeed, to the poet, to be engaging in anexperiment very similar to the one which he found in progress in histime, in that old, decayed, riotous form of military government, whichhad chosen the moment of its utter dependence on the popular will andrespect, as the fitting one for its final suppression of the nationalliberties. It was an experiment which was, of course, modified in theplay by some diverting and strongly pronounced differences, or itwould not have been possible to produce it then; but it was still theexperiment of _the unarmed prerogative_, that the old popular tale ofthe ancient king of Britain offered to the poet's hands, and that wasan experiment which he was willing to see traced to its naturalconclusion on paper at least; while in the subsequent development ofthe plot, the presence of an insulted trampled outcast majesty on thestage, furnishes a cover of which the poet is continually availinghimself, for putting the case of that other outraged sovereignty, whose cause under one form or another, under all disguises, he isalways pleading. And in the poet's hands, the debased and outcastking, becomes the impersonation of a debased and violated state, thathad given all to its daughters, --the victim of a tyranny not lessabsolute, the victim, too, of a blindness and fatuity on its own part, not less monstrous, but not, not--_that_ is the poet's word--_not_ yetirretrievable. 

 'Thou shalt find I will resume that shape, which thou dost think I have cast off for ever; thou shalt, I warrant thee. ' 'Do you mark that, my lord?'

But the question of that prerogative, which has consumed, in thepoet's time, all the faculties of government constitutes only asubordinate part of the action of that great play, into which it ishere incorporated; a play which comprehends in its new philosophicalreaches, in its new and before-unimagined subtilties of analysis, themost radical questions of a practical human science; questions whichthe practical reason of these modern ages at the moment of itsawakening, found itself already compelled to grapple with, and master. 

CHAPTER II. 

UNACCOMMODATED MAN. 

'Consider him well. --Three of us are sophisticated. '

For this is the grand SOCIAL tragedy. It is the tragedy of anunlearned human society; it is the tragedy of a civilization in whichgrammar, and the relations of sounds and abstract notions to eachother have sufficed to absorb the attention of the learned, --acivilization in which the parts of speech, and their relations, havebeen deeply considered, but one in which the social elements, theparts of life, and their unions, and their prosody, have been left tospontaneity, and empiricism, and all kinds of rude, arbitrary, idiomatical conjunctions, and fortuitous rules; a civilization inwhich the learning of 'WORDS' is put down by the reporter--invented--and the learning of 'THINGS'--omitted. 

And in a movement which was designed to bring the human reason to bearscientifically and artistically upon those questions in which thedeepest human interests are involved, the wrong and misery of thatsocial state to which the New Machine, with its new combination ofsense and reason, must be applied, had to be fully and elaboratelybrought out and exhibited. And there was but one language in which theimpersonated human misery and wrong, --the speaker for countlesshearts, tortured and broken on the rude machinery of unlearned socialcustoms, and lawless social forces, could speak; there was but onetongue in which it could tell its story. For this is the place wherescience becomes inevitably poetical. That same science which fills ourcabinets and herbariums, and chambers of natural history, with mutestones and shells and plants and dead birds and insects--that samescience that fills our scientific volumes with coloured pictures trueas life itself, and letter-press of prose description--that samescience that anatomises the physical frame with microscopicnicety, --in the hand of its master, found in the soul, that which hadmost need of science; and his 'illustrated book' of it, the book ofhis experiments in it, comes to us filled with his yet living, 'everliving' _subjects_, and resounding with the tragedy of theircomplainings. 

It requires but a little reading of that book to find, that the authorof it is a philosopher who is strongly disposed to ascertain thelimits of that thing in nature, which men call fortune, --that is, intheir week-day speech, --they have another name for it 'o' Sundays. ' Heis greatly of the opinion, that the combined and legitimate use ofthose faculties with which man is beneficently 'armed against diseasesof the world, ' would tend very much to limit those fortuities andaccidents, those wild blows, --those vicissitudes, that men, in theirignorance and indolent despair, charge on Fate or ascribe toProvidence, while at the same time it would furnish the art of_accommodating_ the human mind to that which is inevitable. It is notfortune who is blind, but man, he says, --a creature endowed of naturefor his place in nature, endowed of God with a godlike faculty, looking before and after--a creature who has eyes, eyes adapted to hisspecial necessities, but one that will not use them. 

Acquaintance with law, as it is actual in nature, and inventions ofarts based on that acquaintance, appear to him to open a large fieldof relief to the human estate, a large field of encroachment on thathuman misery, which men have blindly and stupidly acquiesced inhitherto, as necessity. For this is the philosopher who borrows, onanother page, an ancient fable to teach us that that is not the kindof submission which is pleasing to God--that that is not the kind of'suffering' that will ever secure his favour. He, for one, is going tosearch this social misery to the root, with that same light which theancient wise man tells us, 'is as the lamp of God, wherewith Hesearcheth the inwardness of all secrets. '

The weakness and ignorance and misery of the _natural_ man, --themisery too of the _artificial man_ as he is, --the misery of man insociety, when that society is cemented with arbitrary customs, andunscientific social arts, and when the instinctive spontaneousdemoniacal forces of nature, are at large in it; the dependence of thesocial Monad, the constitutional specific _human_ dependence, on thespecific _human_ law, --the exquisite human liability to injury andwrong, which are but the natural indications of those higher arts andexcellencies, those unborn pre-destined human arts and excellencies, which man must struggle through his misery to reach;--that is thescientific notion which lies at the bottom of this grand idealrepresentation. It is, in a word, the human social NEED, in all itscircumference, clearly sketched, laid out, scientifically, as thebasis of the human social ART. It is the negation of that which man'sconditions, which the _human_ conditions require;--it is thecollection on the Table of Exclusion and Rejection, which must precedethe _practical_ affirmation. 

 _King_. Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in it?

 _Hamlet_. None in the world. It's the image of a murder done in Vienna. 

In the poetic representation of that state of things which was to beredressed, the central social figure must, of course, have its place. For it is the Poet, the Experimental Poet, unseen indeed, deep buriedin his fable, his new movements all hidden under its old garb, anddeeper hidden still, in the new splendours he puts on it--it is thePoet--invisible but not the less truly, he, --it is the ScientificPoet, who comes upon the monarch in his palace at noonday, and says, 'My business is with thee, O king. ' It is he who comes upon theselfish arrogant old despot, drunk with Elizabethan flatteries, stuffed with '_titles blown_ from adulation, ' unmindful of the trueends of government, reckless of the duties which that regal assumptionof the common weal brings with it--it is the Poet who comes upon thisDoctor of Laws in the palace and prescribes to him a course oftreatment which the royal patient himself, when once it has takeneffect, is ready to issure from the hovel's mouth, in the form of ageneral prescription and state ordinance. 

 'Take physic, POMP; Expose thyself to _feel_ what wretches _feel_, That thou may'st shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just. Oh, I have taken _too little care_ of This!'

It is that same Poet who has already told us, confidentially, undercover of King Hal's mantle, that 'the king himself is but a man' andthat 'all his senses have but human conditions and that hisaffections, too, though higher mounted when they stoop, stoop with thelike wing; that his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appearsbut a man';--it is that same Poet, and, in carrying out the purpose ofthis play, it has come in his way now to make good that statement. Forit was necessary to his purpose here, to show that the State iscomposed throughout, down to its most loathsome unimaginable depths ofneglect and misery, of individual men, social units, clothed of naturewith the same faculties and essential human dignities andsusceptibilities to good and evil, and crowned of nature with thecommon sovereignty of reason, --down-trodden, perhaps, and wrung andtrampled out of them, but elected of nature to that dignity; it wasnecessary to show this, in order that the wisdom of the State whichsacrifices to the senses of _one_ individual man, and the judgmentthat is narrowed by the one man's senses, the weal of the whole, --inorder that the wisdom of the State, which puts at the mercy of thearbitrary will and passions of _the one_, the weal of _the many_, might be mathematically exhibited, --might be set down in figures anddiagrams. For this is that Poet who represents this method of inquiryand investigation, as it were, to _the eye_. This is that same Poet, too, who surprises elsewhere _a queen_ in her swooning passion ofgrief, and bids her murmur to us her recovering confession. 

 'No more, but e'en a woman; and _commanded_ By such poor passion, as the maid that milks, And does the meanest chares. '

So busy is he, indeed, in laying by this king's 'ceremonies' for him, beginning with the first doubtful perception of a most faintneglect, --a falling off in the ceremonious affection due to majesty'as well in the general dependents as in the duke himself and hisdaughter, '--so faint that the king dismisses it from his thought, andcharges it on his own jealousy till he is reminded of it byanother, --beginning with that faint beginning, and continuing theprocess not less delicately, through all its swift dramaticgradations, --the direct abatement of the regal dignities, --theknightly train diminishing, --nay, 'fifty of his followers at a clap'torn from him, his messenger put in the stocks, --and '_it is worsethan murder_, ' the poor king cries in the anguish of his slaughtereddignity and affection, 'to do upon _respect_ such violentoutrage, '--so bent is the Poet upon this analytic process; sodetermined that this shaking out of a '_preconception_, ' shall be foronce a thorough one, so absorbed with the dignity of the scientificexperiment, that he seems bent at one moment on giving a literalfinish to this process; but the fool's scruples interfere with thephilosophical humour of the king, and the presence of Mad Tom in hisblanket, with the king's exposition, suffices to complete thedemonstration. For not less lively than this, is the preaching andillustration, from that new rostrum which this 'Doctor' has contrivedto make himself master of. 'His ceremonies laid by, in his nakednesshe appears but a man, ' says King Hal. 'Couldst thou save nothing?'says King Lear to the Bedlamite. 'Why thou wert better in thy gravethan to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. ''_Is man_, '--it is _the king_ who generalises, it is the king whointroduces this levelling suggestion here in the _abstract_, while thePoet is content with the responsibility of the concreteexhibition--'_Is man no wore than this_? Consider him well. Thou owestthe worm no silk, the beast no hide, the cat no perfume:--Ha! here'sthree of us are _sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself_. UNACCOMMODATED MAN is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal, asthou art. Off, off, you lendings. ' But 'the fool' is of the opinionthat this scientific process of unwrapping the artificial majesty, this philosophical undressing, has already gone far enough. 

'Pry'thee, Nuncle, be contented, ' he says, 'it is a naughty night toswim in. '

For it is the great heath wrapped in one of those storms of wind andrain and thunder and lightning, which this wizard only of all thechildren of men knows how to raise, that he chooses for hisphysiological exhibition of majesty, when the palace-door has beenshut upon it, and the last 'additions of a king' have been subtracted. It is a night--

 'Wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion, and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry'--

into which he turns his royal patient '_unbonneted_. '

For the tyranny of wild nature in her elemental uproar must be addedto the tyranny of the human wildness, the cruelty of the elements mustconspire, like pernicious ministers, with the cruelty of arbitraryHUMAN will and passions, the irrational, INHUMAN social forces must bejoined by those other forces that make war upon us, before the realpurpose of this exhibition and the full depth and scientificcomprehension of it can begin to appear. It is in the tempest thatLear finds occasion to give out the Poet's text. Is _man_ no more thanthis? Consider him well. Unaccommodated man in his struggle withnature. Man without social combinations, man without arts to aid himin his battle with the elements, or _with_ arts that fence in hisbody, and robe it, it may be, in delicate and gorgeous apparelling, arts that roof his head with a princely dome it may be, and add to hisnative dignity and forces, the means and appliances of a materialcivilization, but leave his nobler nature with its more livingsusceptibility to injury, unsheathed, at the mercy of the brute forcesthat unscientific civilizations, with their coarse laws, with theircobwebs of WORDY learning, with their science of abstractions, unmatched with the subtilty of THINGS, are compelled to leave atlarge, uncaught, unentangled. 

Yes, it is man in his relation to nature, man in his dependence onartificial aid, man in his two-fold dependence on art, that thistempest, this double tempest wakes and brings out, for us to'consider, '--to 'consider well';--'the naked creature, ' that werebetter in his grave than to answer with his uncovered body thatextremity of the skies, and by his side, with his soul uncovered to afiercer blast, his royal brother with 'the tempest in his mind, thatdoth from his senses take all feeling else, save what beats there. '

It is the _personal_ weakness, the moral and intellectual as well asthe bodily frailty and limitation of faculty, and liability tosuffering and outrage, the liability to wrong from treachery, as wellas violence, which are 'the common' specific _human_ conditions, common to the King in his palace, and Tom o'Bedlam in his hovel; it isthis exquisite human frailty and susceptibility, still unprovided for, that fills the play throughout, and stands forth in these two, impersonated; it is that which fills all the play with the outcry ofits anguish. 

And thus it is, that this poor king must needs be brought out intothis wild uproar of nature, and stripped of his last adventitious aid, reduced to the authority and forces that nature gave him, invaded tothe skin, and ready in his frenzy to second the poet's intent, byyielding up the last thread of his adventitious and artistic defences. All his artificial, social personality already dissolved, or yet inthe agony of its dissolution, all his natural social ties torn andbleeding within him, there is yet another kind of trial for him, asthe elected and royal representative of the human conditions. For theperpetual, the universal interest of this experiment arises from thefact, that it is not as _the king_ merely, dissolving like 'a mockeryking of snow' that this illustrious form stands here, to undergo thisfierce analysis, but as the representative, 'the conspicuousinstance, ' of that social name and figure, which all men carry aboutwith them, and take to be a part of themselves, that outward life, inwhich men go beyond themselves, by means of their affections, andextend their identity, incorporating into their very personality, thatfloating, contingent material which the wills and humours andopinions, the prejudices and passions of others, and the variable tideof this world's fortunes make--that social Name and Figure in whichmen may die many times, ere the physical life is required of them, inwhich all men must needs live if they will live in it at all, at themercy of these uncontrolled social eventualities. 

The tragedy is complicated, but it is only that same complicationwhich the tragedy it stands for, is always exhibiting. The fact thatthis blow to his state is dealt to him by those to whom nature herselfhad so dearly and tenderly bound him, nay, with whom she had sohopelessly identified him, is that which overwhelms the sufferer. Itis that which he seeks to understand in vain. He wishes to reason uponit, but his mind cannot master it; under that it is that his braingives way, --the first mental confusion begins there. The blow to hisstate is a subordinate thing with him. It only serves to measure thewrong that deals it. The poet takes pains to clear this complicationin the experiment. It is the wound in the affections which untunes thejarring senses of 'this _child-changed father_. ' It is that whichinvades his identity. 

'Are you _our_ daughter? Does anyone here know me?' That is the wordwith which he breaks the silence of that dumb amazement, thatparalysis of frozen wonder which Goneril's first rude assault bringson him. 'Why, _this is not Lear_; Ha! sure it is not so. Does any onehere know me? Who is it that can tell me _who I am_?'

But with all her cruelty, he cannot shake her off. He curses her; buthis curses do not sever the tie. 

 'But yet _thou art_ my flesh, my blood, _my daughter_. Or rather, a disease that's in my flesh Which I must needs call _mine_. Filial ingratitude! Is _it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to it_?'

For that is the poet's conception of the extent of this social lifeand outgoing--that is the _interior_ of that social whole, in whichthe dissolution he represents here is proceeding, --and that is thekind of new phenomenon which the science of man, when it takes him ashe is, not the abstract man of the schools, not the logical man thatthe Realists and the Nominalists went to blows for, but 'the thingitself, ' exhibits. As to that other '_man_, '--the man of the oldphilosophy, --he was not 'worth the whistle, ' this one thinks. 'Hisbones were marrowless, his blood was cold, he had no speculation inthose eyes that he did glare with. ' The New Philosopher will have nosuch skeletons in his system. He is getting his _general_ man out ofparticular cases, building him up solid, from a basis of naturalhistory, and, as far as he goes, there will be no question, no twowords about it, as to whether he _is_ or _is not_. 'For I do take, 'says the Advancer of Learning, 'the _consideration_ in general, and atlarge, of _Human Nature_, to be fit to be emancipated and made aknowledge by itself. ' No wonder if some new aspects of these ordinaryphenomena, these 'common things, ' as he calls them, should come out, when they too come to be subjected to a scientific inquiry, and whenthe Poet of this Advancement, this so subtle Poet of it, begins toexplore them. 

And as to this particular point which he puts down with so much care, this point which poor Lear is illustrating here, viz. 'that ouraffections carry themselves beyond us, ' as the sage of the 'Mountain'expresses it, this is the view the same Poet gives of it, inaccounting for Ophelia's madness. 

 'Nature is fine in love; and where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself, After the thing it loves. '

'Your old kind father, ' continues Lear, searching to the quick thesecrets of this 'broken-heartedness, ' as people are content to callit, this ill to which the human species is notoriously liable, thoughphilosophy had not thought it worth while before 'to find it out;'

 'Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all, -- O _that way_ madness lies; let me shun _that_, No more of _that_. '

And it is while he is still undergoing the last extreme of thesuffering which the human wrong is capable of inflicting on theaffections, that he comes in the Poet's hands to exhibit also theunexplored depth of that wrong, --that monstrous, inhuman social error, that perpetual outrage on nature in her _human_ law, which leaves thehelpless human outcast to the rough discipline of nature, which castshim out from the family of man, from its common love and shelter, andleaves him in his vices, and helplessness, and ignorance, to contendalone with great nature and her unrelenting consequences. 

 'To wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure, Must be their school-masters, '--

is the point which the philosophic Regan makes, as she bids them shutthe door in her father's face; but it is the common human relationshipthat the Poet is intent on clearing, while he notes the specialrelationship also; he does not limit his humanities to the ties ofblood, or household sympathies, or social gradations. 

But Regan's views on this point are seconded and sustained, and thereseems to be but one opinion on the subject among those who happen tohave that castle in possession; at least the timid owner of it doesnot feel himself in a position to make any forcible resistance to theorders which his illustrious guests, who have 'taken from him the useof his own house, ' have seen fit to issue in it. 'Shut up your doors, (says Cornwall), 'Shut up your doors, my lord: 'tis a wild night. _My_ REGAN COUNSELS _well_; COME OUT O' THE STORM. '

And it is because this representation is artistic and dramatic, andnot simply historical, and the Poet must seek to condense, and sum andexhibit in dramatic appreciable figures, the unreckonable, undefinablehistorical suffering of years, aad lifetimes of this vain humanstruggle, --because, too, the wildest threats which nature in herterrors makes to man, had to be incorporated in this great philosophicpiece; and because, lastly, the Poet would have the madness of thehuman will and passion, presented in its true scientific relations, that this storm collects into itself such ideal sublimities, andborrows from the human passion so many images of cruelty. 

In all the mad anguish of that ruined greatness, and wronged naturalaffection, the Poet, relentless as fortune herself in her sternestmoods, intent on his experiment only, will bring out his great victim, and consign him to the wind and the rain, and the lightning, and thethunder, and bid his _senses_ undergo _their_ 'horrible pleasure. '

For the senses, scorned as they had been in philosophy hitherto, thesenses in this philosophy, have _their_ report also, --their full, honest report, to make to us. And the design of this piece, as alreadystated in the general, required in its execution, not only that thesetwo kinds of suffering, these two grand departments of human need, should be included and distinguished in it, but that they should bebrought together in this one man's experience, so that a deliberatecomparison can be instituted between them; and the Poet will bid thephilosophic king, the living 'subject' himself, report the experiment, and tell us plainly, once for all, whether the science of the physicalArts only, is the science which is wanting to man; or whetherarts--scientific arts--that take hold of the moral nature, also, anddeal with that not less effectively, can be dispensed with; whether, indeed, man is in any condition to dispense with _the_ Science and_the_ Art which puts him into intelligent and harmonious relationswith nature in general. 

It was necessary to the purpose of the play to exhibit man'sdependence on art, by means of his senses _and_ his sensibilities, andhis intellectual conditions, and all his frailties and liabilities, --his dependence on art, based on the knowledge of natural laws, universal laws, --constitutions, which _include_ the human. It wasnecessary to exhibit the whole misery, the last extreme of thatsocial evil, to which a creature so naturally frail and ignorant isliable, under those coarse, fortuitous, inartistic, unscientificsocial conglomerations, which ignorant and barbarous ages build, andunder the tyranny of those wild, barbaric social evils, which our finesocial institutions, notwithstanding the universality of their terms, and the transcendant nature of the forces which they are understood tohave at their disposal, for some fatal reason or other, do not yetsucceed in reducing. 

It is, indeed, the whole ground of the Scientific Human Art, which isrevealed here by the light of this great passion, and that, in thisPoet's opinion, is none other than the ground of the human want, andis as large and various as that. And the careful reader of thisplay, --the patient searcher of its subtle lore, --the diligentcollector of its thick-crowding philosophic points and flashingcondensations of discovery, will find that the _need of arts_, is thatwhich is set forth in it, with all the power of its magnificent poeticembodiment, and in the abstract as well, --the need of arts infinitelymore noble and effective, more nearly matched with the subtlety ofnature, and better able to entangle and subdue its oppositions, thanany of which mankind have yet been able to possess themselves, or everthe true intention of nature in the human form can be realized, oranything like a truly Human Constitution, or Common-Weal, is possible. 

But let us return to the comparison, and collect the results of thisexperiment. --For a time, indeed, raised by that storm of grief andindignation into a companionship with the wind and the rain, and thelightning, and the thunder, the king 'strives in his little world ofman, '--for that is the phrasing of the poetic report, to _out-scorn_these elements. Nay, we ourselves hear, as the curtain rises on thatideal representative form of human suffering, the wild intonation ofthat human defiance--mounting and singing above the thunder, anddrowning all the elemental crash with its articulation; for this is anexperiment which the philosopher will try in the presence of hisaudience, and not report it merely. With that anguish in his heart, the crushed majesty, the stricken old man, the child-wounded father, laughs at the pains of _the senses_; the physical distress is welcometo him, he is glad of it. He does not care for anything that the_unconscious_, soulless elements can do to him, he calls to them fromtheir heights, and bids them do their worst. Or it is only as theyconspire with that _wilful human_ wrong, and serve to bring home tohim anew the depth of it, by these tangible, sensuous effects, --it isonly by that means that they are able to wound him. 

 'Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters, '

_that_ is the argument. 

'I tax you _not_, you elements, with _unkindness_. '

Surely that is logical; that is a distinction not without adifference, and appreciable to the human mind, as it isconstituted, --surely that is a point worth putting in the arts andsciences. 

 'I never gave you kingdoms, called you _children_; You _owe_ me no subscription; why, _then_, let fall Your horrible pleasure? Here I stand _your_ slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man; But _yet_, I call you _servile ministers_, That have with two pernicious daughters _joined_ Your high, engendered battles 'gainst a head _So old and white_ as this. O, O, '_tis foul_. '

And in his calmer mood, when the storm has done its work upon him, andall the strength of his great passion is exhausted, --when his bodilypowers are fast sinking under it, and like the subtle Hamlet's 'potentpoison, ' it begins at last to 'o'er-crow his spirit'--when he is faintwith struggling with its fury, wet to the skin with it, andcomfortless and shivering, he still maintains through his chatteringteeth the argument; he will still defend his first position--

 'Thou thinkst 'tis much that this _contentious_ storm Invades _us_ to the skin; so 'tis to thee, But where the greater _malady_ is fixed, The _lesser_ is scarce felt. '

 'The tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else, Save what beats there. '

 'In _such_ a night _To shut me out! Pour on_, I will endure. _In such a night as this_. '

And when the shelter he is at last forced to seek is found, at thedoor his courage fails him; and he shrinks back into the storm again, because 'it will not give him leave to think on that _which hurts himmore_. '

So nicely does the Poet balance these ills, and report the swayingmovement. But it is a poet who does not take common-place opinions onthis, or on any other such subject. He is one whose poetic work doesnot consist in illustrating these received opinions, or in findingsome novel and fine expression for them. He is observing nature, andundertaking to report it, as it is, not as it should be according tothese preconceptions, or according to the established poetic notionsof the heroic requisitions. 

But there is no stage that can exhibit his experiment here in its realsignificance, excepting that one which he himself builds for us; forit is the vast lonely heath, and the _Man_, the pigmy man, on it--andthe KING, the pigmy king, on it;--it is all the wild roar of elementalnature, and the tempest in that '_little world_ of man, ' that have tomeasure their forces, that have to be brought into continuous andpersevering contest. It is not Gloster only, who sees in that stormwhat 'makes him think that _a man_ is but _a worm_. '

Doubtless, it would have been more in accordance with the old poeticnotions, if this poor king had maintained his ground without anymisgiving at all; but it is a poet of a new order, and not the oldheroic one, who has the conducting of this experiment; and though hisverse is not without certain sublimities of its own, they have toconsist with the report of the fact as it is, to its most honest andunpoetic, unheroic detail. 

And notwithstanding all the poetry of that passionate defiance, it isthe physical storm that triumphs in the end. The contest between thatlittle world of man and the great outdoor world of nature was toounequal. Compelled at last to succumb, yielding to 'the tyranny of theopen night, that is _too rough_ for _nature to endure_--the night thatfrightens the very wanderers of the dark, and makes _them_ keep theircaves, while it reaches, with its poetic combination of horrors, thatborder line of the human conception which great Nature's pencil, inthis Poet's hand, is always reaching and completing, --

 '_Man's_ nature cannot carry The affliction nor _the fear_. '

--Unable to contend any longer with 'the _fretful_ element'--unable to'_outscorn_' any longer 'the to and fro conflicting wind andrain'--weary of struggling with 'the _impetuous_ blasts, ' that intheir 'eyeless _rage_' and '_fury_' care no more for age and reverencethan his _daughters_ do--that seize his white hairs, and make nothingof them--'exposed to _feel_ what _wretches_ feel'--he finds at last, with surprise, that art--the wretch's art--that can make vile things_precious_. No longer clamoring for 'the additions of a king, ' butthankful for the basest means of shelter from the elements, glad toavail himself of the rudest structure with which art '_accommodates_'man to nature, (for that is the word of this philosophy, where it isfirst proposed)--glad to divide with his meanest subject that shelterwhich the outcast seeks on such a night--ready to creep with him, under it, side by side--'fain to hovel with _swine_ and roguesforlorn, in short and musty straw'--surely we have reached a point atlast where the _action_ of the piece itself--the mere 'dumb show' ofit--becomes luminous, and hardly needs the player's eloquence to tellus what it means. 

Surely this is a little like 'the language' of _Periander's_ message, when he bid the messenger observe and _report what he saw him do_. Itis very important to note that ideas may be conveyed in this way aswell as by words, the author of the Advancement of Learning remarks, in speaking of the tradition of the principal and supreme sciences. Hetakes pains to notice, also, that a representation, by means of these'transient hieroglyphics, ' is much more moving to the sensibilities, and leaves a more vivid and durable impression on the memory, than themost eloquent statement in mere words. 'What is _sensible_ alwaysstrikes the memory more strongly, and sooner impresses itself, thanwhat is _intellectual_. Thus the memory of _brutes_ is excited bysensible, but not by intellectual things;' and thus, also, he proposesto impress that _class_ which Coriolanus speaks of, 'whose eyes aremore learned than their ears, ' to whom 'action is eloquence. ' Here wehave the advantage of the combination, for there is no part of thedumb show, but has its word of scientific comment and interpretation. 

 'Art cold [to the Fool]? I am cold myself. _Where is this_ STRAW, _my fellow_? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things _precious_. Come, _your hovel_. Come, bring us to this _hovel_. '

For this is what that wild tragic poetic resistance and defiance comesto--this is what the 'unaccommodated man' comes to, though it is thehighest person in the state, stripped of his ceremonies and artificialappliances, on whom the experiment is tried. 

 'Where is this straw, my fellow? Art _cold_? I am cold _myself_. Come, your hovel. Come, bring us to this _hovel_. '

When that royal edict is obeyed, --when the wonders of the magician'sart are put in requisition to fulfil it, --when the road from thepalace to the hovel is laid open, --when the hovel, where Tom o' Bedlamis nestling in the straw, is produced on the stage, and THE KING--THEKING--stoops, before all men's eyes, to creep into its mouth, --surelywe do not need 'a _chorus_ to interpret for us'--we do not need towait for the Poet's own deferred exposition to seize the more obviousmeanings. Surely, one catches enough in passing, in the dialogues andtableaux here, to perceive that there is something going on in thisplay which is not all play, --something that will be earnest, perhaps, ere all is done, --something which 'the groundlings' were not expectedto get, perhaps, in 'their sixe-penn'orth' of it at the firstperformance, --something which that witty and splendid company, whomade up the Christmas party at Whitehall, on the occasion of its firstexhibition there, who sat there 'rustling in silk, ' breathingperfumes, glittering in wealth that the alchemy of the storm had nottried, were not, perhaps, all informed of; though there might havebeen one among them, 'a gentleman of blood and breeding, ' who couldhave told them what it meant. 

'We construct, ' says the person who describes this method ofphilosophic instruction, speaking of the subtle prepared history whichforces the inductions--'we construct tables and combinations ofinstances, upon such a plan, and in such order, that the understandingmay be enabled to act upon them. '

'They told me I was everything. '

_They told me I was everything_, ' says the poor king himself, longafterwards, when the storm has had its ultimate effect upon him. 

'To say ay and no to everything that I said!--[To say] ay and no _too_WAS NO GOOD DIVINITY. They told me, I had _white_ hairs in my beard, ere the _black_ ones were there. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at_my bidding_; there I found them, _there_ I smelt them out. Go to, they are not men of their words: they told me I was everything; _'tisa lie; I am not ague-proof_. '

'_I_ think the king is but a man, as I am' [says King Hal], 'All his_senses_ have the like conditions; and his _affections_, though highermounted, when they stoop, stoop with _the like wing_. '

But at the door of that rude hut the ruined majesty pauses. In vainhis loving attendants, whom, for love's sake, this Poet will stillhave with him, entreat him to enter. Storm-battered, and wet, andshivering as he is, he shrinks back from the shelter he has bid thembring him to. He will not '_in_. ' Why? Is it because 'the tempest willnot give him leave to ponder on things would hurt him more. ' That ishis excuse at first; but another blast strikes him, and he yields to'the to and fro conflicting wind and rain, ' and says--

'_But_ I'll go in. '

Yet still he pauses. Why? Because he has not told us why he isthere;--because he is in the hands of the Poet of the Human Kind, thepoet of 'those common things that our ordinary life consisteth of, 'who will have of them an argument that shall shame that 'resplendentand lustrous mass of matter' that old philosophers and poets havechosen for theirs;--because the rare accident--the wild, poetic, unheard-of accident--which has brought a man, old in luxuries, clothedin soft raiment, nurtured in king's houses, into this rude, unaidedcollision with nature;--the poetic impossibility, which has broughtthe one man from the apex of the social structure down this giddydepth, to this lowest social level;--the accident which has given the'one man, ' who has the divine disposal of the common weal, this littlecasual experimental taste of the weal which his wisdom has been ableto provide for the many--of the weal which a government so divinelyordered, from its pinnacle of _personal_ ease and luxury, thinkssufficient and divine enough for _the many_, --this accident--thisgrand poetic accident--with all its exquisite poetic effects, is, inthis poet's hands, the means, not the end. This poor king's greattragedy, the loss of his social position, his broken-heartedness, hisoutcast suffering, with all the aggravations of this poetic descent, and the force of its vivid contrasts--with all the luxuriousimpressions on the sensibilities which the ideal wonders of the rudeold fable yield so easily in this Poet's hands, --this rare accident, and moving marvel of poetic calamity, --this 'one man's' tragedy is notthe tragedy that this Poet's soul is big with. It is the tragedy ofthe Many, and not the One, --it is the tragedy that is the rule, andnot the exception, --it is the tragedy that is common, and not thatwhich is singular, whose argument this Poet has undertaken to manage. 

'Come, bring us to your hovel. '

The royal command is obeyed; and the house of that estate, which hasno need to borrow its title of plurality to establish the grandeur ofits claim, springs up at the New Magician's word, and stands before uson the scientific stage in its colossal, portentous, scientificgrandeur; and the king--the king--is at the door of it: the _Monarch_is at the door of the _Many_. For the scientific Poet has had his eyeon that structure, and he will make of it a thing of wonder, thatshall rival old poets' fancy pieces, and drive our entomologists andconchologists to despair, and drive them off the stage with theircuriosities and marvels. There is no need of a Poet's going to thesupernatural for 'machinery, ' this Poet thinks, while there's suchmachinery as this ready to his hands unemployed. 'There's something inthis more than natural, if philosophy could find it out. ' There's noneed of going to the antique for his models; for he is inventing thearts that will make of this an _antiquity_. 

The Monarch has found his meanest subject's shelter, but at the doorof it he is arrested--nailed with a nail fastened by the Master ofAssemblies. He has come down from that dizzy height, on the Poet'serrand. He is there to speak the Poet's word, --to illustrate thatgrave abstract learning which the Poet has put on another page, with anote that, as it stands there, notwithstanding the learned airs ithas, it is _not_ learning, but 'the husk and shell' of it. For this isthe philosopher who puts it down as a primary Article of Science, thatgovernments should be based on a scientific acquaintance with 'the_natures, dispositions, necessities_ and _discontents_ of _thepeople_'; and though in his book of the Advancement of Learning, hesuggests that these points '_ought to be_, ' considering the means ofascertaining them at the disposal of the government, 'considering thevariety of its intelligences, the wisdom of its observations, and theheight of the station where it keeps sentinel, _transparent ascrystal, '--here_ he puts the case of a government that had not availeditself of those extraordinary means of ascertaining the truth at adistance, and was therefore in the way of discovering much that wasnew, in the course of an accidental personal descent into the lowerand more inaccessible regions of the _Common_ Weal it had ordered. This is the _crystal_ which proves after all the most transparent forhim. This is the help for weak eyes which becomes necessary sometimes, in the absence of the scientific crystal, which is its equivalent. 

The Monarch is at the hovel's door, but he cannot enter. Why? Becausehe is in that school into which his own wise REGAN, that '_counsels_'so 'well'--that _Regan_ who sat at his own council-table so long, hasturned him; and it is a school in which the lessons must be learned'_by heart_, ' and there is no shelter for him from its pitilessbeating in this Poet's economy, till that lesson he was sent there tolearn has been learned; and it was a Monarch's lesson, and at theHovel's door he must recite it. He _will_ not enter. Why? Because thegreat lesson of state has entered his soul: with the sharpness of itsillustration it has _pierced_ him: his spirit is dilated, and movedand kindling with its grandeur: he is thinking of 'the Many, ' he hasforgotten 'the One, '--the many, all whose senses have like conditions, whose affections stoop with the like wing. He will not enter, becausehe thinks it unregal, inhuman, mean, selfish to engross the luxury ofthe hovel's shelter, and the warmth of the 'precious' straw, while heknows that he has subjects still abroad with senses like his own, capable of the like misery, still exposed to its merciless cruelties. It was the tenant of the castle, it was the man in the house who said, 'Come, let's be snug and cheery here. _Shut up the door_. Let's have afire, and a feast, and a song, --or a psalm, or a prayer, as the casemay be; only let it be _within_--no matter which it is':

 'Shut up your doors, my lord; 'tis a wild night, -- _My Regan counsels_ well; come out o' the storm. '

But here it is the houseless man, who is thinking of his kindred, --hisroyal family, for whom God has made him responsible, out in this samestorm unbonneted; and in the tenderness of that sympathy, in thesearching delicacy of that feeling with which he scrutinizes now theircase, they seem to him less able than himself to resist its elemental'_tyranny_. ' For in that ideal revolution--in that exact turn of thewheel of fortune--in that experimental 'change of places, ' which thePoet recommends to those who occupy the upper ones in, the socialstructure, as a means of a more particular and practical acquaintancewith the conditions of those for whom they legislate, new views of thecommon natural human relations; new views of the ends of socialcombinations are perpetually flashing on him; for it is the fallenmonarch himself, the late owner and disposer of the Common Weal, it isthis strangely _philosophic_, mysteriously philosophic, king--philosophic as that Alfred who was going to succeed him--it isthe king who is chosen by the Poet as the chief commentator andexpounder of that new political and social doctrine which the actionof this play is itself suggesting. 

In that school of the tempest; in that one night's personal experienceof the misery that underlies the pompous social structure, with allits stately splendours and divine pretensions; in that New School ofthe Experimental Science, the king has been taking lessons in the artof majesty. The alchemy of it has robbed him of the external adjunctsand 'additions of a king, ' but the sovereignty of MERCY, the divineright of PITY, the majesty of the HUMAN KINDNESS, the grandeur of theCOMMON WEAL, 'breathes through his lips' from the Poet's heart 'likeman new made. '

 _Kent_. Good, my lord, enter here. 

 _Lear_. Prythee, go in thyself. _Seek thine own ease_. . . . . But, I'll go in. In, boy, --_go first--[To the Fool. ]_ You, _houseless_ poverty'--

He knows the meaning of that phrase now. 

 'Nay get thee in. I'll PRAY, and then I'll sleep. '

 [_Fool goes in_. ]

 'Poor, naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, '--

There are no empty phrases in this prayer, the critic of it mayperceive: it is a learned prayer; the petitioner knows the meaning ofeach word in it: the tempest is the book in which he studied it. 

 'How shall your _houseless heads_ and _unfed sides_, Your _looped_ and _windowed raggedness_ defend you From _seasons such as these_? O, I have taken _Too little care of_ THIS. [Hear, hear]. Take physic, POMP; [Hear. ] Expose thyself to _feel_ what wretches _feel_, _That thou mayest shake the superflux to them_, _And show the_ HEAVENS _more just_. '

That is his _prayer_. To minds accustomed to the ceremonial areligious worship, 'with court holy water in a dry house' only, or tothose who have never undertaken to compose a prayer for the king andall the royal family at the hovel's mouth, and in such immediateproximity to animals of a different species, it will not perhaps seema very pious one. But considering that it was understood to have beencomposed during the heathen ages of this realm, and beforeChristianity had got itself so comfortably established as a principleof government and social regulations, perhaps it was as good a prayerfor a penitent king to go to sleep on, as could well be invented. Certainly the spirit of Christianity, as it appeared in the life ofits Founder, at least, seems to be, by a poetic anachronismincorporated in it. 

But it is never the custom of this author to leave the diligentstudent of his performances in any doubt whatever as to his meaning. It is a rule, that everything in the play shall speak and reverberatehis purpose. He prolongs and repeats his burthens, till the wholeaction echoes with them, till 'the groves, the fountains, every regionnear, seem all one mutual cry. ' He has indeed the Teacher's trick ofrepetition, but then he is 'so rare a wondered teacher, ' so rich inmagical resources, that he does not often find it necessary to weary_the sense_ with sameness. He is prodigal in variety. It is a Proteusrepetition. But his charge to his Ariel in getting up his Masques, always is, --

 'Bring a corollary, Rather than want a spirit. '

Nay, it would be dangerous, not wearisome merely, to make the text ofthis living commentary continuous, or to bring too near together'those short and pithy sentences' wherein the action unwinds andfashions into its immortal groups. And the curtain must fall and riseagain, ere the outcast duke, --his eyes gouged out by tyranny, turnedforth to smell his way to Dover, --can dare to echo, word by word, thethoughts of the outcast king. 

Led by one whose qualification for leadership is, that he is 'Madmanand Beggar, too, '--for as Gloster explains it to us, explaining alsoat the same time much else that the scenic language of the play, thedumb show, the transitory hieroglyphic of it presents, and _all_ thecriticism of it, ''T IS THE TIME'S PLAGUE WHEN MADMEN LEAD THE BLIND'--

groping with such leadership his way to Dover--'smelling it out'--thusit is that his secret understanding with the king, in that mad andwondrous philosophical humour of his, betrays itself. 

 _Gloster_. Here, take this purse [to Tom o'Bedlam], _thou whom the heaven's plagues Have humbled to all strokes_: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier:--_Heavens, deal so still_! Let the _superfluous_ and lust-dieted man That _slaves_ your ordinance, that will not SEE _Because_ he doth not FEEL, feel your power quickly; _So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough_. 

 _Lear_. O I have taken _Too little care of this. _ Take physic, Pomp; Expose thyself to FEEL what wretches FEEL, _That_ thou may'st shake the _superflux to them, And show the Heavens more just_. 

Truly, these men would seem to have been taking lessons in the sameschool. But it is very seldom that two men in real life, of equallearning on any topic, coincide so exactly in their trains of thought, and in the niceties of their expression in discussing it. The emphasisis deep, indeed, when _this_ author graves his meaning with _such_ arepetition. But Regan's stern school-master is abroad in this play, enforcing the philosophic subtleties, bringing home to the _senses_the neglected lessons of nature; full of errands to '_wilful men_, 'charged with coarse lessons to those who will learn through the sensesonly great Nature's lore--that '_slave_ Heaven's ordinance--that willnot SEE, because they do not FEEL. '

CHAPTER III. 

THE KING AND THE BEGGAR. 

 _Armado_. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

 _Moth_. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since: but, I think, now 'tis not to be found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for the writing, _nor for the tune_. 

 _Armado_. I will have the subject newly writ over, _that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent_. _Love's Labour's Lost. _

But the king's philosophical studies are not yet completed; for he isin the hands of one who does not rely on general statements for hiseffects; one who is pertinaciously bent on exploring thosesubterranean social depths, that the king's prayer has just glancedat--who is determined to lay bare to the utmost, to carry the torch ofhis new science into the lowest recess of that wild, nameless mass ofhuman neglect and misery, which the regal sympathy has embraced forhim in the general; though not, indeed, without some niceties ofdetail, which shew that the eye of a true human pity has collected theterms in which he expresses it. 

That vast, immeasurable mass of social misery, which has no learnedspeech, no tragic dialect--no, or 'it would bear such an emphasis, 'that 'its phrase of sorrow might conjure the wandering stars, and bidthem stand like wonder-wounded hearers'--that misery which must get aking's robe about it, ere, in the Poet's time, it could have anaudience, must needs be produced here, ere all this play was played, in its own native and proper shape and costume, daring as the attemptmight seem. 

The author is not satisfied with the picturesque details of thatmisery which he has already given us, with its 'looped and windowedraggedness, ' its 'houseless head, ' its 'unfed sides'; it must be yetmore palpably presented. It must be embodied and dramaticallydeveloped; it must be exhibited with its proper moral and intellectualaccompaniments, too, before the philosophic requisitions of thisdesign can be fulfilled. 

To the lowest deeps of the lowest depths of the unfathomed socialmisery of that time, the new philosopher, the Poet of the Advancementof Learning, will himself descend; and drag up to the eye ofday, --undeterred by any scruple of poetic sensibility, --in his ownunborrowed habiliments, with all the badges of _his_ position in thestate upon him, the creature he has selected as one of therepresentatives of the social state as he finds it;--the creature hehas selected as the representative of those loathsome, unpenetratedmasses of _human_ life, which the unscientific social state must needsgenerate. 

For the design of this play, in its exhibition of the true human need, in its new and large exhibition of the ground which the Arts of a trueand rational human civilization must cover, could not but include the_defects_ of that, which passed for civilization then. It involvednecessarily, indeed, the most searching and relentless criticisms ofthe existing institutions of that time. That cry of social miserywhich pervades it, in which the natural, and social, and artificialevils are still discriminated through all the most tragic bursts ofpassion--in which the true social need, in all its comprehension, isuttered--that wild cry of human anguish, prolonged, and repeated, andreverberated as it is--is all one outcry upon the social wisdom of thePoet's time. It constitutes one continuous dramatic expression andembodiment of that so deeply-rooted opinion which the New Philosopheris known to have entertained, in regard to the practical knowledge ofmankind as he found it; his opinion of the real advances towards thetrue human ends which had been made in his time; an opinion which hehas, indeed, taken occasion to express elsewhere with somedistinctness, considering the conditions which hampered the expressionof his philosophical conclusions; but it is one which could hardlyhave been produced from the philosophic chair in his time, or from thebench, or at the council-table, in such terms as we find him launchingout into here, without any fear or scruple. 

For those who persuade themselves that it was any part of thisplayer's intention to bring out, for the amusement of his audiences, an historical exhibition of the Life and Times of that ancient Celticking of Britain, whose legendary name and chronicle he hasappropriated so effectively, will be prevented by that view of thesubject from ever attaining the least inkling of the matter here. Forthis Magician has quite other work in hand. He does not put hisgirdles round the earth, and enforce and harass with toil his delicatespirits, --he does not get out his book and staff, and put on hisEnchanter's robe, for any such kind of effect as that. For this is notany antiquary at all, but the true Prospero; and when a little morelight has been brought into his cell, his garments will be found tobe, like the disguised Edgar's--'_Persian_. '

It is not enough, then, in the wild revolutionary sweep of this play, to bring out the monarch from his palace, and set him down at thehovel's door. It is not enough to open it, and shew us, by the lightof Cordelia's pity--that sunshine and rain at once--the '_swine_' inthat human dwelling, and 'the short and musty-straw' there. For thepoet himself will enter it, and drag out its living human tenant intothe day of his immortal verse. He will set him up for all ages, on hisgreat stage, side by side with his great brother. He will put the feetof these two men on one platform, and measure their stature--for alltheir senses have the like conditions, as we have heard already; andhe will make the king himself own the KINDRED, and interpret for him. For this group must needs be completed _'to the eye_'; these twoextremes in the social scale must meet and literally embrace eachother, before this Teacher's doctrine of 'MAN'--'man as distinguishedfrom other species'--can be artistically exhibited. For it is thispicture of the unaccommodated man--'unaccommodated' still, with allhis empiric arts, with all his wordy philosophy--it is this picture ofman '_as he is_, ' in the misery of his IGNORANCE, in his blindstruggle with his law of KIND, which is his law of 'BEING, '--unreconciled to his place in the universal order, where he mustlive or have no life--for the beast, obedient to his law, rejectsfrom his kinds the _degenerate_ man--it is this vivid, condensed, scientific exhibition, this scientific collection of the fact of manas he is, in his empiric struggle with the law which universal natureenforces, and will enforce on him with all her pains and penaltiestill he learns it--it is this '_negation_' which brings out the truedoctrine of man and human society in this method of inquiry. For thescientific method begins with negations and exclusions, and concludesonly after every species of rejection; the other, the common method, which begins with 'AFFIRMATION, ' is the one that has failed inpractice, the one which has brought about just this state of thingswhich science is undertaking to reform. 

But this _levelling_, which the man of the new science, with his newapparatus, with his 'globe and his machines, ' contrives to exhibithere with so much '_facility_, ' is a scientific one, designed toanswer a scientific purpose merely. The experimenter, in this case, isone who looks with scientific forebodings, and not with hope only, onthose storms of violent political revolution that were hanging then onthe world's horizon, and threatening to repeat this process, threatening to overwhelm in their wild crash, all the ancient socialstructures--threatening 'to lay all flat'! That is not the kind ofchange he meditates. His is the subtle, all-penetrating Radicalism ofthe New Science, which imitates the noiseless processes of Nature inits change and _Re-formation_. 

There is a wild gibberish heard in the straw. The fool shrieks, 'Nuncle, come not in here, ' and out rushes 'Tom o Bedlam'--the nakedcreature, as Gloster calls him--with his 'elf locks, ' his 'blanketedloins, ' his 'begrimed face, ' with his shattered wits, his madness, real or assumed--there he stands. 

We know, indeed, in this instance, that there is gentle, nay, nobleblood, there, under that horrid guise. It is the heir of a dukedom, weare told, but an out-cast one, who has found himself compelled, forthe sake of prolonging life, to assume that shape, as other wretcheswere in the Poet's time for that same purpose, --men who had lost_their_ dukedoms, too, as it would seem, such as they were, in someway, and their human relationships, too. But notwithstanding thisalleviating circumstance which enables the audience to endure theexhibition in this instance, it serves not the less effectually in thePoet's hand, as 'THE CONSPICUOUS INSTANCE' of that lowest humancondition which this grand Social Tragedy must needs include in itsdelineations. 

Here are some of the prose English descriptions of this creature, which we find already included in the commentaries on this tragedy;and which shew that the Poet has not exaggerated his portrait, andthat it is not by way of celebrating any Anglo-Saxon or Norman triumphover the barbarisms of the _joint_ reigns of REGAN _and_ GONERIL, thathe is produced here. 

'I remember, before the civil wars, Tom o' Bedlams went aboutbegging, ' Aubrey says. Randle Holme, in his 'Academy of Arms andBlazon, ' includes them in his descriptions, as a class of vagabonds'feigning themselves mad. ' 'The Bedlam is in the same garb, with along staff, ' etc. , 'but his cloathing is more fantastic andridiculous; for being a madman, he is madly decked and dressed allover with _rubans, feathers, cuttings_ of _cloth, _ and what not, tomake him _seem_ a madman, when he is no other than a _dissemblingknave_. '

In the Bellman of London, 1640, there is another description ofhim--'He sweares he hath been in Bedlam, and will talk frantickely _ofpurpose; you see pinnes_ stuck in sundry places of his _naked flesh_, especially in his armes, _which paine he gladly puts himselfe to_;calls himself by the name of _Poore Tom_; and coming near anybody, cries out, '_Poor Tom's a cold_. ' Of these Abraham men, _some beexceeding merry_, and doe nothing but sing songs, fashioned out oftheir own braines; some will dance; others will doe nothing but eitherlaugh or weepe; _others are dogged_, and so _sullen_, both in lookeand speech, that spying but a small company in a house, they bluntlyand boldly enter, compelling the servants, through fear, to them whatthey demand. '

This seems very wicked, very depraved, on the part of these persons, especially the sticking of pins in their bare arms; but even our youngdukeling Edgar says--

 'While I may scape, I _will preserve myself_: and am bethought To take _the basest_ and _most poorest shape_, That ever _penury_, in _contempt_ of MAN, _Brought near to beast_: my face I'll grime with filth; Blanket my loins; elf all my hair in knots; And with presented nakedness outface The winds, and _persecutions of the sky_. The _country gives_ me PROOF and PRECEDENT Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, _Strike_ in _their numb'd and mortified bare arms, Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary_; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes and mills, _Sometime with lunatic bans_, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. --'Poor Turlygood!' 'poor Tom!' _Thats something yet, Edgar I nothing am_. 

But the poet is not contented with the minuteness of this description. This character appears to have taken his eye as completely as it takesKing Lear's, the moment that _he_ gets a glimpse of him; and the poetbetrays throughout that same philosophical interest in the study, which the monarch expresses so boldly; for beside the dramaticexhibition, and the philosophical review of him, which King Learinstitutes, here is an autographical sketch of him, and of his mode ofliving--

'_What_ are you there? Your _names_?'

cries Gloster, when he comes to the heath, with his torch, to seek outthe king and his party; whereupon Tom, thinking that an occasion hasnow arrived for defining his social outline, takes it upon him toanswer, for his part--

'Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the tadpole, thewall-newt, and the water-[newt]; that in the fury of his heart, whenthe _foul fiend rages_, swallows the old rat, and the ditch-dog;drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; _who is whipped_ from_tything_ to _tything_' [this is an Anglo-Saxon institution one sees];'and stocked, punished, and imprisoned; who _hath had_ three suits tohis back' [fallen fortunes here, too] 'six shirts to his body, horseto ride, and weapon to wear. '

The Jesuits had been, then, recently and notoriously at work inEngland, endeavouring professedly to cast out '_the fiend_' from manypossessed persons; and it appeared, to this great practicalphilosopher, that this creature he has fetched up here from thesubterranean social abysses of his time, presented a very fittingsubject for the operations of practitioners professing any miraculousor superior influence over the demons that infest human nature, orthose that have power over human fortunes. He has brought him out herethus distinctly, for the purpose of inquiring whether there is anyexorcism which can meet his case, or that of the great humanmultitude, that no man can number, of whose penury and vice he standshere as the elected, pre-eminent, royal representative. In that surveyand report of human affairs, which this author felt himself calledupon to make, the case of this poor creature had attracted hisattention, and appeared to him to require looking to; and, accordingly, he has made a note of it. 

He is admirably seconded in his views on this subject, by the kinghimself, who, in that fine philosophic humour which his madness andhis misery have served to develop in him, stands ready to lend himselfto the boldest and most delicate philosophical inquiries. For thepoint to be noted here, --and it is one of no ordinary importance, --is, that this mad humour for philosophical investigation, which has seizedso strangely the royal mind, does not appear to be at all in the veinof that old-fashioned philosophy, which had been rattling itsabstractions in the face of the collective human misery for so manyages. For the helplessness of the human creature in his struggle withthe elements, and those conditions of his nature which put him sohopelessly at the mercy of his own kind and kindred, seem to suggestto the royal sufferer, who has the advantage of a fresh experience tostimulate his apprehension, that there ought to be some relief for thehuman condition from _this source_, that is, from PHILOSOPHY; and hisinquiries and discoveries are all stamped with the unmistakeableimpress of that fire new philosophy, which was not yet out of the mintelsewhere--which was yet undergoing the formative process in the mindof its great inventor;--that philosophy, which we are told elsewhere'has for its principal object, to make _nature subservient to thewants and state of Man_';--and which concerns itself for that purposewith ideas as they exist in nature, as _causes_, and not as they existin the mind of man as _words_ merely. 

If there had been, indeed, any intention of paying a marked complimentto the philosophy which still held all the mind of the world in itsgrasp, at that great moment in history, in which Tom o' Bedlam makeshis first appearance on any stage, it is not likely that _that_ sagewould have been just the person appointed to hold the office ofPhilosopher in Chief, and Councillor extraordinary to his Majesty. 

The selection is indeed made on the part of the king, in perfect goodfaith, whatever the Poet's intent may be; for from the moment thatthis creature makes his appearance, he has no eyes or ears foranything else. And he will not be parted from him. For this startlingjuxtaposition was not intended by the Poet to fulfil its effect as amere passing _tableau vivant_. The relation must be dramaticallydeveloped; that astounding juxtaposition must be prolonged, in spiteof the horror of the spectators, and the disgust and rude displeasureof the king's attendants. They seek in vain to _part_ these two men. The king refuses to stir without him. 'He will _still keep with hisphilosopher_. ' He has a vague idea that his regal administrationstands in need of some assistance, and that philosophy ought to beable to give it, and that the Bedlamite is in some way connected withthe subject, but confused as the association is, it is a pertinaciousone; and, in spite of their disgust the king's friends are obliged totake this wretch with them. For Gloster does not know, after all, itis 'his own flesh and blood' he sees there. He cannot even recognizethe common kindred in that guise, as the king does, when hephilosophises on his condition. And the rough aristocratic contemptand indifference which is manifested by the king's party, as a matterof course, for this poor human victim of wrong and misfortune, is madeto contrast with their boundless sympathy and tenderness for the_king_, while the poet aiming at broader relationships, finds themantle of _his_ humanity wide enough for them, _both_. 

As for the king, --startled in the midst of those new views of humanwretchedness which his own sufferings have occasioned, and while thosedesires to _remedy it_, with which his penitence is accompanied, arestill on his lip, by this wild apparition and embodiment of histhought, in that new accession of his mental disorder, which thepresence of this object seems to occasion, that confounding ofproximate conceptions, which leads him to regard this man as a sourceof new light on human affairs, is one of those exquisite physiologicalexhibitions of which only this scientific artist is capable. 

And, in fact, it must be confessed, that this 'learned Theban'himself, notwithstanding the unexpected dignity of his promotion, doesnot appear to be altogether wanting in a taste, at least, for that newkind of philosophical investigation, which seems to be looked for athis hands. The king's inquiries appear to fall in remarkably with theprevious train of his pursuits. In the course of his experiments, heseems himself to have struck upon that new philosophic proceeding, which has been called 'putting philosophy upon the right road again. '

Only the philosophic domain which that new road in philosophy leadsto, appears to be very considerably broader, as 'Tom' takes it, thanthat very vivid, but narrow limitation of its fields, which Mr. Macaulay has set down in our time, would make it. Indeed, this'philosopher, ' that _Lear_ so much inclines to, appears to haveincluded in his investigations the two _extremes_ of the new scienceof practice. He has sounded it apparently 'from its lowest note to thetop of its key. '

'What is your study?' says the king to him, eyeing him curiously, andapparently struck with the practical result--anxious to have a wordwith him in private, but obliged to conduct the examination on thestage. 

'How to prevent THE FIEND, ' is Tom's reply. 'How to prevent the fiend_and_ to kill vermin. '

This is the Poet who says elsewhere, 'that without _good_ nature, _men_ are themselves but a nobler kind of vermin. '

One cannot but observe, however, that Poor Tom's researches in thisquite new field of a practical philosophy, do not appear to have beenfollowed up since his time with any very marked success. _One_ ofthese departments of 'his _study_' has indeed been seized, and is nowoccupied by whole troops of modern philosophers; but their inquiries, though very interesting and doubtlessly useful, do not appear toexhibit that direct and palpable bearing on practice, to which Tom'sprogramme so severely inclines. For he is one who would make 'the artand practic part of life, the mistress to his theoric. ' And as to thatother mysterious object of his inquiries, Mr. Macaulay is not the onlyperson who appears to think, that that does not come within the rangeof anything human. Many of our scholars are still of the opinion that, 'court holy water' is the best application in the world for _him_; andthe fact that he does not appear to get '_prevented_' with it; it is afact which of course has nothing to do with the logical result. Forour philosophers are still determined to reason it 'thus and thus, 'without taking into account the circumstance, that 'the sequenteffect' with which 'nature finds itself scourged, ' is not touched bytheir _reasons_. 

King Lear's own inquiries seem also to include with greatdistinctness, the two great branches of the new philosophical inquiry. His mind is indeed very eagerly bent on the pursuit of _causes_. Andthough in the paroxysms of his mental disorder, he is apt to confoundthem occasionally, this very confusion, as it is managed, only servesto develop the breadth of the philosophic conception beneath it. 

'He hath no daughters, Sir. ' '_Death, traitor_! Nothing could havesubdued nature to such a lowness, but--his UNKIND _daughters_. ' It is, of course, his own new and terrible experience which points theinquiry, and though the physical causes are not omitted in it, it isnot strange that the moral should predominate, and that his mindshould seem to be very curiously occupied in tracking the _ethical_phenomena to their sources '_in nature_. '

In the midst of the uproar of the Tempest, he does indeed begin withthe physical investigation. He puts to his 'learned Theban' thequestion, which no learned Theban had then ever suspected of lyingwithin the range of the scholar's investigations--that question whichhas been put to some purpose since--'What is the cause of _thunder_?'But his philosophic inquiry does not stop there, --where all the newphilosophy has stopped ever since, and where some of our scholarsdeclare it was meant to stop, notwithstanding the plainestdeclarations of its inventor to the contrary--with the investigationof physical causes. 

For, after all, it is 'the tempest in his _mind_' that most concernshim. _His_ philosopher, his _practical_ philosopher, must be able toexplore the conditions of that, and find the conductors for itslightnings. 'For where the greater malady is fixed, the lesser isscarce felt. ' 'Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are his daughters. 'After all, it is _Regan's_ heart that appears to him to be thetrouble--it is that which must first be laid on the table; and as soonas he decides to have a philosopher among 'his hundred, ' he givesorders to that effect. 

'Then let them anatomise Regan; see what breeds about her heart: Isthere any CAUSE IN NATURE that makes _these hard hearts_?'

A very fair subject for philosophical inquiry, one would say; and, onthe whole, as profitable and interesting a one, perhaps, as some ofthose that engage the attention of our men of learning so profoundlyat present. In these days of enlightened scientific procedure, onewould hardly undertake the smallest practical affair with the aid ofany such vague general notions or traditional accounts of theproperties to be dealt with, as those which our learned Thebans appearto find all-sufficient for their practices, in that particulardepartment which Lear seems inclined to open here as a field forscientific exploration. 

And it is perfectly clear that the author, whoever he may be, is verymuch of Lear's mind on this point, for he does not depend upon Learalone to suggest his views upon it. There is never a person of thisdrama that does not do it. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE USE OF EYES. 

'All that follow their noses are led by their eyes, but--_blind men_. '

The Play is all strewn throughout, and tinctured in the grain, withthe finest natural philosophy, of that new and very subtle andpeculiar kind, which belongs to the earlier stages of the physicalinquiry, and while it was still in the hands of its originalinventors. Even in physics, there are views here which have not beendeveloped any further since this author's time. It is not merely inthe direct discourse on questions of physical science, as in thephysician's report of the resources of his art, or in Cordelia'sinvocation to 'all the _blessed secrets_--the _unpublished_ virtues ofthe earth, ' that the track of the new physiological science, whichthis work embodies, may be seen. It runs through it all; it betraysitself at every turn. But the subtle and occult relations of the moraland physical are noted here, as we do not find them noted elsewhere, in less practical theories of nature. 

That there is something in the design of this play which requires anelaborate and systematic exhibition of the '_special_' humanrelationships, natural and artificial, political, social, anddomestic, almost any reading of it would show. And that this designinvolves, also, a systematic exhibition of the social _consequences_arising from the violation of the natural laws or duties of theserelationships, and that this violation is everywhere systematicallyaggravated, --carried to its last conceivable extreme, so that all theplay is filled with the uproar of one continued outrage on _humanity_;this is not less evident for the Poet is not content with the materialwhich his chronicle offered him, already invented to his hands forthis purpose, but he has deliberately tacked to it, and intricatelyconnected with it throughout, another plot, bearing on the surface ofit, and in the most prominent statements, the author's intention inthis respect; which tends not only in the most unequivocal manner torepeat and corroborate the impressions which the story of Learproduces, but to widen the dramatic exhibition, so as to make itcapable of conveying the whole breadth of the philosophic conception. For it is the scientific doctrine of MAN that is taught here; and thatis, that man must be _human_ in _all_ his relations, or '_cease tobe_. ' It is the violation of the ESSENTIAL humanity. It is aDEGENERACY which is exhibited here, and the 'SEQUENT EFFECTS' whichbelong naturally to the violation of a law that has the force of theuniverse to sustain it. And it is not by accident that the story ofthe illegitimate Edmund begins the piece; it is not for nothing thatwe are compelled to stop to hear that, before even Lear and hisdaughters can make their entrance. The whole story of the _base_ andbase-born one, who makes what he calls _nature_--the rude, brutal, spontaneous nature--his goddess and his law, and ignores the humandistinction; this part was needed in order to supply the deficiencesin the social diagrams which the original plot presented; and, indeed, the whole story of the Duke of Gloster, which is from first to last aclear Elizabethan invention, and of which this of Edmund is but apart, was not less essential for the same purpose. 

Neither does one need to go very far beneath the surface, to perceivea new and extraordinary treatment of the ethical principle in thisplay throughout; one which the new, artistic, practical 'stand-point'here taken naturally suggested, but one which could have proceededonly from the inmost heart of the new philosophy. It is just the kindof treatment which the proposal to introduce the Inductive method ofinquiry into this department of the human practice inevitablyinvolved. A disposition to go behind the ethical phenomena, to pursuethe investigation to its scientific conclusion, a refusal to acceptthe facts which, to the unscientific observation, appear to be theultimate ones--a refusal to accept the coarse, vague, spontaneousnotions of the dark ages, as the solution of these so essentialphenomena, is everywhere betraying and declaring itself. Cordelia'sagonised invocation and summons to the unpublished forces of nature, to be aidant and remediate to the good man's distress, is continuallyechoed by the poet, but with a broader application. It is not thebodily malady and infirmity only--it is not that kind of madness, onlywith which the poor king is afflicted in the later stages of the play, which appears to him to need scientific treatment--it is not for thecure of these alone that he would open his Prospero book, 'nature'sinfinite book of secresy, ' as he calls it in Mark Antony--'the truemagic, ' as he calls it _elsewhere_--the book of the unpublishedlaws--the scientific book of 'KINDS'--the book of 'the historiclaws'--'the book of God's power. '

All the _interior_ phenomena which attend the violation of duty arestrictly omitted here. That psychological exhibition of it belongs toother plays; and the Poet has left us, as we all know, no room tosuspect the tenderness of his moral sensibility, or the depth of hisacquaintance with these subjective phenomena. The _social_consequences of the violation of duty in all the human relationships, the consequence to _others_, and the _social reaction_, limits theexhibition here. The object on which our sympathies are chieflyconcentrated is, as he himself is made to inform us--

 'One more sinned _against_, than sinning. ' 'Oh, these eclipses do portend these divisions, '

says the base-born Edmund, sneeringly. '_Fa sol la mi_, ' he continues, producing that particular conjunction of sounds which was forbidden bythe ancient musicians, on account of its unnatural discord. Themonkish writers on music call it diabolical. It is at the conclusionof a very long and elaborate discussion on this question, that hetreats us to this prohibited piece of harmony; and a discussion inwhich Gloster refers to the influence of the _planets_, this_unnaturalness_ in all the human relations--this universaljangle--'this ruinous disorder, that hunts men disquietly to theirgraves. ' But the 'base' Edmund is disposed to acquit the celestialinfluences of the evil charged on them. He does not believe in menbeing--

 'Fools, by heavenly compulsion; knaves and thieves, by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that they are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. '

He has another method of accounting for what _he_ himself is. He doesnot think it necessary to go quite so far, to find the origin of hisown base, lawless, _inhuman, unconscionable_ dispositions. But theinquiries, which are handled so boldly in the soliloquies of Edmund, are started again and again elsewhere; and the recurrence is tooemphatic, to leave any room to doubt that the author's intention inthe play is concerned in it; and that this question of 'the severaldispositions and characters of men, ' and the inquiry as to whetherthere be '_any causes in_ nature' of these _degenerate_ tendencies, which he is at such pains to exhibit, is, for some reason or other, avery important point with him. That which in _contemplativephilosophy_ corresponds to the _cause_, in _practical philosophy_becomes the _rule_, the _founder_ of it tells us. But the play cannotbe studied effectually without taking into account the fact, that theauthor avails himself of the date of his chronicle to represent thatstage of human development in which the mysterious forces of naturewere still blindly deified; and, therefore, the religious invocationswith which the play abounds, are _not_, in the modern sense of theterm, _prayers_, but only vague, poetic appeals to the unknown, unexplored powers in nature, which we call _second causes_. And when, as yet, there was no room for science in the narrow premature theorieswhich men found imposed on them--when the new movement of humanthought was still hampered by the narrowness of 'preconceivedopinions, ' the poet was glad to take shelter under the date of hislegend now and then, here, as in Macbeth and other poems, for the sakeof a little more freedom in this respect. He is very far fromcondemning '_presuppositions_' and '_anticipations_' but only wishesthem kept in their proper places, because to bring them into theregion of fact and induction, and so to falsify the actual conditionof things--to undertake to face down the powers of nature with them, is a merely mistaken mode of proceeding; because these powers arepowers which do not yield to the human beliefs, and the _practical_doctrine must have respect to them. The great battle of that age--thebattle of the second causes, which the new philosophers were compelledto fight in behalf of humanity at the peril of their lives--the battlewhich they fought in the open field with Aristotle and Plato--fillsall this magnificent poetry with its reverberations. 

It must be confessed, that those terrible appeals to the heavens, intowhich King Lear launches out in his anguish now and then, are anythingbut pious; but the boldness which shocks our modern sensibilitiesbecomes less offensive, if we take into account the fact that they arenot made to the object of our present religious worship, but are merevague appeals, and questioning addresses to the unknown, unexploredcauses in nature--the powers which lie behind the historicalphenomena. 

For that divine Ideal of Human Nature to which 'our large temples, crowded with the shows of peace, ' are built now, had not yet appearedat the date of this history, in that form in which we now worship it, with its triumphant assurance that it came forth from the heart ofGod, and declared Him. Paul had not yet preached his sermon at Athens, in the age of this supposed King of Britain; and though the author wasindeed painting his own age, and not that, it so happened that therewas such a heathenish and inhuman, and, as he intimates, indeed, quite'_fiendish_' and diabolical state of things to represent here then, that this discrepancy was not so shocking as it might have been if hehad found a divine religion in full operation here. 

'If it be you, ' says Lear, falling back upon the theory, which Edmundhas already discarded, of a divine thrusting on--

 'If it be _you_ that _stir these daughters' hearts_ Against their father, fool _me_ not so much To bear it tamely; _touch me_ with noble anger. '

And here is an echo of the 'spherical predominance' which Gloster goesinto so elaborately in the outset, confessing, much to the amusementof his graceless offspring, that he is disposed to think, after all, there may be something in it. 'For, ' he says, 'though the _wisdom_ of_nature_ [the spontaneous wisdom] can REASON IT _thus and thus, yet_nature _finds itself scourged_ by THE SEQUENT EFFECT;' and he istalking under the dictation of a philosopher who, though he ridiculesthe pretensions of astrology in the next breath, lays it down as aprinciple in the scientific Art, as a chief point in the science ofPractice and Relief, that the _sequent effects_, with which naturefinds itself scourged, are a better guide to the _causes_ which the_practical_ remedy must comprehend, than anything which the wisdom ofnature can undertake to reason out _beforehand_, without any respectto the sequent effect--'_thus_, and--_thus_. ' But here is theconfirmation of Gloster's view of the subject, which the sound-mindedKent, who is not at all metaphysical, finds himself provoked to utter;and though this is in the Fourth Act, and Gloster's opinions areadvanced in the First, the passages do, notwithstanding, 'look towardseach other. '

 'It is _the stars_. The stars above us govern our conditions, Else one self mate and mate could not beget Such different issues. '

Of course, it is not the astrological theory of the constitutionaloriginal differences in the human dispositions which the honest Kentis made to advocate here, literally and in earnest. It is rather theabsence of any known cause, and the necessity of supposing one in acase where this difference is so obtrusive and violent, which heexpresses; the stars being the natural resort of men in suchcircumstances, and when other solutions fail; though Poor Tom appearsto be in possession of a much more orthodox theory for the peculiardisorders in _his_ moral constitution: but, at the same time, it mustbe conceded that it is one which does not appear to have led, in hiscase, to any such felicitous practical results as the supposed originof it might have seemed to promise. 

For, indeed, this point of natural differences in the humandispositions, though, of course, quite overlooked in the moral regimenwhich is based on _a priori_ knowledge, and is able to dispense withscience, and ride over the actual laws; this point of _difference_--not in the dispositions of individuals only, but the differenceswhich manifest themselves under the varying conditions of age andbodily health, of climate, or other physical differences in the sameindividual, as well as under the varying moral conditions ofdiffering social and political positions and relations; this soessential point, overlooked as it is in the ordinary practice, hasseized the clear eye of this great scientific practitioner, thisMaster of Arts, and he is making a radical point of it in his newspeculation; he is making collections on it, and he will make a mainpoint of it in 'the part operative' of his New Science, when he comesto make out the outline of it elsewhere, referring us distinctly tothis place for his collections in it, for his collections on thispoint, as well as on others not less radical. 

Lear himself, in his madness, appears, as we have seen already, muchdisposed to speculate upon this same particular question, whichGloster and Edmund and Kent have already indicated as 'a necessaryquestion of the play'; namely, the question as to '_the causes innature_' of the phenomena which the social condition of man exhibits;that is, the causes of that degeneracy, that violation of theessential human law to which all the evil is tracked here; and it isthe scientific doctrine, that the _nature_ of a thing cannot besuccessfully studied in itself alone. It is not in water or in aironly, or in any other single substance, that we find the nature of_oxygen_, or _hydrogen_, or any other of those principles in nature, which the application of this method to another department evolvesfrom things which present themselves to the unscientific experience asmost dissimilar. 'It is the greatest proof of want of skill toinvestigate _the nature_ of any object in itself alone; for _the samenature_ which seems concealed and hidden in some instances, ismanifest and almost palpable in others; and, in general, those verythings which are considered as secret, are manifest and common inother objects, but will never be clearly seen if the experiments andconclusions of men be directed to themselves alone': for it is a partof this doctrine, that man is not omitted in the order of nature--thatthe term HUMAN NATURE is _not_ a misnomer. The doctrine of this Playis, that those same powers which are at work in man's life, are atwork without it also; that they are powers which belong, in theirhighest form, to the nature of things in general; and that manhimself, with all his special distinctions, is under the law of thatuniversal constitution. The scientific remedy for the state of thingswhich this play exhibits is the knowledge of 'causes in nature, ' whichmust be found here, as in the other case, by scientificinvestigation--the spontaneous method leading to no better result herethan in the other case. Under cover of the excitements of this play, this inquiry is boldly opened, and the track of the new science isclearly marked in it. 

Poor Lear is, indeed, compelled to leave the practical improvement of_his_ hints for another; and when it comes to the open question of theremedy for this state of things, which is the term of the inquiry, when he undertakes to put his absolute power in motion for the avowedpurpose of effecting an improvement here, he appears indeed disposedto treat the subject in the most savage and despairing manner--thatis, on his own account; but the vein of the scientific inquiry stillruns unbroken through all this burst of passion. For in his scorn forthat failure in human nature and human life of which society, as hefinds it, stands convicted--that failure to establish the distinctivelaw of the human kind--that failure from which he is suffering sodeeply--and in his struggle to express that disgust, he proposes, asan improvement on the state of things he finds, a law which shallobliterate that human distinction; though certainly _that_ is anythingbut the Poet's remedy; and the poor king himself does not appear to bein earnest, for the moral disgust in which the distinctive sentimentof the nobler nature, and the knowledge of _human_ good and evilbetrays itself, breaks forth in floods of passion that overflow allthe bounds of articulation before he can make an end of it. 

But the radical nature of this question of _natural causes_, which thepractical theory of the social arts must comprehend, is alreadyindicated in this play, in the very beginning of the action. 

This author is everywhere bent on graving the scientific distinctionbetween those instinctive affections in which men degenerate, and tendto the rank of lower natures, and the noble natural, distinctivelyhuman affections; and when, in the first scene, the king betrays theselfishness of that fond preference for his younger daughter, --tender, and paternal, and deep as it was, --and the depth of those hopes he wasresting on her kind care and nursery, by the very height of thatfrenzied paroxysm of rage and disappointment, which her unflatteringand, as it seems to him, her unloving reply, creates;--when that'small fault, which showed, ' he tells us, 'so ugly' in _her_ whom 'heloved _most_'--which turned, in a moment, all the sweetness of hislove for her '_to gall_, and like an engine, wrenched his _nature fromits firm place_';--these are the terms in which he undertakes to annulthe natural tie, and _disown_ her--

 _Lear_. So young, and so untender?

 _Cordelia_. So young, my lord, and true. 

 _Lear_. Let it be so. --Thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the _sacred radiance of the sun_; _The mysteries_ of _Hecate_, and _the night_; _By all the operations_ of _the orbs, From whom we do exist, and cease to be, Here I disclaim all my paternal care_, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be _as well neighboured, pitied, and relieved_, As thou, _my sometime daughter_. 

And when

 'This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of his poisoned chalice To his own lips'--

when his 'dog-hearted daughters' have returned to his own bosom thecruel edge of that _unnatural_ wrong which he has impiously dared tosummon nature herself--violated nature--to witness, this is thegreeting which the _unnatural_ Goneril receives, on her return to herhusband, when she complains to him of her welcome--

 _Goneril_. I have been worth the whistle. 

 _Albany_. O Goneril! You are not worth _the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face_. --I fear your _disposition: That nature, which contemns_ ITS ORIGIN, CANNOT BE BORDERED CERTAIN IN ITSELF; She that herself will _sliver and disbranch_ From her MATERIAL SAP, PERFORCE MUST WITHER, _And come to deadly use_. 

[_Prima Philosophia_. Axioms which are not limited to the particularparts of sciences, but 'such as are more common, and of a higherstage. ']

 _Goneril_. No more; _the text_ is foolish. _Albany_. Tigers, not daughters, --

[You have practised on yourself--you have destroyed in yourself thenobler, fairer nature which the law of _human_ kind--the law of humanduty and affection--would have given you. Not DAUGHTERS, --_Tigers_. ]

 'A _father, and a gracious aged man_, Whose reverence the head-lugged bear would lick, Most barbarous, most DEGENERATE!'--

[_degenerate_--that is the point--most degenerate]--

 'have you _madded_. If that the _heavens_ do not _their_ visible spirits Send quickly down, to _tame these vile offences_ 'Twill come, HUMANITY _must perforce prey on itself_, Like monsters of the deep. '

[the land refuses a parallel. ]

And it is the scientific distinction between man and the brutecreation--it is the law of nature in the human kind, which the Poet isgetting out scientifically here, in the face of that terrific failureand degeneration in the kind--which he paints so vividly, for thepurpose of inquiring whether there is not, perhaps, after all, somemore potent provisioning and arming of man for his place in nature, than this state of things would lead one to suppose--whether there arenot, perhaps, some more efficacious 'humanities' than those mild oneswhich appear to operate so lamely on this barbaric, _degenerate_thing. 'Milk-liver'd man!' replies Goneril, speaking not on her ownbehalf only, for the words have a double significance; and the Poetglances through them at that sufferance with which the state of thingshe has just noted was endured--

 '_Milk-livered man_, That bear'st a _cheek for blows_, a HEAD _for_ WRONGS; Who hast not _in thy brows an eye_ discerning Thine honour from thy sufferance; that not know'st, FOOLS do those villains pity, _who are punished Before they have done their mischief_. Where's thy _drum_? France spreads his banners in _our noiseless land; With plumed helm_ thy _slayer_ begins threats; _Whilst thou_, a _Moral Fool_, sit'st still, and _cry'st, Alack_! why does he so?'

This is found to be an appeal of the Poet's own when all is done, andone that goes far into the necessary questions of the play. 

But Albany, in his rejoinder, returns to the idea of the lost, _degenerate_, dissolute _Humanity_ again. He has talked of tigers, and_head-lugged_ bears (and it was necessary to combine the proverbialsensitiveness of that animal to that particular mode of treatment, with the natural amiability of his disposition in general, in order todo justice to the Poet's conception here);--he has called upon 'themonsters of the deep, ' and quoted the laws of their societies, inillustration of the state of things to which the unscientific humancombination appears to him to be visibly tending. But this human_degeneracy_ and deformity, which the action of the play exhibits indiagrams--the _descent_ to the _lower_ nature from the higher; the_voluntary_ descent; the voluntary blindness and narrowness; therejection of the distinctive human law--of VIRTUE and DUTY, as reasonand conscience interpret it--appears to the scientific mind to requireyet _other_ terms and comparisons. These conceits and comparisons, drawn from the habits of innocent, though not to man agreeable, animals, who have no law but blind instinct, do not suffice to conveythe Poet's idea of this human failing; and, accordingly, he instructsthis gentle and noble man, whom this criticism best becomes, tocomplete this view of the subject, in his attempt to express thedisgust with which this _inhuman_, this _more_ than brutal conduct, inhis high-born, and gorgeously-robed, and delicately-featured spouse, inspires him--

 'See thyself, devil!'--

nay, he corrects himself--

 _Proper deformity_ [DE-FORMITY] seems _not_ in the _fiend_ _So_ horrid, as in woman. 

 _Goneril_. O vain fool!

 _Albany_. Thou _changed_ and _self-covered thing_. For shame, Be-monster not thy _feature_. Were it my FITNESS'--

for here it is the _human_, and not the instinctive element--not '_theblood_' element that rules--

 'Were it my FITNESS To _let_ these hands _obey_ my blood, _They_ are _apt_ enough to _dislocate_ and _tear_ Thy _flesh_ and _bones_, '

Rather tiger-like impulses for so mild a gentleman to own to; but theprocess which he confesses his hands are already inclined toundertake, is not half so cruel as the one which this woman haspractised on herself while she was meditating only wrong to another, and pursuing her 'horrible pleasure' at the expense of madness anddeath to another; not half so cruel and injurious, for in that act shehas trampled down, and torn, and dislocated, she has slaughtered incold blood, the divine, angelic form of womanhood--that form of worthand celestial aspiration which great nature stamped upon her, and gaveto her for her law in nature, her type, her essence, her ORIGINAL. Shehas desecrated, not that common form of humanity only which the commonhuman sentiment of reason, which the human sentiment of duty iseverywhere struggling to fulfil, but that lovelier soul ofhumanity--that softer, subtler, more gracious, more celestial, morecommanding spirit of it, which the form of womanhood in its integritymust carry with it--which the form of womanhood will carry with it, ifit be not counterfeit or degenerate, gone down into a lower range, 'be-monstered'--'a changed and _self-covered_ thing. ' That is thePoet's reading. 

'Howe'er, ' the Duke of Albany concludes, after that struggle with hishands he speaks of--chivalrously refusing to let them obey thatimpulse of 'blood, ' as a gentleman in such circumstances, under anyamount of provocation, should--true to himself, true to his manlinessand to his gentle breeding, though his wife is false to hers, and'false to her nature'--

 'Howe'er thou _art_ a, _fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee. 

 Goneril_. Marry! YOUR MANHOOD NOW. '

This is indeed a discourse in which the reader must have '_the text_, 'or ever he can begin to catch the meaning of those philosophic pointswith which this orator, who _talks_ so 'pressly, ' studs his lines. 

For the passage which Goneril dismisses with such scorn is indeed thetext, or it will be, when the word which her commentary on it containshas been added to it: for it is '_the foolishness_' of struggling withgreat Nature, and her LAW of KINDS--it is the folly of ignorance, thestupidity of living without respect to nature and its sequent effects, as well as its preformed decree--

 (_'Perforce must_ wither, And come to deadly use'--)

which this discourse is intended to illustrate. And one who has oncetracked the dramatic development of this text, through all this movingexhibition of human society, and its violated rule in nature, will beat no loss to conjecture out of what 'New' book it comes, if indeedthat book has ever been opened to him. 

The whole subject is treated here scientifically--that is, fromwithout. The generalizations of the higher stages of philosophy--theaxioms of a universal philosophy--with all the force of theiruniversality, must be brought to bear upon it, through all itsdevelopments. The universal historical laws, in that modification ofthem which the speciality of the human kind creates, must beimpartially set forth here. The law of DUTY, as the NATURAL LAW ofhuman society; the law of humanity, as the law, nay, THE FORM, of theHUMAN kind, stamped on it with the Creator's stamp, that _order_ fromthe universal law of kinds that gives to all life its SPECIAL bounds, its '_border_ in _itself_'--that form so _essential_, that there is no_humanity_ or _kind-ness_ where that is not--that law which we hear somuch of, in its narrower aspects, under various names, in all men'sspeech, is produced here, in its broader relations, as the necessarybasis of a scientific social art. And it is this author's deliberateopinion as a Naturalist, it is the opinion of this School in NaturalScience, from which this work proceeds, that those who undertake tocompose human societies, large or small, whether in families, orstates, or empires, without recognising this principle--those whoundertake to compose UNIONS, human unions and societies, on any otherprinciple--will have a diabolical jangle of it when all is done. Forthis law of _unity_, which is written on the soul of man, this law ofCONSCIENCE _within, is written without also_; and to erase it _within_is to get the lesson from _without_ in that universal and downrightspeech and language which the axioms of nature are taught in--it is toget it in that fearful school in which nature _repeats_ the doctrineof her violated law, for those who are not able to solve andcomprehend the science of it as it is _written_--writtenbeforehand--in the natural law and constitutions of the human soul. 

 'That nature which, contemns its ORIGIN Cannot be _bordered_ certain _in itself_. '

[These are the mysteries of day and night, that Lear, in hisignorance, vainly invokes, the operations of the orbs from _whom we doexist and cease to be_. ]

 'She that herself will _sliver_ and _disbranch_ From her _material_ sap, _perforce must_ wither, And come to _deadly_ use. ' 'The text is--FOOLISH. '

The teacher who takes it upon himself to get out this text from thetext-book of Universal Laws, for the purpose of conducting it to itspractical application in human affairs, for the purpose of suggestingthe true remedy for those great human wants which he exhibits here, is_not_ one of those 'Milk-livered men, ' those _Moral Fools_, that_Goneril_ delicately alludes to, who bear a cheek for blows, a _head_for wrongs; who have not in their brows an _eye_ discerning their_honour_ from their sufferance; who think it enough to sit still underthe murderous blows of what they call misfortune, fate, _Providence_, when it is their own im-_providence_; who think it is enough to sitstill, and cry, _Alack_! without inquiring what it is that makes that_lack_; without ever putting the question in earnest, '_Why does heso_?' His Play is all full of the _practical application_ of the text, the application of it which Gloster sums up in a word--

 ''T is the Time's plague when MADMEN _lead_ THE BLIND. '

 'I will preach to thee. Mark me: [says Lear] When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of FOOLS. [Mark me!']

The whole Play is one magnificent intimation, on the part of the Poet, that eyes are made to see with; and that there is no so natural andlegitimate use of them as that which human affairs were crying for, through all their lengths and breadths, in his time. It is that _eye_which is one of the distinctive features of the human kind; that eyewhich looks before and after, which extends human vision so far beyondindividual sensuous experience, which is able to converge the light ofuniversal truth upon particular experience, which is able to bring theinfallible guidance of universal axioms into all the particulars ofhuman conduct--that is the eye which he finds wanting in humanaffairs. The play is pointing everywhere with the Poet's scorn of'_Blind Men_, ' 'who will not see because they do not feel, '--who waitfor the blows of 'fortune, ' to teach them the lesson of Nature'slaws--who wait to be scourged, or dashed to pieces with 'the sequenteffect, ' instead of making use of their faculty of reason to ascend tocauses, and _so_ 'to trammel up the consequence. '

It is that same combination of human faculties, that same combinationof sense and reason, which the Novum Organum provides for; it is thatsame scorn of abstract wordy speculation, on the one hand, and blindexperimental groping, on the other, that is everywhere _suggested_here. But with the aid of the persons of the Drama, and theirsuggestions, the new philosophy is carried into departments which itwould have cost the Author of the Novum Organum and the Advancement ofLearning his head to look into. He might as well have proposed toimpeach the Government in Parliament outright, as to offer to advancehis Novum Organum into these fields; fields which it enters safelyenough under the cover of a spontaneous, inspired, dramaticphilosophy, though it is a philosophy which overflows continually withthose practical axioms, those aphorisms, which the Author of theAdvancement of Learning assures us 'are made of the pith and heart ofsciences'; and that 'no man can write who is not sound and grounded. 'But then, if they are only written in 'with a goose-pen, ' they passwell enough for unconscious, unmeaning, spontaneous felicities. 

'Canst thou tell why one's nose stands in the middle of his face?'says the Fool, in the First Act, by way of entertaining his master, when the poor king's want of foresight and 'prudence' begins to tellon his affairs a little. 'Canst thou tell why one's nose stands in themiddle of his face?' 'No. ' 'Why, to keep his eyes on either side ofit, that what a man _cannot smell out_ he may _spy into_. '

 _Fool_. Canst tell how _an oyster_ makes _his_ shell?'

 _Lear_. No. 

 _Fool_. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house. 

 _Lear_. Why?

 _Fool_. Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case. 

 _Lear_. . .. Be my horses ready?

 _Fool_. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven, is a pretty reason. 

 _Lear_. Because they are not eight?

 _Fool_. Yes, indeed: Thou wouldest make a good--fool. 

He cannot tell how an _oyster_ makes his shell, but the nose has notstood in the middle of _his_ face for nothing. There has been someprying on either side of it, apparently; and he has pried to such goodpurpose, that some of the prime secrets of the new philosophy appearto have turned up in his researches. 'To take it again _perforce_, 'mutters the king. 'If thou wert my fool, Nuncle, I'd have thee beaten_for being_ OLD _before thy time_. ' [This is a wit 'of the self-samecolour' with that one who discovered that the times from which theworld's practical wisdom was inherited, were the times when the worldwas young. 'They told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the blackones were there!'] 'I'd have thee beaten for being old before thytime. '--'_How's_ that?'--'Thou shouldst _not_ have been OLD _beforethou hadst been_ WISE. '

And it is in the Second Act that poor Kent, in his misfortunes, furnishes occasion for another avowal on the part of this same learnedcritic, of a preference for a practical philosophy, though borrowedfrom the lower species. He comes upon the object of his criticism ashe sits in the stocks, because he could not adopt the style of histime with sufficient earnestness, though he does make an attempt 'togo out of his dialect, ' but was not more happy in it than some othermen of his politics were, in the Poet's time. 

 'Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity, _Under the allowance of your grand aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phebus' front--_

 _Cornwall_. 'What mean'st by this?'

 _Kent_. 'To go out of my dialect, _which you discommend so much_. 

[Halting in his blank verse for the explanation]:--It is from thatseat, to which the plainness of this man, with the official dignitiesof his time, has conducted him, that he puts the inquiry to that keenobserver, whose observations in natural history have just beenquoted, --

 _Kent_. How chances that the _king comes with so small a train_?

 _Fool_. An thou had'st been set in the stocks for that question, _thou, had'st well deserved it_. 

 _Kent_. Why, fool?

 _Fool_. We'll set thee _to school to an ant_, to teach thee there is no labouring in the winter. All that follow their noses are _led by their eyes_, but--BLIND MEN. 

 _Kent_. Where learned'st thou _that_, fool?

 _Fool_. Not in the stocks, _fool_. 

[Not from being punished with the sequent effect; not in consequenceof an improvidence, that an _ant_ might have taught me to avoid. ]

'I have no _way_, and _therefore_ want no eyes, ' says another duke, who is also the victim of that '_absolute_' authority which is abroadin this play. 'I stumbled when I _saw_, ' and this is _his prayer_. 

 Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man That slaves your ordinance; that will not SEE Because he doth not FEEL, _feel_ your power quickly. 

'Thou seest how this world goes, ' says the outcast king, meeting thispoor outcast duke, just after his eyes had been taken out of his head, by the persons then occupying the chief offices in the state. 'Thouseest how this world goes. ' 'I SEE it FEELINGLY, ' is the duke's reply. 

 _Lear_. What! art _mad_? A man may _see_ how this world goes with _no_ eyes. Look with thine _ears_. 

And his account of how it goes is--as we shall see--one that requiresto be looked at with _ears_, for it contains, what one calls elsewherein this play, --_ear-kissing_ arguments. --'Get thee _glass_ eyes, ' hesays, in conclusion, 'and like a scurvy _politician_ pretend to SEE, the things thou dost not. ' And that was not the kind of politician, and that was not the kind of political eye-sight, to which thisstatesman, and seer, proposed to leave the times, that his legacyshould fall on, whatever he might be compelled to tolerate in his own. 

 'Upon _the crown_ o' the cliff. What _thing_ was that Which parted from you?'

 '_A poor unfortunate beggar_. ' [Softly. ] '_As I stood here_ BELOW, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses. Horns welked and waved, like the enridged _sea_. '

'Now, Sir, what are you?' says the poor outcast duke to his true son, when in disguise he offers to attend him. 'A most poor man, ' is thereply, 'made _lame_ by fortune's blows; who, by the ART of KNOWN ANDFEELING SORROWS, am _pregnant_ to _good_ PITY. Give me your hand, _I'll_ lead you to some BIDING. Bear _free_ and _patient thoughts_, 'is his whisper to him. 

Surely this is a poet that has got an inkling, in some way, of the newidea of an _experimental philosophy_, --of a combination of the humanfaculties of sense and reason in some organum; one, too, whose eyepasses lightly over the architectonic gifts of _univalves_ and_bivalves_, and _entomological_ developments of skill and forethought, intent on that great chrysalis, which has never been able to publishyet its Creator's glory. Here is a naturalist who would not think itenough to combine reason with experiment, in wind, and rain, and fire, and thunder, who would not think it enough to bring all theunpublished virtues of the earth, to the relief of the bodily humanmaladies. It is the Poet, who says elsewhere, 'Can'st thou notminister to a _mind_ diseased? No? Throw physic to the dogs, I'll noneof it. ' It is the poet who says, 'Nor wind, rain, fire, thunder, aremy daughters. ' '_Nothing_ could have brought him to such a lowness innature, but his un-_kind_ daughters. ' It is the naturalist who says, 'Then let Regan's heart be anatomized, and see what _it_ is thatbreeds about it. Is there any cause in NATURE that makes these hardhearts?'

In short, this play is from the hand of one who thinks that the humanaffairs are of a kind to require scientific investigation, scientificforesight and conduct. He is much of Lear's opinion on many points, and evidently judges that there would be no harm in getting aphilosopher enrolled among the king's hundred. Not a logician, not ametaphysician, according to the common acceptance of these terms; notmerely a natural philosopher, in the low and limited sense of thatterm, in which we use it; but a man of science--one who is able, bysome method or other, to ascend to the actual principles of things, and so to base his remedies for the social evils, on the forms whichare _forms_, which have efficacy in nature as _such_, instead ofbasing them on certain chimeras, or so-called logical conclusions ofthe human mind--conclusions which the logic of nature contradicts--conclusions to which the universal consent of _things_ is wanting. 

_Nature_, in the sense in which _Edmund_ uses that term, is _not_ thispoet's _goddess_, or his LAW; though he regards 'the plague of CUSTOM'and 'the curiosity of nations, ' and all their fantastic and arbitrarysway in human affairs, with an eye quite as critical--though he looksat 'that old Antic, the law, ' as he expresses it elsewhere, with aneye quite as severe, on the world's behalf, as that which Edmund turnson it, on his own; he is very far from contending for the freedom ofthat savage, selfish, unreclaimed, spontaneous nature, --that lawlessnature, to which the natural son of Gloster claims 'his services aredue. ' The poet teaches that the true and successful Social Art is, andmust be scientific. That it must be based on the science of nature ingeneral, and on the science of human nature in particular, on ascience that recognizes the double _nature_ in man, that takes in, itsheights as well as its depths, and its depths as well as its heights, that sounds it 'from its lowest note to the top of its key;' but it isone thing to quarrel with the unscientific, _imperfect_ social arts, and it is another to prefer nature in man _without_ arts. The pictureof 'the Unaccommodated Man, ' which forms so prominent a part of therepresentation here, --'the _thing itself_, ' stripped of its sociallendings, or setting at nought the social restraints, is not by anymeans an attractive one, as this philosopher does it for us. Thescientific artist is no better pleased, than the king is with thiskind of '_nature_. ' It is the imperfection of the civilization whichstill generates, or leaves unchecked these savage evils, that heexposes. 

But it is impossible, that the true social arts should be smelt out, or stumbled on, by accident, or arrived at by any kind of empiricalgroping; just as impossible as it is, on the other hand, that 'thewisdom of nature, ' by throwing itself on its own internal resources, and reasoning it '_thus and thus_, ' without taking into account theactual forces, should be able to invent them. Those forces which enterinto all the plot of our human life, unworthy of philosophic note asthey had seemed hitherto, those terrific, unmeasured strengths, against which the human kind are continually dashing themselves intheir blind experiments, --those engines on which the human heart isracked, 'and stretched out so long, '--those rocky structures on whichits choicest treasures are so wildly wrecked, these naturalforces, --no matter what artificial combinations of them may have beenaccomplished, --'the causes _in nature_, ' of the phenomena of humanlife, appeared to this philosopher a very fitting subject forphilosophy, and one quite too important in its relation to humanwell-being and the Arts that promote it, to be left to mere blunderingexperiment; quite too subtle to be reached by any kind of empiricalgroping, quite too subtle to be entangled with the conclusions of the_philosophy_ which he found in vogue in his time, whose socialefficacies and gifts in exorcisms, he has taken leave to connect insome way, with the appearance of Tom o' Bedlam in his history; aphilosophy which had built up its system in defiant scorn of thenature of things; as if 'by reasoning it _thus_ and _thus_, ' withoutany respect to the actual conditions, it could undertake to bridle themight of nature, and put a hook in the nose of her oppositions. 

It did not seem to this philosopher well, that men who have eyes--eyesthat are great nature's gift to them, --her gift to them inchief, --eyes that were meant to see with, should go on in thisgroping, star-gazing, fatally-stumbling fashion any longer. 

_Lear_. [To the Bedlamite. ] I do not like the fashion of yourgarments. _You will say that they are--Persian:--but_ let them beALTERED. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE STATESMAN'S NOTE-BOOK--AND THE PLAY. 

 _Brutus. _ How I have thought of this, and of _these times_, I shall recount _hereafter_. 

 _Hamlet_. The Play's the thing. 

 _Brutus_. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. _Casca_. I can as well _be hanged_ as tell _the manner_ of it. 

 _Posthumus_. 'Shall's have _a Play of this_. --

The fact that the design of this play, whatever it may be, is one deepenough to go down to that place in the social system which Tom o'Bedlam was then peacefully occupying, --thinking of anything else inthe world but a social revolution on his behalf--to bring him up forobservation; and that it is high enough to go up to that apex of thesocial structure on which the crown was then fastened, to fetch downthe impersonated state itself, for an examination not less curious andcritical; the fact, too, that it was subtle enough to penetrate theretirement of the domestic life, and bring out its innermost passagesfor scientific criticism;--the fact that the relation of the Parent tothe Child, and that of the Child to the Parent, the relation ofHusband and Wife, and Sister and Brother, and Master and Servant, ofPeasant and Lord, nay, the transient relation of Guest and Host, haveeach their place and part here, and the question of their duty markednot less clearly, than that prominent relation of the King and hisSubjects;--the fact that these relations come in from the first, alongwith the political, and demand a hearing, and divide throughout thestage with them; the fact of the mere range of this social criticism, as it appears on the surface of the play, in these so prominentpoints, --is enough to show already, that it is a _Radical_ of noordinary kind, who is at work behind this drop-scene. 

It was evident, at a glance, that this so extensive bill of grievanceswas not one which any immediate or violent political revolution, orany social reformation which was then in contemplation, would be ableto meet; and that very circumstance gave to the whole essay itsprofoundly quiet, conservative air. It passed only for one of thosecommon outcries on the ills of human life, which men in general areexpected, or permitted to make, according to their several abilities;one of those 'Alacks!'--'why does he so'? which, by relieving the mindof the complainant, tend to keep things quiet on the whole. This Poet, whoever he was, was making rather more ado about it than usual, apparently: but Poets are useful for that very purpose; they expressother men's emotions for them, in a higher key than they could manageit themselves. 

It was the breadth then, --the philosophic comprehension of this greatphilosophic design, which made it possible for the Poet to introduceinto it, and exhibit in it, so glaringly, those evils of his time thatwere crying out to Heaven then, for redress, and could not wait forphilosophic revolutions and reformations. 

Tom o' Bedlam, strictly speaking, does appear, indeed, to have beenone of those Elizabethan institutions which were modified or annulled, in the course of the political changes that so soon followed thisexhibition of his case. 'Tom' himself, in his own proper person, appears to have been left--by accident or otherwise--on the other sideof the Revolutionary gulf. 'I remember, ' says Aubrey, '_before thecivil wars_, Tom o' Bedlams went about begging, ' etc. --but one cannothelp remarking that a very numerous family connection of thecollateral branches of his house--bearing, on the whole, asufficiently striking family resemblance to this illustrious subjectof the Poet's pencil, --appear to have got safely over all thepolitical and social gulfs that intervene between our time and that. And, as to some of those other social evils which are exhibited herein their ideal proportions, they are not, perhaps, so entirely amongthe former things which have passed away with our reformations, thatwe should have to go to Aubrey's note book to find out what the Poetmeans. As to some of these, at least, it will not be necessary to huntup an antiquary, who can remember whether any such thing ever wasreally in existence here, '_before the civil wars_. ' And, notwithstanding all our advancements in Natural Science, and in theArts which attend these advancements; notwithstanding the strongrecommendations of the inventors of this Science, --Regan's heart, andthat which breeds about it, appear, by a singular oversight, to haveescaped, hitherto, any truly scientific inquiry; and the arts forimproving it do not appear, after all, to have been very materiallyadvanced since the time when this order was issued. 

But notwithstanding that the subject of this piece appears to be sogeneral, --notwithstanding the fact, that the social evils which arehere represented include, apparently, the universal human conditions, and include evils which are still understood to be inherent in thenature of man, and, irreclaimable, or not, at least a subject forArt, --and notwithstanding the fact that this exhibition professes toborrow all its local hues and exaggerations from the barbaric times ofthe Ancient Britons--it is not very difficult to perceive that itdoes, in fact, involve a local exhibition of a different kind; andthat, under the cover of that great revolution in the human estate, which the philosophic mind was then meditating, --_so broad_, that nonecould perceive its _project_, --another revolution, --that revolutionwhich was then so near at hand, was clearly outlined; and that thisrevolution, too, is, after all, one towards which this Poet appears to'_incline_, ' in a manner which would not have seemed, perhaps, altogether consistent with his position and assumptions elsewhere, ifthese could have been produced here against him; and in a manner, perhaps, somewhat more decided than the general philosophic tone, andthe spirit of those large and peaceful designs to which he was chieflydevoted, might have led us to anticipate. This Play was evidentlywritten at a time when the conviction that the state of things whichit represents could not endure much longer, had taken deep hold of thePoet's mind; at a time when those evils had attained a height sounendurable--when that evil which lay at the heart of the commonweal, poisoning all the social relations with its infection, had grown sofearful, that it might well seem, even to the scientific mind, torequire the fierce '_drug_' of the political revolution, --so fearfulas to make, even to such a mind, the rude surgery of the civil wars atlast welcome. 

For, indeed, it cannot be denied that the state of things which thisPlay represents, is that with which the author's own experience wasconversant; and that all the terrible tragic satire of it, points--notto that age in the history of Britain in which the Druids were stillresponsible for the national culture, --not to that time when theCeltic Triads, clothed with the sanctities of an unknown past, stillmade the standard works and authorities in learning, beyond whichthere was no going, --not to the time when the national morality wasstill mystically produced at Stonehenge, in those national colleges, from whose mysterious rites the awful sanctities of the oak and themistletoe drove back in confusion the sacrilegious inquirer, --not tothat time, but to the _Elizabethan_. 

That instinctive groping and stumbling in all human affairs, thatpursuit of human ends without any science of the natures to besuperinduced, and without any science of the natures that were to besubjected, --those eyes of moonshine speculation, those glass eyes withwhich the scurvy politician affects to see the things he doesnot--those thousand noses that serve for eyes, and horns welked andwaved like the enridged sea, and all the wild misery of that unlearnedfortuitous human living, that waits to be scourged with the sequenteffect, and knows not how to ascend to the cause--colossallyexaggerated as it seems here--heightened everywhere, as if the Poethad put forth his whole power, and strained his imagination, andavailed himself of his utmost poetic license, to give it, through allits details, its last conceivable hue of violence, its pure idealshape, is, after all, but a copy an historical sketch. The ignorance, the stupidity, 'the _blindness_, ' that this author paints, was his own'Time's plague'; 'the madness' that 'led it, ' was the madness of whichhe was himself a mute and manacled spectator. 

By some singular oversight or caprice of tyranny, or on account ofsome fastidious scruple of the imagination perhaps, it does _not_appear, indeed, to have been the fashion, either in the reigns of theTudors or the Stuarts, to pluck out the living human eye as Gloster'seyes were plucked out; and that of itself would have furnished areason why this poor duke should have been compelled to submit to thatparticular operation, instead of presenting himself to have his earscut off in a sober, decent, civilized, Christian manner; or to havethem grubbed out, if it happened that the operation had been onceperformed already; or to have his hand cut off, or his head, with hiseyes in it; or to be roasted alive some noon-day in the public square, eyes and all, as many an honest gentleman was expected to presenthimself in those times, without making any particular demur or fussabout it. _These_ were operations that Englishmen of every rank andprofession, soldiers, scholars, poets, philosophers, lawyers, physicians, and grave and reverend divines, were called on to undergoin those times, and for that identical offence of which the Duke ofGloster stood convicted, opposition to the will of a lawless usurpingtyranny, --to its merest caprice of vanity or humour, perhaps, --or ongrounds slighter still, on bare suspicion of a disposition to opposeit. 

But then that, of course, was a thing of _custom_; so much so, thatthe victims themselves often took it in good part, and submitted to itas a divine institution, part of a sacred legacy, handed down to them, as it was understood, from their more enlightened ancestors. 

Now, if the Poet, in pursuance of his more general philosophicintention, which involved a moving representation of the helplessnessof the Social Monad--that bodily as well as moral susceptibility andfragility, which leaves him open to all kinds of personal injury, notfrom the elements and from animals of other species merely or chiefly, but chiefly from his own kind, --if the Poet, in the course of thisexhibition, had caused poor Gloster to be held down in his chair onthe stage, for the purpose of having his _ears_ pared off, what kindof sensation could he hope to produce with that on the sensibility ofan audience, who might have understood without a commentator anallusion to 'the tribulation of Tower Hill'--spectators accustomed towitness performances so much more thrilling, and on a stage where thePlay was in earnest. And as to that second operation before referredto, which might have answered the poetic purpose, perhaps; who knowswhether that may not have been a refinement in civilization peculiarto the reign of that amiable and handsome Christian Prince, who wasstill a minor when this Play was first brought out at Whitehall? forit was in _his_ reign that that memorable instance of it occurred, which the subsequent events connected with it chanced to make sonotorious. It was a learned and very conscientious lawyer, in thereign of Charles the First, whose criticism upon some of thefashionable amusements of the day, which certain members of the royalfamily were known to be fond of, occasioned the suggestion of thismode of satisfying the outraged Majesty of the State, when the pryingeye of Government discovered, or thought it did, remains enough ofthose previously-condemned appendages on this author's person, tofurnish material for a second operation. 'Methinks Mr. Prynne _hath_ears!' does not, after all, sound so very different from--'going topluck out Gloster's _other_ eye, ' as that the governments under whichthese two speeches are reported, need to be distinguished, on thataccount only, by any such essential difference as that which issupposed to exist between the human and _divine_. Both theseoperations appear, indeed to the unprejudiced human mind, to savoursomewhat of the diabolical--or of the Dark Ages, rather, and of thePrince of Darkness. And, indeed, that '_fiend_' which haunts thePlay--which the monster, with his moonshine eyes, appeared to have avague idea of--seems to have been as busy here, in this department, ashe was in bringing about poor Tom's distresses. 

But in that steady persevering exhibition of the liabilities ofindividual human nature, the COMMON liabilities which throw it uponthe COMMON, the distinctive law of humanity for its WEAL--in thatcontinuous picture of the suffering and ignominy, and mutilation towhich it is liable, moral and intellectual, as well as physical, wherethat law of humanity is not yet scientifically developed andscientifically sustained--the Poet does not always go quite so far tofind his details. It is not from the Celtic Regan's time that hebrings out those ancient implements of state authority into which thefeet of the poor Duke of Kent, travelling on the king's errands, areignominiously thrust; while the Poet, under cover of the Fool's jests, shows prettily their relation to the human dignity. 

But then it is a Duke on whom this indignity is practised; for it isto be remarked, in passing, that though this Poet is evidently bent onmaking his exhibition a thorough one, though he is determined not toleave out anything of importance in his diagrams, he does not appearinclined to soil his fingers by meddling with the lower orders, or tocountenance any innovation in his art in that respect. Whenever he hasoccasion to introduce persons of this class into his pieces, they comein and go out, and perform their part in his scene, very much as theydo elsewhere in his time. Even when his Players come in, they do notspeak many words on their own behalf. They stand civilly, and answerquestions, and take their orders, and fulfil them. That is all that islooked for at their hands. For this is not a Poet who has ever givenany one occasion in his own time, to distinguish him as the Poet ofthe People. It is always from the highest social point of observationthat he takes those views of the lower ranks, which he has occasion tointroduce into his Plays, from the mobs of 'greasy citizens' to thedetails of the sheep-shearing feast; and even in Eastcheap he keeps itstill. 

There never was a more aristocratic poet apparently, and though thevery basest form of outcast misery 'that ever penury in contempt ofman brought near to beast, ' though the basest and most ignoble andpitiful human liabilities, are every where included in his plan; hewill have nothing but the rich blood of dukes and kings to take himthrough with it--he will have nothing lower and less illustrious thanthese to play his parts for him. 

It is a king to whom 'the _Farm House_, ' where _both_ fire and foodare waiting, becomes a royal luxury on his return from the _Hovel's_door, brought in chattering out of the tempest, in that pitiful stageof human want, which had made him ready to share with Tom o' Bedlam, nay, with the _swine_, their rude comforts. 'Art cold? I am coldmyself. Where is this straw, my fellow. Your _hovel_:--come bring usto your _hovel_. '

It is a king who gets an ague in the storm, who finds the tyranny ofthe night too rough for nature to endure; it is a king on whosedesolate outcast head, destitution and social wrongs accumulate theirresults, till his wits begin to turn, till his mind is shattered, andhe comes on to the stage at last, a poor bedlamite. 

Nay, 'Tom' himself, is a duke's son, we are told; though thatcircumstance does not hinder him from giving, with much frankness andscientific accuracy, the particulars of those personal pursuits, andtastes, and habits, incidental to that particular station in life towhich it has pleased Providence to call _him_. 

And so by means of that poetic order, which is the Providence of thispiece, and that design which 'tunes the harmony of it, ' it is a dukeon whom that low correction, 'such as basest and most contemnedwretches are punished with, ' is exhibited, in spite of his indignantprotest. 

 _Kent_. Call not your stocks for me. _I_ serve the king, On _whose employment_ I was sent to you. You shall do small _respect_, show too bold malice Against the _grace_ and _person_ of my master, Stocking his messenger. 

 _Cornwall_. Fetch forth the stocks. As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon. '

 _Regan_. Till noon, --till night my lord, and all night too. 

[In vain the prudent and loyal Gloster remonstrates]

 --The king must take it ill That _he_, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrained. 

 _Cornwall_. I'll answer that. 

 _Regan_. Put in his legs. 

But then it must be confessed that the poet was not without some kindof precedent for this bold dramatic proceeding. He had, indeed, bymeans of the culture and diligent use of that gift of forethought, with which nature had so largely endowed him, been enabled thus far tokeep his own person free from any such tangible encumbrance, thoughthe '_lameness_' with which fortune had afflicted him personally, isalways his personal grievance; but he had seen in his own time, ancient men and reverend, --men who claimed to be the ministers ofheaven, and travelling on its errands, arrested, and subjected to thisludicrous indignity: he had seen this open stop, this palpable, corporeal, unfigurative arrest put upon the activity of scholars andthinkers in his time, conscientious men, between whose master and thestate, there was a growing quarrel then, a quarrel that theseproceedings were not likely to pacify. From noon till night, they, too, had sat thus, and all night too, they had endured that shamefullodging. 

'When a man is _over_ lusty at legs, ' says the Fool, who arrives intime to put in an observation or two on this topic, and who seemsdisposed to look at it from a critical point of view, concluding withthe practical improvement of the subject, already quoted--'When a manis over lusty at legs'--(when his will, or his higher intelligence, perhaps, is allowed to govern them too freely, ) 'he wears woodennether stocks, ' or 'cruel garters, ' as he calls them again, by way ofbestowing on this institution of his ancestors as much variety ofpoetic imagery as the subject will admit of. '_Horses_ are tied by thehead, _dogs_ and _bears_ by the neck, _monkeys_ by the loins, and_men_ by the legs'; and having ransacked his memory to such goodpurpose, and produced such a pile of learned precedents, he appearsdisposed to rest the case with these; for it is a part of the play toget man into his place in the scale of nature, and to draw the linebetween him and the brutes, if there be any such thing possible; andthe Fool seems to be particularly inclined to assist the author inthis process, though when we last heard of him he was, indeed, proposing to send the principal man of his time 'to school to an ant, 'to improve his sagacity; intimating, also, that another department ofnatural science, even conchology itself, might furnish him with somerather more prudent and fortunate suggestions than those which his ownbrain had appeared to generate; and it is to be remarked, that in hisviews on this point, as on some others of importance, he has thehappiness to agree remarkably with that illustrious yoke-fellow of hisin philosophy, who was just then turning his attention to the 'practicpart of life' and _its_ 'theoric, ' and who indulges himself in somesatires on this point not any less severe, though his pleasantries aresomewhat more covert. But the philosopher on this occasion, havingproduced such a variety of precedents from natural history, appears tobe satisfied with the propriety and justice of the proceeding, inasmuch as beasts and men seem to be treated with impartialconsideration in it; and though a certain distinction of form appearsto obtain according to the species, the main fact is throughoutidentical. 

'Then comes the time, ' he says, in winding up that knotted skein ofprophecy, which he leaves for Merlin to disentangle, for 'he livesbefore his time, ' as he takes that opportunity to tell us--

 'Then comes the time, who lives to see't, That _going shall be used with feet_. '

Yes, it is a duke who is put in the stocks; it is a duke's son playsthe bedlamite; it is a king who finds the hovel's shelter 'precious';and it is a queen--it is a king's wife, and a daughter of kings--whois hanged; nay more, it is Cordelia--it is Cordelia, and none other, whom this inexorable Poet, primed with mischief, bent on outrage, determined to turn out the heart of his time, and show, in theselectest form, the inmost lining of its lurking humanities--it isCordelia whom he will hang--And we forgive him still, and bear withhim in all these assaults on our taste--in all these thick-comingblows on our outraged sensibilities; we forgive him when at last thepoetic design flashes on us, --when we come to understand theprovidence of this piece, at least, --when we come to see at last thatthere is a meaning in it _all_, a meaning deep to justify even thisprocedure. 

'We are not the _first_ who, with _the best_ meaning, have _incurredthe worst_, ' says the captive queen herself; nor was she the last ofthat good company, as the Poet himself might have testified;--

 Upon such sacrifices the gods themselves _throw incense_. 

We forgive the Poet here, as we forgive him in all these other pitifuland revolting exhibitions, because we know that he who would undertakethe time's cure--he who would undertake the relief of the human estatein any age, must probe its evil--must reach, no matter what it costs, its deadliest _hollow_. 

And in that age, there was no voice which could afford to lack 'thecourtier's glib and oily art. ' 'Hanging was the word' then, for thequalities of which this princess was the impersonation, or almost theimpersonation, so predominant were they in her poetic constitution. There was no voice, gentle and low enough, to speak outright suchtruth as hers; and 'banishment' and 'the stocks' would have been onlytoo mild a remedy for 'the plainness' to which Kent declares, even tothe teeth of majesty, 'honour's bound, when majesty stoops to folly. '

The kind, considerate Gloster, with all his loyalty to the powerswhich are able to show the divine right of possession, and with allhis disposition to conform to the times, is greatly distressed andperplexed with the outrages which are perpetrated, as it were, underhis own immediate sanction and authority. He has a hard struggle toreconcile his duty as the subject of a state which he is not preparedto overthrow, with his humane impulses and designs. He goes patteringabout for a time, remonstrating, and apologizing, and trying 'tosmooth down, ' and 'hush up, ' and mollify, and keep peace between theoffending parties. He stands between the blunt, straightforwardmanliness of the honest Kent on the one hand, and the sycophanticservility and self-abnegation, which knows no will but the master's, as represented by the Steward, on the other. 

'I am sorry for thee, ' he says to Kent, after having sought in vain toprevent this outrage from being perpetrated in his own court--

 'I am sorry for thee, friend: _tis the duke's pleasure, Whose disposition all the world well knows, Will not be rubbed or stopped_'--

as he found to his cost, poor man, when he came to have his own eyesgouged out by it. He 'saw it _feelingly_' then, as he remarkedhimself. 

'I'll entreat for thee, ' he continues, in his conversation with thedisguised duke in the stocks. 'The duke's to blame in this. '_Twill beill taken_. '

And when the king, on his arrival, kept waiting in the court, in hisagony of indignation and grief, is told that Regan and Cornwall are'sick, ' 'they are weary, ' 'they have travelled hard to-night, 'denounces these subterfuges, and bids Gloster fetch him a betteranswer, this is the worthy man's reply to him--

 'My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the duke, How unremovable and fixed he is In his own course. '

But Lear, who has never had any but a subjective acquaintance hithertowith reasons of that kind, does not appear able to understand themfrom this point of view--

 _Lear_. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! _Fiery_?--what _quality_? Why Gloster, Gloster, I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife. 

 _Gloster_. Well, my good lord, I have informed them so. 

 _Lear_. Informed them? Dost thou understand me?

 _Gloster_. Ay, my good lord. 

But though Gloster is not yet ready to break with tyranny, it is notdifficult to see which way he secretly inclines; and though he stillmanages his impulses cautiously, and contrives to succour theoppressed king by stealth, his courage rises with the emergency, andgrows bold with provocation. For he is himself one of the finer andfinest proofs of the times which the Poet represents; one, however, which he keeps back a little, for the study of those who look at hiswork most carefully. This man stands here in the general, indeed, asthe representative of a class of men who do not belong exclusively tothis particular time--men who do not stand ready, as Kent and hisclass do, to fly in the face of tyranny at the first provocation; theyare not the kind of men who 'make mouths, ' as Hamlet says, 'at theinvisible event;'--they are the kind who know beforehand that to breakwith the powers that are, single-handed, is to sit on the stage andhave your eyes gouged out, or to undergo some process of mutilationand disfigurement, not the less painful and oppressive, by this Poet'sown showing, because it does not happen, perhaps, to be a physicalone, and not the less calculated, on that account, to impair one'susefulness to one's species, it may be. 

But besides that more general bearing of the representation, the partand disposition of Gloster afford us from time to time, glimpses ofpersons and things which connect the representation more directly withthe particular point here noted. Men who found themselves compelled tooccupy a not less equivocal _position_ in the state, look through it alittle now and then; and here, as in other parts of the play, it onlywants the right key to bring out suppressed historical passages, and afiner history generally, than the chronicles of the times were able totake up. 

'Alack, alack, Edmund, ' says Gloster to his natural son, making _him_the confidant of his nobler nature, putting what was then the periloussecret of his humanity, into the dangerous keeping of the base-bornone--for this is the Poet's own interpretation of his plot; thoughLear is allowed to intimate on his behalf, that the loves andrelations which are recognised and good in courts of justice, are notalways secured by that sanction from similar misfortune; that they arenot secured by that from those penalties which great Nature herselfawards in those courts in which her institutes are vindicated. 

'Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not THIS UNNATURAL DEALING! When Idesired _their leave that I might pity him_, they took from me _theuse of mine own house_, and charged me on pain of their perpetualdispleasure, _neither to speak_ of him, _entreat for him, nor in anyway to sustain him_. '

 _Edmund_. Most _savage and unnatural_. 

 _Gloster_. Go to, say you nothing. 

[And say you nothing, my contemporary reader, if you perceive thatthis is one of those passages I have spoken of elsewhere, whichcarries with it another application besides that which I put it to]. 

'There is division between the dukes--and a worse matter than that: Ihave received a letter this night, --'tis dangerous to be spoken;--Ihave _locked_ the letter in my _closet: these injuries the king nowbears_, will be revenged _at home_' [softly--say you nothing]. '_There_ is _part of a power already footed_: we _must incline to theking. I_ will seek him and _privily relieve him_. _Go you and maintaintalk with the duke_, that my charity be not of him perceived. If heask for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I die for it, --_as no lessis threatened me_, --_the king, my old master_--MUST BE RELIEVED. Thereis some strange thing toward, Edmund. Pray you be careful. '

Even Edmund himself professes to be not altogether without someexperience of the perplexity which the claims of apparently clashingduties, and relations in such a time creates, though he seems to havefound an easy method of disposing of these questions. _Nature_ is hisgoddess and his law (that is, as _he_ uses the term, the baser nature, the degenerate, which is not nature for man, which is _unnatural_ forthe human kind), and in his own 'rat'-like fashion, 'he bites the holycords atwain. '

'How, my lord, ' he says, in the act of betraying his father's secretto the Duke of Cornwall, in the hope of 'drawing to himself what hisfather loses'--'how I may be censured that NATURE, thus gives way toLOYALTY, _something fears me to think of_. ' And again, 'I willpersevere in my course of _loyalty_, though the conflict be sorebetween that and my _blood_. '

'_Know thou this_, ' he says afterwards, to the officer whom he employsto hang Cordelia, 'THAT MEN ARE AS THE TIME IS. Thy great employmentwill not bear question. About it, I say, instantly, and carry it so asI have set it down. ' 'I cannot _draw a cart_, nor _eat dried oats_, 'is the officer's reply, who appears to be also in the poet's secret, and ready to aid his intention of carrying out the distinction betweenthe human kind and the brute, 'I cannot draw a cart, nor eat driedoats;--if it be MAN'S WORK I will do it. '

But it is the steward's part, as deliberately explained by Kenthimself, which furnishes in detail the ideal antagonism of that whichKent sustains in the piece; for beside those active demonstrations ofhis disgust, which the poetic order tolerates in him, though some ofthe powers within appear to take such violent offence at it, besidesthese tangible demonstrations, and that elaborate criticism, which thepoet puts into his mouth, in which the steward is openly treated asthe representative of a class, who seem to the poet apparently, torequire some treatment in his time, Kent himself is made to noticedistinctly this literally striking opposition. 

'No _contraries_ hold more _antipathy_ than I, and such a knave, ' hesays to Cornwall, by way of explaining his apparently gratuitousattack upon the steward. 

No one, indeed, who reads the play with any care, can doubt the poet'sintention to incorporate into it, for some reason or other, and tobring out by the strongest conceivable contrasts, his study of loyaltyand service, and especially of regal counsel, and his criticism of it, as it stood in his time in its most approved patterns. 'Such smilingrouges as these' ('that _bite_ the _holy cords atwain_'). 

 'Smooth every _passion_ That in the _nature of their lord rebels_; Bring oil to fire, snow _to their_ colder moods; Revenge, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every _gale_ and _vary_ of their masters, As _knowing nought_ like _dogs_ but--_following_. '

Such ruses as this would not, of course, be wanting in such a _time_as that in which this piece was planned, if Edmund's word was, indeed, the true one. 'Know thou this, _men_ are as the time is. '

And even amidst the excitement and rough outrage of that scene--inwhich Gloster's trial is so summarily conducted, even in that so rudescene--the relation between the _guest_ and his _host_, and therelation of the _slave_ to his _owner_, is delicately and studiouslytouched, and the human claim in both is boldly advanced, in the faceof an absolute authority, and _age_ and _personal dignity_ put intheir claims also, and demand, even at such a moment, their fullrights of reverence. 

 [_Re-enter servants with_ GLOSTER. ]

 _Regan_. Ingrateful fox! 'tis he. 

 _Cornwall_. Bind fast his _corky_ arms. 

 _Gloster_. What mean your graces?--Good my friends, _consider_. _You are my guests_: do me no foul play, _friends_. 

 _Cornwall_. Bind him, I say. 

 _Regan_. Hard, hard:--O filthy traitor!

 _Gloster_. Unmerciful lady as you are, I am none. 

 _Cornwall_. To this chair bind him:--Villain, thou shalt find--[REGAN _plucks his beard_]. 

 _Gloster_. By the KIND gods [_for these are the gods, whose 'Commission' is sitting here_]'tis most _ignobly_ done, To pluck me by the beard. 

 _Regan_. So white, and such a traitor!

 _Gloster_. Naughty lady, _These hairs_, which thou dost ravish from my chin, Will quicken and accuse thee. _I am your host_: With _robber hands_, my hospitable favours You should not _ruffle_ thus. 

Tied to the stake, questioned and cross-questioned, and insulted, finally, beyond even his faculty of endurance, he breaks forth, atlast, in strains of indignation that overleap all arbitrary andconventional bounds, that are only the more terrible for having beenso long suppressed. Kent himself, when he 'came between the dragon andhis wrath, ' was not so fierce. 

 _Cornwall_. Where hast thou sent the king?

 _Gloster_. _To Dover_. 

 _Regan_. Wherefore To Dover, was't thou not charged at peril?--

 _Cornwall. Wherefore to Dover?_ Let him first answer that. 

 _Regan_. Wherefore _to Dover?_

 _Gloster_. Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes, _nor thy fierce sister_ In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. 

 . .. 

 _Regan_. One side will mock another; the other too. 

 _Cornwall_. If you 'see vengeance. '

 _Servant_. Hold your hand, my lord: _I have served you ever since I was a child_; But _better service_ have I never done you, Than now _to bid you hold_. 

 _Regan_. How now, you _dog_?

 _Servant_. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I'd shake it on this quarrel: _What do you mean_?

 [_Arbitrary power called to an account, requested to explain itself_. ]

 _Cornwall. My_ villain!

 _Regan_. A PEASANT _stand up thus_?

Thus too, indeed, in that rude scene above referred to, in which theking finds his messenger in the stocks, and Regan's door, too, shutagainst him, the same ground of criticism had already been revealed, the same delicacy and rigour in the exactions had already betrayed thedepth of the poetic design, and the real comprehension of that _law_, whose violations are depicted here, the scientific law, the scientificsovereignty, the law of universal nature; commanding, in the human, that specific human excellence, for the _degenerate_ movement is inviolation of nature, that is not _nature_ but her profanation andundoing. 

This is one of those passages, however, which admit, as the modernreader will more easily observe than the contemporary of the Poet waslikely to of a second reading. 

 _Goneril_. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

 * * * * *

 What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five, To _follow_ in a _house_, where twice so many _Have a command to tend you_?

 _Regan_. What need one?

 _Lear_. O reason not the _need_: our basest beggars Are in the poorest things superfluous. 

 [_Poor Tom must have his 'rubans_. ']

 Allow not NATURE more than NATURE needs, MAN'S LIFE were cheap as BEASTS [_and that's not nature_] Thou art _a lady_; If only to go warm were _gorgeous_, Why, _nature_ needs not what _thou gorgeous_ wear'st, Which scarcely keeps thee warm. --But, for TRUE NEED, You heavens, give me THAT patience. --_Patience I need_. 

It is, indeed, the doctrine of the 'true need' that is lurking here, and all that puts man into his true place and relations in thecreative order, whether of submission or control is included in it. Itis the doctrine of the natural human need, and the natural ground andlimits of the arts, for which nature has endowed man beforehand, witha faculty and a sentiment corresponding in grandeur to hisneed, --large as he is little, noble as he is mean, powerful as he ishelpless, felicitous as he is wretched; the faculty and the sentimentwhereby the _want_ of man becomes the measure of his wealth andgrandeur, --whereby his conscious _lowness_ becomes the means of hisascent to his ideal type in nature, and to the scientific perfectionof his form. 

And this whole social picture, --rude, savage as it is, --savage as itshews when its sharp outline falls on that fair ideal ground ofcriticism which the doctrine of a scientific civilization creates, --isbut the Poet's report of the progress of human development as it stoodin his time, and of the gain that it had made on savage instinct then. It is his report of the social institutions of his time, as he foundthem on his map of human advancement. It is his report of the wildsocial misery that was crying underneath them, with its burthen of newadvancements. It is the Poet's Apology for his new doctrine of humanliving, which he is going to publish, and leave on the earth, for 'thetimes that are far off. ' It is the negative, which is the first steptowards that affirmation, which he is going to establish on the earthfor ever, or so long as the species, whose law he has found, endureson it. Down to its most revolting, most atrocious detail, it is stillthe Elizabethan civility that is painted here. Even Goneril'sunscrupulous mode of disposing of her rival sister, though _that_ wasthe kind of murder which was then regarded with the profoundestdisgust and horror--(the queen in Cymbeline expresses that vividsentiment, when she says: 'If Pisanio have given his mistress thatconfection which I gave him for a cordial, she is served as I wouldserve a rat')--even as to that we all know what a king's favouritefelt himself competent to undertake then; and, if the clearestintimations of such men as Bacon, and Coke, and Raleigh, on such aquestion, are of any worth, the household of James the First was notwithout a parallel even for that performance, if not when this playwas written, when it was published. 

It is all one picture of social ignorance, and misery, and _frantic_misrule. It is a faithful exhibition of the degree of personalsecurity which a man of honourable sentiments, and humane and nobleintentions, could promise himself in such a time. It shows what chancethere was of any man being permitted to sustain an honourable andintelligent part in the world, in an age in which all the radicalsocial arts were yet wanting, in which the rude institutions of anignorant past spontaneously built up, without any science of thenatural laws, were vainly seeking to curb and quench the Incarnatesoul of new ages, --the spirit of a scientific human advancement; and, when all the common welfare was still openly intrusted to theunchecked caprice and passion of one selfish, pitiful, narrow, low-minded man. 

To appreciate fully the incidental and immediate political applicationof the piece, however, it is necessary to observe that notwithstandingthat studious exhibition of lawless and outrageous power, which itinvolves, it is, after all, we are given to understand, by a quietintimation here and there, _a limited monarchy_ which is put upon thestage here. It is a constitutional government, very much in theElizabethan stage of development, as it would seem, which thesearbitrary rulers affect to be administering. It is a government whichprofesses to be one of law, under which the atrocities of this pieceare sheltered. 

And one may even note, in passing, that that high Judicial Court, inwhich poor Lear undertakes to get his cause tried, appears to have, somehow, an extremely modern air, considering what age of the Britishhistory it was, in which it was supposed to be constituted, andconsidering that one of the wigs appointed to that Bench had to leavehis speech behind him for Merlin to make, in consequence of livingbefore his time: at all events it is already tinctured with some ofthe more notorious Elizabethan vices--vices which our Poet, notcontent with this exposition, contrived to get exposed in anothermanner, and to some purpose, ere all was done. 

 _Lear_. It shall be done, I will arraign them straight! Come, sit thou here, _most learned Justice_. 

[_To the_ BEDLAMITE_. ]

 Thou, _sapient_ Sir, sit here. [_To the_ FOOL. ]

And again, --

 I'll see _their trial_ first. _Bring in the evidence_. Thou _robed_ MAN of JUSTICE take _thy_ place. 

[_To_ TOM O'BEDLAM. ]

 And _thou_, his _yoke fellow_ of EQUITY _bench by his side_. 

[_To the_ FOOL. ]

 You are of '_the Commission_'--sit _you too_. 

[_To_ KENT. ]

Truly it was a bold wit that could undertake to constitute that benchon the stage, and fill it with those speaking forms, --speaking to theeye the unmistakeable significance, for these judges, two of them, happened to be on the spot in full costume, --and as to the third, hewas of '_the commission_. ' 'Sit you, too. ' Truly it was a boldinstructor that could undertake 'to facilitate' the demonstration of'the more chosen subjects, ' with the aid of diagrams of this kind. 

Arms! Arms! Sword, fire! CORRUPTION IN THE PLACE! _False justicer, whyhast thou let her scape_?

The tongues of these ancient sovereigns of Britain, 'tang' throughoutwith Elizabethan 'arguments of state, ' and even Goneril, in hersomewhat severe proceedings against her _father_, justifies her coursein a very grave and excellent speech, enriched with the choicestphrases of that particular order of state eloquence, in which majestystoops graciously to a recognition of the subject nation;--a speechfrom which we gather that the '_tender of a wholesome weal_' is, onthe whole, the thing which she has at heart most deeply, and thoughthe proceeding in question is a painful one to her feelings, a statenecessity appears to prescribe it, or at least, render it'_discreet_. '

Even in Gloster's case, though the process to which he is subjected, is, confessedly, an extemporaneous one, it appears from the Duke ofCornwall's statement, that it was only the _form_ which was wanting tomake it legal. Thus he apologizes for it. --

 Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our _power_ Shall do a _courtesy_ to _our wrath_, which men May blame, _but not control_. 

Goneril, however, grows bolder at the last, and says outright, 'Say ifI do, the _laws_ are _mine_ NOT THINE. ' But it is the law which is_thine_ and _mine_, it is the law which is for Tom o' Bedlam and forthee, that great nature speaking at last through her interpreter, andexplaining all this wild scene, will have vindicated. 

_Most_ MONSTROUS, exclaims her illustrious consort; but at the closeof the play, where so much of the meaning sometimes comes out in aword, he himself concedes that the government which has just devolvedupon him is an _absolute_ monarchy. 

'For us, ' he says, 'WE WILL RESIGN, during the life of this oldMajesty, OUR ABSOLUTE POWER. '

So that there seems to have been, in fact, --in the minds, too, ofpersons who ought, one would say, to have been best informed on thissubject, --just that vague, uncertain, contradictory view of thisimportant question, which appears to have obtained in the Englishstate, during the period in which the material of this poeticcriticism was getting slowly accumulated. But of course this play, sofull of the consequences of arbitrary power, so full of Elizabethanpolitics, with its 'ear-kissing arguments, ' could not well end, tillthat word, too, had been spoken outright; and, in the Duke of Albany'sresignation, it slips in at last so quietly, so properly, that no oneperceives that it is not there by accident. 

This, then, is what the play contains; but those that follow the_story_ and the superficial plot only, must, of course, lose track ofthe interior identities. It does not occur to these that the Poet isoccupied with principles, and that the change of _persons_ does not, in the least, confound his pursuit of them. 

The fact that tyranny is in one act, or in one scene, represented byLear, and in the next by his daughters;--the fact that the king andthe father is in one act the tyrant, and in another, the victim oftyranny, is quite enough to confound the criticism to which a work ofmere amusement is subjected; for it serves to disguise the philosophicpurport, by dividing it on the surface: and the dangerous passages areall opposed and neutralised, for those who look at it only as a pieceof dramatized, poetic history. 

For this is a philosopher who prefers to handle his principles intheir natural, historical combinations, in those modified unions ofopposites, those complex wholes, which nature so stedfastly inclinesto, instead of exhibiting them scientifically bottled up and labelled, in a state of fierce chemical abstraction. 

His characters are not like the characters in the old 'Moralities, 'which he found on the stage when he first began to turn his attentionto it, mere impersonations of certain vague, loose, popular notions. Those sickly, meagre forms would not answer his purpose. It wasnecessary that the actors in the New Moralities he was getting up soquietly, should have some speculation in their eyes, some blood intheir veins, a kind of blood that had never got manufactured in thePoet's laboratory till then. His characters, no matter how strong thepredominating trait, though '_the conspicuous instance_' of it beselected, have all the rich quality, the tempered and subtle power ofnature's own compositions. The expectation, the interest, the surpriseof life and history, waits, with its charm on all their speech anddoing. 

The whole play tells, indeed, its own story, and scarcely needsinterpreting, when once the spectator has gained the true dramaticstand-point; when once he understands that there is a teacher here, --anew one, --one who will not undertake to work with theinstrumentalities that his time offered to him, who begins byrejecting the abstractions which lie at the foundation of all thelearning of his time, which are not scientific, but vague, loose, popular notions, that have been collected without art, or scientificrule of rejection, and are, therefore, inefficacious in nature, andunavailable for 'the art and practic part of life;' a teacher who willbuild up his philosophy anew, from the beginning, a teacher who willbegin with history and particulars, who will abstract his definitionsfrom nature, and have _powers_ of them, and not _words_ only, and make_them_ the basis of his science and the material and instrument of hisreform. 'I will teach you _differences_, ' says Kent to the steward, alluding on the part of his author, for he does not profess to bemetaphysical himself to another kind of distinction, than that whichobtained in the schools; and accompanying the remark, on his own part, with some practical demonstrations, which did not appear to be takenin good part at all by the person he was at such pains to instruct inhis doctrine of distinctions. 

The reader who has once gained this clue, the clue which the questionof design and authorship involves, will find this play, as he willfind, indeed, all this author's plays, overflowing every where withthe scientific statement, --the finest abstract statement of that whichthe action, with its moving, storming, laughing, weeping, prayingdiagrams, sets forth in the concrete. 

But he who has not yet gained this point, --the critic who looks at itfrom the point of observation which the traditionary theory of itsorigin and intent creates, is not in a position to notice thephilosophic expositions of its purport, with which the action is allinwoven. No, --though the whole structure of the piece shouldmanifestly hang on them, though the whole flow of the dialogue shouldmake one tissue of them, though every interstice of the play should befilled with them, though the fool's jest, and the Bedlamite'sgibberish, should point and flash with them at every turn;--though thewildest incoherence of madness, real or assumed, to its most dubioushummings, --its snatches of old ballads, and inarticulate mockings ofthe blast, should be strung and woven with them; though the stormitself, with its wild accompaniment, and demoniacal frenzies, shouldarticulate its response to them;--keeping open tune without, to thathuman uproar; and howling symphonies, to the unconquered demoniacalforces of human life, --for it is the Poet who writes in 'the stormcontinues, '--'the storm continues, '--'the storm continues;'--thougheven Edmund's diabolical '_fa, sol, lah, mi_, ' should dissolve intoharmony with them, while Tom's five fiends echo it from afar, and 'mopand mow' their responses, down to the one that '_since possesseschambermaids_;' nobody that takes the play theory, and makes a matterof faith of it merely; nobody that is willing to shut his eyes andopen his mouth, and swallow the whole upon trust, as a miracle simply, is going to see anything in all this, or take any exceptions at it. 

Certainly, at the time when it was written, it was not the kind oflearning and the kind of philosophy that the world was used to. Nobodyhad ever heard of such a thing. The memory of man could not go farenough to produce any parallel to it in letters. It was manifest thatthis was _nature_, the living nature, the thing itself. None couldperceive the tint of the school on its robust creations; no eye coulddetect in its sturdy compositions the stuff that books were made of;and it required no effort of faith, therefore, to believe that it wasnot that. It was easy enough to believe, and men were glad, on thewhole, to believe that it was not that--that it was not learning orphilosophy--but something just as far from that, as completely itsopposite, as could well be conceived of. 

How could men suspect, as yet, that this was the new scholasticism, the New Philosophy? Was it strange that they should mistake it forrude nature herself, in her unschooled, spontaneous strength, when ithad not yet publicly transpired that something had come at last uponthe stage of human development, which was stooping to nature andlearning of her, and stealing her secret, and unwinding the clue tothe heart of her mystery? How could men know that this was thesubtlest philosophy, the ripest scholasticism, the last proof of allhuman learning, when it was still a secret that the school of natureand her laws, that the school of natural history and naturalphilosophy, too, through all its lengths and breadths and depths, wasopen; and that '_the schools_'--the schools of old chimeras andnotions--the schools where the jangle of the monkish abstractions andthe 'fifes and the trumpets of the Greeks' were sounding--were goingto get shut up with it. 

How should they know that the teacher of the New Philosophy was Poetalso--must be, by that same anointing, a singer, mighty as the sons ofsong who brought their harmonies of old into the savage earth--asinger able to sing down antiquities with his new gift, able to singin new eras?

But these have no clue as yet to track him with: they cannot collector thread his thick-showered meanings. He does not care through howmany mouths he draws the lines of his philosophic purpose. He does notcare from what long distances his meanings look towards each other. But these interpreters are not aware of that. They have not beeninformed of that particular. On the contrary, they have been putwholly off their guard. Their heads have been turned, deliberately, injust the opposite direction. They have no faintest hint beforehand ofthe depths in which the philosophic unities of the piece are hidden:it is not strange, therefore, that these unities should escape theirnotice, and that they should take it for granted that there are nonein it. It is not the mere play-reader who is ever going to see them. It will take the philosophic student, with all his clues, to masterthem. It will take the student of the New School and the New Ages, with the torch of Natural Science in his hand, to track them to theircentre. 

Here, too, as elsewhere, it is the king himself on whom the bolderpolitical expositions are thrust. But it is not his royalty only thathas need to be put in requisition here, to bring out successfully allthat was working then in this Poet's mind and heart, and which had tocome out in some way. It was something more than royalty that wasrequired to protect this philosopher in those astounding freedoms ofspeech in which he indulges himself here, without any apparent scrupleor misgiving. The combination of distresses, indeed, which the oldballad accumulates on the poor king's head, offers from the first alarge poetic license, of which the man of art--or '_prudence_, ' as hecalls it--avails himself somewhat liberally. 

With those _daughters_ in the foreground always, and the parentalgrief so wild and loud--with that deeper, deadlier, infinitely morecruel _private_ social wrong interwoven with all the politicalrepresentation, and overpowering it everywhere, as if that innersocial evil were, after all, foremost in the Poet's thought--as ifthat were the thing which seemed crying to him for redress more thanall the rest--if, indeed, any thought of 'giving losses theirremedies' could cross a Player's dream, when, in the way of hisprofession, 'the _enormous state_' came in to fill his scene, and openits subterranean depths, and let out its secrets, and drown the stagewith its elemental horror;--with his daughters in the foreground, andall that magnificent accompaniment of the elemental war without--withall nature in that terrific uproar, and the Fool and the Madman tocreate a diversion, and his friends all about him to hush up and makethe best of everything--with that great storm of pathos that theMagician is bringing down for him--with the stage all in tears, bytheir own confession, and the audience sobbing their responses--whatthe poor king might say between his chattering teeth was not going tobe very critically treated; and the Poet knew it. It was the king, insuch circumstances, who could undertake the philosophical expositionsof the action; and in his wildest bursts of grief he has to managethem, in his wildest bursts of grief he has to keep to them. 

But it is not until long afterwards, when the storm, and all themisery of that night, has had its ultimate effect--its chroniceffect--upon him, that the Poet ventures to produce, under cover ofthe sensation which the presence of a mad king on the stage creates, precisely that exposition of the scene which has been, here, insistedon. 

'They flattered me like a dog; they told me I had _white_ hairs in mybeard, ere the _black_ ones were there. To say _Ay_ and _No_ toeverything _I_ said!--Ay and No too was no good DIVINITY. _When therain came to wet me once_, and _the wind made me chatter; when thethunder would not peace at my bidding, --there_ I found them, _there Ismelt them out_. Go to, they are not men of their words. _They told meI was everything: 'tis a lie. I am not ague-proof_. '

 _Gloster_. The trick of that voice I do well remember:

Is't not THE KING?

 _Lear_. _Ay_, every inch _a King_:

 When _I_ do stare, _see, how the subject quakes_. 

But it is a subject he has conjured up from his brain that is quakingunder his regal stare. And it is the impersonation of God's authority, it is the divine right to rule men at its pleasure, _with or withoutlaws, as it sees fit_, that stands there, tricked out like Tomo'Bedlam, with A CROWN of noisome _weeds_ on its head, arguing thequestion of the day, taking up for the divine right, defining its ownposition:--

 _Is't not the king_?

 Ay every inch a king:

 _When I do stare, see how the subject quakes_. 

_See_; yes, _see_. For that is what he stands there for, or that youmay see _what it is_ at whose stare _the subject_ quakes. He is thereto 'represent to the eye, ' because impressions on the senses are moreeffective than abstract statements, the divine right and sovereignty, the majesty of the COMMON-weal, the rule that protects each helplessindividual member of it with the strength of all, the rule awful withgreat nature's sanction, enforced with her dire pains and penalties. He is there that you may see whether _that_ is it, or not; that onepoor wretch, that thing of pity, which has no power to protect itself, in whom _the law_ itself, the sovereignty of reason, is dethroned. That was, what all men thought it was, when this play was written; forthe madness of arbitrary power, the impersonated will and passion, wasthe _state_ then. That is the spontaneous affirmation of rude ages, onthis noblest subject, --this chosen subject of the newphilosophy, --which stands there now to facilitate the demonstration, 'as globes and machines do the more subtle demonstrations inmathematics. ' It is the 'affirmation' which the Poet findspre-occupying this question; but this is the table of _review_ that hestands on, and this 'Instance' has been subjected to the philosophicaltests, and that is the reason that all those dazzling externals ofmajesty, which make that 'IDOL CEREMONY' are wanting here; that is thereason that his crown has turned to weeds. This is the popularaffirmative the Poet is dealing with; but it stands on the scientific'Table of _Review_, ' and the result of this inquiry is, that it goesto 'the table of NEGATIONS. ' And the negative table of science inthese questions is Tragedy, the World's Tragedy. 'Is't not the king?''Ay, every inch--_a King_. When I do stare, see how the subjectquakes. ' But the voice within overpowers him, and the axioms that arethe vintage of science, the inductions which are the result of thatexperiment, are forced from his lips. 'To say ay and no to everythingthat _I_--that _I_--said! To say _ay_ and _no_ too, was no GOODDIVINITY. They told me that I was everything. 'T IS A LIE. I am not_ague proof_. ' 'T is A LIE'--that is, what is called in other places a'_negative_. '

In this systematic exposure of 'the particular and private nature' inthe human kind, and those SPECIAL susceptibilities and liabilitieswhich qualify its relationships; in this scientific exhibition of its_special_ liability to suffering from the violation of the higher lawof those relationships--its _special_ liability to injury, moral, mental, and physical--a liability from which the very one who usurpsthe place of that law has himself no exemption in this exhibition, --which requires that the king himself should represent that liabilityin chief--it was not to be expected that this particular ill, thisill in which the human wrong in its extreme capes is so wont toexhibit its consummations, should be omitted. In this exhibition, which was designed to be scientifically inclusive, it would havebeen a fault to omit it. But that the Poet should have dared tothink of exhibiting it dramatically in this instance, and that, too, in its most hopeless form--that he should have dared to thinkof exhibiting the personality which was then 'the state' to theeye of 'the subject' labouring under that personal disability, in thevery act, too, of boasting of its kingly terrors--this only goes toshow what large prerogatives, what boundless freedoms and immunities, the resources of this particular department of art could be made toyield, when it fell into the hands of the new Masters of Arts, when itcame to be selected by the Art-king himself as his instrument. 

But we are prepared for this spectacle, and with the Poet's wontedskill; for it is _Cordelia_, her heart bursting with its stormypassion of filial love and grief, that, REBEL-LIKE, seeks to be QUEENo'er her, though she queens it still, and 'the smiles on her ripe lipsseem not to know what tears are in her eyes, ' for she has had her hourwith her subject grief, and 'dealt with it alone, '--it is this childof truth and duty, this true Queen, this impersonated sovereignty, whom her Poet crowns with his choicest graces, on whom he devolves thetask of prefacing this so critical, and, one might think, perhaps, perilous exhibition. But her description does not disguise the matter, or palliate its extremity. 

 'Why, he was met even now, Mad as the _vexed sea_, singing aloud;'

_Crowned_--. 

 'Crowned with _rank fumiter_, and _furrow weeds_, With hardocks, _hemlock_, _nettles_, cuckow flowers, _Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn_. '

That is the crown; and a very extraordinary symbol of sovereignty itis, one cannot help thinking, for the divine right to get on its headby any accident just then. Surely that symbol of power is gettingsomewhat rudely handled here, in the course of the movements which the'necessary questions of this Play' involve, as the critical mind mightbegin to think. In the botanical analysis of that then so dazzling, and potent, and compelling instrument in human affairs, a very carefulobserver might perhaps take notice that the decidedly hurtful andnoxious influences in nature appear to have a prominent place; and, for the rest, that the qualities of _wildness_ and idleness, andencroaching good-for-nothingness, appear to be the common andpredominating elements. It is when the Tragedy reaches its height thatthis _crown_ comes out. 

A hundred men are sent out to pursue this majesty; not now to wait onhim in idle ceremony, and to give him the 'addition of a king';but--to catch him--to search every acre in the high-grown field, andbring him in. He has evaded his pursuers: he comes on to the stagefull of self-congratulation and royal glee, chuckling over his_prerogative_:--

'No; they cannot touch _me_ for COINING. _I am the king himself_. '

'O thou side-piercing sight!' [Collateral meaning. ]

'_Nature's above Art_ in that respect. ' ['So _o'er_ that art which yousay adds to nature, is an art that Nature makes. '] 'There's your pressmoney. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me aclothier's yard. --Look, look, a mouse! _Peace, peace_; this piece oftoasted cheese will do't. --There's my gauntlet; I'll prove it on agiant_. '

But the messengers, who were sent out for him, are on his track. 

 _Enter a Gentleman, with Attendants_. 

 _Gent_. O here he is, lay hand upon him. Sir, Your most dear daughter--

 _Lear_. No rescue? What, a _prisoner_? I am even _The natural fool of fortune_! Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have a surgeon, I am cut to the brains. 

 _Gent_. You shall have anything. 

 _Lear_. No seconds? All myself?

 _Gent_. Good Sir, --

 _Lear_. I will die bravely, like a bridegroom: What? I will be _jovial_. Come, come; _I am a king, My masters_; know you _that_?

 _Gent_. _You are_, a royal one, _and we obey you_. 

 _Lear_. Then _there's life in it_. Nay, an you get it, you shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa. [_Exit, running; Attendants_ FOLLOW. ] ['Transient hieroglyphic. ']

 _Gent_. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch; _Past speaking of, in_ A KING!

 [not past exhibiting, it seems, however. ]

But, of course, there was nothing that a king, whose mind was in sucha state, could not be permitted to say with impunity; and it is inthis very scene that the Poet puts into his mouth the boldest of thosephilosophical suggestions which the first attempt to find a theory forthe art and practical part of life, gave birth to: he skilfullyreserves for this scene some of the most startling of those socialcriticisms which the action this play is everywhere throwing out. 

For it is in this scene, that the outcast king encounters the victimof tyranny, whose eyes have been plucked out, and who has been turnedout to beggary, as the penalty of having come athwart that dispositionin 'the duke, ' that 'all the world well knows will not be rubbed orstopped';--it is in this scene that Lear finds him smelling his way to_Dover_, for that is the name in the play--the play name--for theplace towards which men's hopes appear to be turning; and thatconversation as to how the world goes, to which allusion has beenalready made, comes off, without appearing to suggest to any mind, that it is other than accidental on the part of the Poet, or that theaction of the play might possibly be connected with it! Fornotwithstanding this great stress, which he lays everywhere on_forethought_ and a deliberative _rational_ intelligent procedure, as_the distinctive human mark_, --the characteristic feature of _aman_, --the poor poet himself, does not appear to have gained muchcredit hitherto for the possession of this human quality. --

 _Lear_. Thou seest how this world goes?

 _Gloster_. I see it feelingly. 

 _Lear_. What, art mad?--

[have you not the use of your reason, then? Can you not _see_ withthat? _That_ is the kind of sight we talk of here. It's the want ofthat which makes these falls. We have eyes with which to foreseeeffects, --eyes which outgo all the senses with their range ofobservation, with their range of certainty and foresight. ]

'What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Lookwith thine--_ears: see_ how yon justice rails upon yon _simple thief_. Hark, in thine ear: Change _places_, and, handy-dandy, _which is thejustice, and which is_ THE THIEF?' [Searching social questions, asbefore. 'Thou robed man of _justice_ (to the Bedlamite), take thyplace; and thou, his yoke-fellow of _equity_ (to the Fool), _bench byhis side_. Thou, _sapient_ sir, sit here. ']

So that it would seem, perhaps, as if wisdom, as well as honesty, might be wanting there--the searching subtle wisdom, that is matchedin subtlety, with nature's forces, that sees true differences, andeffects true reformations. '_Change places. Hark, in thine ear_. 'Truly this is a player who knows how to suit the word to the action, and the action to the word; for there has been a revolution going onin this play which has made as complete a social overturning--whichhas shaken kings, and dukes, and lordlings out of their 'places, ' ascompletely as some later revolutions have done. 'Change places!' Withone duke in the stocks, and another wandering blind in thestreets--with a dukeling, in the form of mad Tom, to lead him, with aking in a hovel, calling for the straw, and a queen hung by the necktill she is dead--with mad Tom on the bench, and the Fool, with hiscap and bells, at his side--with Tom at the council-table, andoccupying the position of chief favourite and adviser to the king, anda distinct proposal now that the thief and the justice shall changeplaces on the spot--with the inquiry as to which is _the justice_, andwhich is the _thief_, openly started--one would almost fancy that thesubject had been exhausted here, or would be, if these indicationsshould be followed up. What is it in the way of social alterationswhich the player's imagination could conceive of, which his scrupleshave prevented him from suggesting here?

But the mad king goes on with those new and unheard-of political andsocial suggestions, which his madness appears to have had the effectof inspiring in him--

 _Lear_. Thou hast seen a farmer's _dog_ bark at a _beggar_?

 _Gloster_. Ay, sir. 

 _Lear_. And the _creature_ run from the _cur? There_ might'st thou behold _the great image of_ AUTHORITY: _a dog's obeyed in office_. Through tattered robes _small vices_ do appear; _Robes_, and _furred gowns, hide all_. [_Robes, --robes_, and _furred gowns_!] Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it with rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it. 

But that was before Tom got his seat on the bench--that was before Tomgot his place at the council-table. 

 'None does offend, --_none_--'

[unless you will begin your reform at the beginning, and hunt down thegreat rogues as well as the little ones; or, rather, unless you willgo to the source of the evil, and take away the evils, of which thesecrimes, that you are awarding penalties to, are the result, let it allalone, I say. Let's have no more legislation, and no more of _this_JUSTICE, _this_ EQUITY, that takes the vices which come through thetattered robes, and leaves the great _thief_ in his purple untouched. Let us have no more of this mockery. Let us be impartial in ourjustice, at least. ] 'None does offend. _I say none. I'll_ able 'em. '[I'll show you the way. Soft. _Hark, in thine ear_. ] 'Take that of_me_, my friend, _who have the power_ TO SEAL THE ACCUSER'S LIPS. '[Soft, _in thine ear_. ]--

 'Get thee _glass_ eyes, And like a scurvy _politician_, seem To see the things thou dost not. --_Now, now, now_, NOW. * * * * * I know thee well enough. Thy name is--Gloster. _Thou must be patient_; we came crying hither. Thou know'st the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will _preach_ to thee; _mark me_. 

 _Gloster. Alack, alack, the day!_

 _Lear_. When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of--_Fools_. [Mark me, for I _preach_ to thee--of _Fools_. I am even the _natural fool of fortune_. ] --'O matter and impertinency, mixed Reason in madness. '--

--is the Poet's concluding comment on this regal boldness, a safe andsaving explanation; 'for to define true madness, ' as Polonius says, 'what is it but to _be_ nothing else but mad. ' If the 'all licensedfool, ' as Goneril peevishly calls him, under cover of his assumedimbecility, could carry his traditional privilege to such dangerousextremes, and carp and philosophize, and fling his bitter jests aboutat his pleasure, surely downright madness might claim to be investedwith a privilege as large. But madness, when conjoined with royalty, makes a _double_ privilege, one which this Poet finds, however, attimes, none too large for his purposes. 

Thus, Hamlet, when his mind is once in a questionable state, can bepermitted to make, with impunity, profane suggestions as to certainpossible royal progresses, and the changes to which the dust of aCĉsar might be liable, without being reminded out of the play, that tofollow out these suggestions 'would be' indeed, 'to consider toocuriously, ' and that most extraordinary humour of his enables him alsoto relieve his mind of many other suggestions, 'which reason andsanity, ' in his time, could not have been 'so prosperously deliveredof. '

For what is it that men can set up as a test of _sanity_ in any age, but their own common beliefs and sentiments. And what surer proof ofthe king's madness, --what more pathetic indication of its midsummerheight could be given, than those startling propositions which thepoet here puts into his mouth, so opposed to the opinions andsentiments, not of kings only, but of the world at large; what madderthing could a poet think of than those political axioms which heintroduces under cover of these suggestions, --which would lay the axeat the root of the common beliefs and sentiments on which the socialstructure then rested. How could he better show that this poor king'swits had, indeed, 'turned;' how could he better prove that he was, indeed, past praying for, than by putting into his mouth those bittersatires on the state, those satires on the 'one only man' poweritself, --those wild revolutionary proposals, 'hark! in thineear, --_change places_. Softly, in thine ear, -- _which is the_ JUSTICE, and which is THE THIEF?' 'Take that of _me_ who have the power to_seal the accuser's lips_. None does offend. I say none. I'll able'em. Look when I stare, see how the subject quakes. ' These laws havefailed, you see. They shelter the most frightful depths of wrong. ThatBench has failed, you see; and that Chair, with all its adjunctdivinity. Come here and look down with me from this pinnacle, intothese abysses. Look at that wretch there, in the form of man. Fetchhim up in his blanket, and set him at the Council Table with his elflocks and begrimed visage and inhuman gibberish. Perhaps, he will beable to make some suggestion there; and those five fiends that aretalking in him at once, would like, perhaps, to have a hearing there. Make him 'one of your hundred. ' You are of '_the commission_, ' let himbench with _you_. Nay, change places, let him try your cause, and tellus which is the justice, which is _the thief_, which is the sapientSir, and which is the Bedlamite. Surely, the man who authorizes thesesuggestions must be, indeed, 'far gone, ' whether he be 'a king or ayeoman. ' And mad indeed he is. Writhing under the insufficiency andincompetency of these pretentious, but, in fact, ignorant and usurpinginstitutions, his heart of hearts racked and crushed with theirfailure, the victim of this social empiricism, cries out in hisanguish, under that safe disguise of the Robes that hide all: 'Takethese away at least, --that will be something gained. Let us have nomore of this mockery. None does offend--none--I say _none_. ' Let us goback to the innocent instinctive brutish state, and have done withthis vain disastrous struggle of nature after the human form, and_its_ dignity, and perfection. Let us talk no more of law and justiceand humanity and DIVINITY forsooth, _divinity_ and the celestialgraces, that divinity which is the end and perfection of the _human_form. --Is not womanhood itself, and the Angel of it_fallen_--degenerate?--That is the humour of it. --That is the meaningof the savage edicts, in which this _human_ victim of the _inhuman_state, the subject of a social state which has failed in some way ofthe human end, undertakes to utter through the king's lips, his senseof the failure. For the Poet at whose command he speaks, is the truescientific historian of nature and art, and the rude and strugglingadvances of the _human_ nature towards its ideal type, though theyfall never so short, are none of them omitted in his note-book. Heknows better than any other, what gain the imperfect civilization hesearches and satirizes and lays bare here, _has made_, with all itsimperfections, on the spontaneities and aids of the individual, unaccommodated man: he knows all the value of the accumulations ofages; he is the very philosopher who has put forth all his wisdom toguard the state from the shock of those convulsions, that to hisprescient eye, were threatening then to lay all flat. 

'O let him _pass_!' is the Poet's word, when the loving friends seekto detain a little longer, the soul on whom this cruel time has doneits work, --its elected sufferer. 

 'O let him pass! _he hates him_ That would upon the rack of this tough world, Stretch him out longer. ' [Tired with all these, he cries in his own behalf. ] 'Tired with all these, for _restful death_ I cry. Thou seest how this world goes. I see it _feelingly_. '

 _Albany_. The weight of this sad time _we must obey_, _Speak_ WHAT WE FEEL, _not what we ought to say_, The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long. 

It needs but a point, a point which the Poet could not well putin, --one of those points which he speaks of elsewhere sosignificantly, to make the unmeaning line with which this great socialTragedy concludes, a sufficiently fitting conclusion to it;considering, at least, the pressure under which it was written; andthe author has himself called our attention to that, as we see, evenin this little jingle of rhymes, put in apparently, only forprofessional purposes, and merely to get the curtain down decently. Itis a point, which it takes the key of the play--Lord Bacon's key, of'Times, ' to put in. It wants but a comma, but then it must be a commain the right place, to make English of it. Plain English, unvarnishedEnglish, but poetic in its fact, as any prophecy that Merlin was tomake. 

 'The oldest hath borne most, we that are _young_ Shall never see so much, nor live so long. '

There were boys 'in England then a-bed;' nay, some of them might havebeen present that day, for aught we know, on which one of the Managersof the Surrey Theatre, the owner of the wardrobe and stage-properties, and himself an actor, brought out with appropriate decorations anddresses, for the benefit of his audience on the Bankside, this littleebullition of his genius;--there were boys present then, perhaps, whose names would become immortal with the fulfilment of thatprophecy;--there was one at Whitehall, when it was brought out there, whose name would be for ever linked with it. 'We that are young, --theoldest hath _borne_ most. We that are young shall never _see_ so much'[I _see_ it feelingly], 'Shall never _see_ so much, nor live so _long_. '

So. 

But there were evils included in that tragic picture, which those whowere young then, would _not_ outlive; evils which the times that werenear with their coarse, fierce remedies, would not heal; evils whichthe Seer and Leader of the Times that were far off, would himself makeover to _their_ cure;--evils in whose cure the Discoverer of thescience of Nature, and the inventor of the New Magic which is the partoperative of it, expected to be called upon for an opinion, when thetime for that extension of his science, 'crushed together and infoldedwithin itself in these books of Nature's learning, ' should fully come. 

Nothing almost sees MIRACLES _but_ MISERY, says poor Kent, in thestocks, waiting for the 'beacon' of the morning, by whose_comfortable_ beams, he might peruse his letter. 'I know, ' he says, ''Tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been informed Of my obscured course, and shall find _time From this enormous state_--seeking--TO GIVE LOSSES THEIR REMEDIES. '

There is no attempt to demonstrate that the work here proposed as astudy, worthy the attention of the philosophical student, is not, notwithstanding a Poem, and a Poet's gift, not to his contemporariesonly, but to his kind. What is claimed is, indeed, that it is a Poemwhich, with all its overpowering theatrical effects, does, in fact, reserve its true poetic wealth, for those who will find the springs ofits inmost philosophic purport. There is no attempt to show that thisplay belongs to the category of scientific works, according to ourpresent limitation of the term, or that there could be found any nichefor it, on those lower platforms and compartments of the new scienceof nature, which our modern works of natural science occupy. 

It was inevitably a Poem. There was the essence of all Tragedy in thepurely scientific exhibition, which the purpose of it required. Theintention of the Poet to exhibit the radical idea of his plotimpressively, so as to reach the popular mind through its appeal tothe sensibilities, involved, of course, the finest series ofconjunctions of artistic effects, the most exquisite characterization, the boldest grouping, the most startling and determined contrasts, which the whole range of his art could furnish. 

But that which is only the incident of a genuine poetic inspiration, the effect upon the senses, which its higher appeals are sure toinvolve, becomes with those delighting in, and capable ofappreciating, that sensuous effect merely, its sufficient and onlyend, and even a doctrine of criticism based on this inversion will notbe wanting. But the difficulty of unlocking the great Elizabethanpoems with any such theory of Art, arises from the fact that it is notthe theory of Art, which the great Elizabethan Poets adopted, andwhether we approve of theirs or not, we must take it, such as it was, for our torch in this exploration. As to that spontaneity, thatseizure, that Platonic divination, that poetic 'fury, ' which our prosephilosopher scans in so many places so curiously, which he defines socarefully and strictly, so broadly too, as the _poetic_ condition thatthing which he appears to admire so much, as having something a littledemoniacal in it withal, that same 'fine' thing which the Poet himselfspeaks of by a term not any less questionable, --as to this poeticinspiration, it is not necessary to claim that it is a thing withwhich this Poet, the Poet of a new era, the Poet, the deliverer of anInductive Learning, has had himself, personally, no acquaintance. Heknows what it is. But it is a Poet who is, first of all, a man, and hetakes his humanity with him into all things. The essential humanprinciple is that which he takes to be the law and limit of the humanconstitution. He is perfectly satisfied with 'the measure of a man, 'and he gives the preference deliberately, and on principle to thesober and rational state in the human mind. All the elements whichenter into the human composition, all the states, normal or otherwise, to which it is liable, have passed under his review, and this is hisconclusion; and none born of woman, ever had a better chance to lookat them, for all is alike heightened in him, --heightened to the idealboundary of nature, in the human form; but that which seems to beheightened, most of all, that in which he stands preeminent andsingular in the natural history of man, would seem to be theproportion of this heightening. It is what we have all recognized itto be, Nature's largest, most prodigal demonstration of her capacitiesin the human form, but it is, at the same time, her most excellent andexquisite balance of composition--her most subdued and tempered work. And the reason is, that he is not a particular and private man, andthe deficiencies and personalities of those from whom he isabstracted, are studiously, and by method, kept out of him. For thisis the 'Will' not of one man only; it is the scientific abstract of aphilosophic union. It is a will that has a rule in art as well asnature. 

Certainly he is the very coolest Poet; and the fullest of this commonearth and its affairs, of any sage that has ever showed his head uponit, in prose or metre. The sturdiness with which he makes good hisposition, as an inhabitant, for the time being, of this terrestrialball, and, by the ordinance of God, subject to its laws, and liable toits pains and penalties, is a thing which appears, to the carefulreviewer of it, on the whole, the most novel and striking feature ofthis demonstration. He objects, on principle, to seizures andpossessions of all kinds. He refuses to be taken off his feet by anykind of solicitation. He is a man who is never ashamed to have areason, --one that he can produce, and make intelligible to commonpeople, for his most exquisite proceedings; that is, if he chooses:but, 'if reasons were plentiful as blackberries, ' he is not the man togive them on 'compulsion. ' His ideas of the common mind, his notion ofthe common human intelligence, or capacity for intelligence, appearsto be somewhat different from that of the other philosophers. Thecommon sense--the common form--is that which he is always seeking and_identifying_ under all the differences. It is _that_ which he isbringing out and clothing with the 'inter-tissued robe' and all theglories which he has stripped from the extant majesty. 'Robes andfurred gowns hide all' no longer. 

He is not a bard who is careful at all about keeping his singing robesabout him. He can doff them and work like a 'navvy' when he seesreason. He is very fond of coming out with good, sober, solid prose, in the heart of his poetry. He can rave upon occasion as well asanother. Spontaneities of all kinds have scope and verge enough in hisplot; but he always keeps an eye out, and they speak no more than isset down for them. His Pythoness foams at the mouth too, sometimes, and appears to have it all her own way, perhaps; but he knows what sheis about, and there is never a word in the oracle that has notundergone his revision. He knows that Plato tells us 'it is in vainfor a sober man to knock at the floor of the Muses'; but he is one whohas discovered, scientifically, the human law; and he is ready to makeit good, on all sides, against all comers. And, though the Musesknocked at his door, as they never had at any other, they could nevercarry him away with them. They found, for once, a sober man within, one who is not afraid to tell them, to their teeth, 'Judgment holds inme, always, a magisterial seat;'--and, with all their celestial gracesand pretensions, he fetters them, and drags them up to that tribunal. He superintends all his inspirations. 

There never was a Poet in whom the poetic spontaneities were soabsolutely under control and mastery; and there never was one in whosenature all the spontaneous force and faculty of genius showed itselfin such tumultuous fulness, ready to issue, at a word, in suchinexhaustible varieties of creative energy. 

Of all the spirits that tend on mortal thoughts there is none to matchthis so delicate and gorgeous Ariel of his, --this creature that hekeeps to put his girdles round the earth for him, that comes at athought, and brings in such dainty banquets, such brave pageants inthe earth or in the air; there is none other that knows so well thespells 'to make this place Paradise. ' But, for all that, he is themerest tool, --the veriest drudge and slave. The magician's collar isalways on his neck; in his airiest sweeps he takes his chain with him. Caliban himself is not more sternly watched and tutored; and all thegorgeous masque has its predetermined order, its severe economy ofgrace; through all the slightest minutiĉ of its detail, runs theinflexible purpose, the rational _human_ purpose, the common humansense, the common human aim. 

Yes, it is a Play; but it is the play of a mind sobered with all humanlearning. Yes, it is spontaneous; but it is the spontaneity of a heartladen with human sorrow, oppressed with the burthen of the commonweal. Yes, indeed, it is a Poet's work; but it is the work of one whoconsciously and deliberately recognizes, in all the variety of hisgifts, in all his natural and acquired power, under all thedisabilities of his position, the one, paramount, human law, andessential obligation. Of 'Art, ' as anything whatever, but aninstrumentality, thoroughly subdued, and subordinated to _that_ end, of Art as anything in itself, with an independent tribunal, and lawwith an ethic and ritual of its own, this inventor of the one Art, that has for its end the relief of the human estate and the Creator'sglory, knows nothing. Of any such idolatry and magnifying of thecreature, of any such worship of the gold of the temple to thedesecration of that which sanctifieth the gold, this Art-King in allhis purple, this priest and High Pontiff of its inner mysteriesknows--will know--nothing. 

Yes, it is play; but it is not child's play, nor an _idiot's_ play, nor the play of a 'jigging' Bacchanal, who comes out on this grave, human scene, to insult our sober, human sense, with his mad humour, making a Belshazzar's feast or an Antonian revel of it; a creature whoshows himself to our common human sense without _any_ human aim orpurpose, ransacking all the life of man, exploring all worlds, pursuing the human thought to its last verge, and questioning, as withthe cry of all the race, the infinities beyond, diving to the lowestdepths of human life and human nature, and bringing up and publishing, the before unspoken depths of human wrong and sorrow, wringing fromthe hearts of those that died and made no sign, their death-buriedsecrets, articulating everywhere that which before had no word--andall for an artistic effect, for an hour's entertainment, for theluxury of a harmonized impression, or for the mere ostentation of hisfrolic, to feed his gamesome humour, to make us stare at hisunconsciousness, to show what gems he can crush in his idle cup for adraught of pleasure, or in pure caprice and wantonness, confoundingall our notions of sense, and manliness, and human duty and respect, with the boundless wealth and waste of his gigantic fooleries. 

It is play, but let us thank God it is no such play as that; let ourcommon human nature rejoice that it has not been thus outraged in itschief and chosen one, that it has not been thus disgraced with theboundless human worthlessness of the creature on whom its choicestgifts were lavished. It is play, indeed; but it is no such Monster, with his idiotic stare of unconsciousness, that the opening of it willreveal to us. Let us all thank God, and take heart again, and try torevive those notions of human dignity and common human sense whichthis story sets at nought, and see if we cannot heal that great jar inour abused natures which this chimera of the nineteenth century makesin it--this night-mare of modern criticism which lies with its deadweight on all our higher art and learning--this creature that came inon us unawares, when the interpretation of the Plays had outgrown thePlay-tradition, when '_the Play_' had outgrown '_the Player_. '

It is a play in which the manliest of human voices is heard soundingthroughout the order of it; it is a play stuffed to its fool's gibe, with the soberest, deepest, maturest human sense; and 'the tears ofit, ' as we who have tested it know, 'the tears of it are wet. ' It is aplay where the choicest seats, the seats in which those who see it_all_ must sit, are 'reserved;' and there is a price to be paid forthese: 'children and fools' will continue to have theirs for nothing. For after so many generations of players had come and gone, there hadcome at last on this human stage--on 'this great stage of fools, ' asthe Poet calls it--this stage filled with 'the natural fools offortune, ' having eyes, but seeing not--there had come to it at last aMAN, one who was--take him _for all in all_--that; one who thoughtit--for a man, enough to be truly that--one who thought he wasfulfilling his part in the universal order, in _seeking to be_modestly and truly that; one, too, who thought it was time that the_human_ part on the stage of this Globe Theatre should begin to bereverently studied by man himself, and scientifically and religiouslyordered and determined through all its detail. 

For it is the movement of the new time that makes this Play, and allthese Plays: it is the spirit of the newly-beginning ages of humanadvancement which makes the inspiration of them; the beginning ages ofa rational, instructed--and not blind, or instinctive, ordemoniacal--human conduct. 

It is such play and pastime as the prophetic spirit and leadership ofthose new ages could find time and heart to make and leave to them, onthat height of vision which it was given to it to occupy. For an agein human advancement was at last reached, on whose utmost summits mencould begin to perceive that tradition, and eyes of moonshinespeculation, and a thousand noses, and horns welked and waved like theenridged sea, when they came to be jumbled together in one 'monster, 'did not appear to answer the purpose of human combination, or thepurpose of human life on earth; appeared, indeed to be still far, 'farwide' of the end which human society is everywhere blindly pushing andgroping for, _en masse_. 

There was a point of observation from which this fortuitous socialconjunction did not appear to the critical eye or ear to be makingjust that kind of play and music which human nature--singularlyenough, considering what kind of conditions it lights on--isconstitutionally inclined to expect and demand; not that, or indeedany perceptible approximation to a paradisaical state of things. There_was_, indeed, a point of view--one which commanded not the politicalmysteries of the time only, but the household secrets of it, and thedeeper secrets of the solitary heart of man, one which commanded alikethe palace and the hovel, to their blackest recesses--there was apoint of view from which these social agencies appeared to be makingthen, in fact, whether one looked with eyes or ears, a mere diabolicaljangle, and '_fa, sol, la, mi_', of it, a demoniacal storm music; andfrom that height of observation all ruinous disorders could be seencoming out, and driving men to vice and despair, urging them toself-destruction even, and hunting them disquietly to their graves. 'Nothing almost sees miracles but misery;' and this was the Age inwhich the New Magic was invented. 

It was the age in which that grand discovery was made, which the Foolundertakes to palm off here as the fruit of his own single invention;and, indeed, it was found that the application of it to certaindepartments of human affairs was more successfully managed by thisgentleman in his motley, than by some of his brother philosophers whoattempted it. It was the age in which the questions which are insertedhere so safely in the Fool's catechism, began to be started secretlyin the philosophic chamber. It was the age in which the identicalanswers which the cap and bells are made responsible for here, werewritten down, but with other applications, in graver authorities. Itis the philosophical discovery of the time, which the Fool isundertaking to translate into the vernacular, when he puts thequestion, 'Canst thou tell why one's nose stands in the middle of hisface?' And we have all the Novum Organum in what he calls, in anotherplace, 'the boorish, ' when he answers it; and all the choicest gems of'the part operative' of the new learning have been rattling from hisrattle in everybody's path, ever since he published his digests ofthat doctrine: 'Canst thou tell why one's nose stands in the middle ofhis face?' 'No. ' 'Why, to keep his eyes on either side of it, thatwhat he cannot _smell out_ he may _spy into_. ' And 'all that followtheir noses are led by their eyes, but--_blind men_. ' And 'the reasonwhy the seven stars are seven, is because they are not eight;' and theking who makes that answer 'would have made a good--_fool_, ' for it's'a very pretty reason. ' And neither times nor men should be 'oldbefore their time'; neither times nor men should be revered, orclothed with authority or command in human affairs, 'till they are_wise_. ' ['Thou _sapient_ sir, sit _here_. '] And it is a mistake for aleader of men to think that he 'has _white_ hairs in his beard, beforethe _black_ ones are there. ' And 'ants, ' and 'snails, ' and 'oysters, 'are wiser than men in their arts, and practices, and pursuits of ends. It was the age in which it was perceived that 'to say ay and no toeverything' that a madman says, 'is _no good divinity_, ' and that itis 'the time's plague when Madmen lead the Blind;' and that, insteadof good men sitting still, like 'moral fools, ' and crying out on wrongand mischief, 'Alack, why does it so?' it would be wiser, and morepious, too, to make use of the faculty of learning, with which theCreator has armed Man, 'against diseases of the world, ' to ascend tothe cause, and _punish_ that--punish _that_, 'ere it has done itsmischief. ' It was the age in which it was discovered that 'the sequenteffect, with which nature finds itself scourged, ' is not in the leasttouched by any kind of reasoning 'thus and thus, ' except that kindwhich proceeds first by negatives, that kind which proceeds by amethod so severe that it contrives to _exclude_ everything but the'the _cause in nature_' from its affirmation, which 'in practicalphilosophy becomes _the rule_'--that is, the critical method, --whichis for men, as distinguished from the spontaneous affirmation, whichis for gods. 

It is the beginning of these yet beginning Modern Ages, the ages of apractical learning, and scientific relief to the human estate, whichthis Pastime marks with its blazoned, illuminated initial. It is theopening of the era in which a common human sense is developed, anddirected to the common-weal, which this Pastime celebrates; theopening of the ages in which, ere all is done, the politicians whoexpect mankind to entrust to them their destinies, will have to findsomething better than 'glass eyes' to guide them with; in which itwill be no longer competent for those to whom mankind entrusts itsdearest interests to go on in their old stupid, conceited, headycourses, their old, blind, ignorant courses, --stumbling, andstaggering, and groping about, and smelling their way with their ownnarrow and selfish instincts, when it is the common-weal they havetaken on their shoulders;--running foul of the nature ofthings--quarrelling with eternal necessities, and crying out, when thewreck is made, 'Alack! why does it so?'

This Play, and all these plays, were meant to be pastime for ages inwhich state reasons must needs be something else than 'the pleasure'of certain individuals, 'whose disposition, all the world well knows, will not be rubbed or stopped;' or 'the quality, ' 'fiery' orotherwise, of this or that person, no matter 'how unremoveable andfixed' he may be 'in his own course. '

It was to the 'far off times;' and not to the 'near, ' it was to theadvanced ages of the Advancement of Learning, that this Play wasdedicated by its Author. For it was the spirit of the modern ages thatinspired it. It was the new Prometheus who planned it; the moreaspiring Titan, who would bring down in his New Organum a new and moreradiant gift; it was the Benefactor and Foreseer, who would advancethe rude kind to new and more enviable approximations to the celestialsummits. He knew there would come a time, in the inevitableadvancements of that new era of scientific 'prudence' and forethoughtwhich it was given to him to initiate, when all this sober historicexhibition, with its fearful historic earnest, would read, indeed, like some old fable of the rude barbaric past--some Player's play, bent on a feast of horrors--some Poet's impossibility. And _that_--wasthe Play, --that was the Plot. He knew that there would come a timewhen all this tragic mirth--sporting with the edged tools oftyranny--playing around the edge of the great axe itself--would beindeed safe play; when his Fool could open his budget, and unroll hisbitter jests--crushed together and infolded within themselves solong--and have a world to smile with him, and not the few who couldunfold them only. And that--that was 'the humour of it. '

Yes, with all their philosophy, these plays are Plays and Poems still. There's no spoiling the 'tragical mirth' in them. But we are told, onthe most excellent contemporaneous authority--on the authority of onewho was in the inmost heart of all this Poet's secrets--that 'as weoften judge of the greater by the less, so the very pastimes of greatmen give an honourable idea to the clear-sighted of THE SOURCE FROMWHICH THEY SPRING. '

PART II. 

JULIUS CAESAR;

OR, THE EMPIRICAL TREATMENT IN DISEASES OF THE COMMON-WEAL EXPLAINED. 

Good does not necessarily succeed evil; another evil may succeed, anda worse, as it happened with Caesar's killers, who brought therepublic to such a pass that they had reason to repent their meddlingwith it. .. . It must be examined in what condition THE ASSAILANTis. --_Michael de Montaigne_. 

 _Citizen_. I fear there will a worse one come in his place. _Cassius_. He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE DEATH OF TYRANNY; OR, THE QUESTION OF THE PREROGATIVE. 

 _Casca_. 'Tis Caesar that you mean: Is it _not_, Cassius? _Cassius_. Let it be WHO IT is, for Romans _now_ Have thewes and limbs like to _their_ ancestors. 

 We all stand up against the _spirit_ of Caesar. _Julius Caesar_. 

Yes, when that Royal Injunction, which rested alike upon thePlay-house, the Press, the Pulpit, and _Parliament_ itself, was stillthrottling everywhere the free voice of the nation--when a singleindividual could still assume to himself, or to herself, the exclusiveprivilege of deliberating on all those questions which men are mostconcerned in--questions which involve all their welfare, for this lifeand the life to come, certainly '_the Play, the Play was the thing_. 'It was a vehicle of expression which offered incalculable facilitiesfor evading these restrictions. It was the only one then inventedwhich offered then any facilities whatever for the discussion of thatquestion in particular--which was already for that age the question. And to the genius of that age, with its new _historical, experimental_, practical, determination--with its transcendant poeticpower, nothing could be easier than to get possession of thisinstrument, and to exhaust its capabilities. 

For instance, if a Roman Play were to be brought out at all, --and withthat mania for classical subjects which then prevailed, what could bemore natural?--how could one object to that which, by the supposition, was involved in it? And what but the most boundless freedoms andaudacities, on this very question, could one look for here? What, bythe supposition, could it be but one mine of poetic treason? If Brutusand Cassius were to be allowed to come upon the stage, and discusstheir views of government, deliberately and confidentially, in thepresence of an English audience, certainly no one could ask to hearfrom their lips the political doctrine then predominant in England. Itwould have been a flat anachronism, to request them to keep an eyeupon the Tower in their remarks, inasmuch as all the world knew thatthe corner-stone of that ancient and venerable institution had onlythen just been laid by the same distinguished individual whom thesepatriots were about to call to an account for his military usurpationof a constitutional government at home. 

And yet, one less versed than the author in the mystery of theatricaleffects, and their combinations--one who did not know fully what kindof criticism a mere _Play_, composed by a professional play-wright, inthe way of his profession, for the entertainment of the spectators, and for the sake of the pecuniary result, was likely to meet with;--orone who did not know what kind of criticism a work, addressed sostrongly to the imagination and the feelings in any form, is likely tomeet with, might have fancied beforehand that the author was venturingupon a somewhat delicate experiment, in producing a play like thisupon the English stage at such a crisis. One would have saidbeforehand, that 'there were things in this comedy of Julius Caesarthat would never please. ' It is difficult, indeed, to understand howsuch a Play as this could ever have been produced in the presence ofeither of those two monarchs who occupied the English throne at thatcrisis in its history, already secretly conscious that its foundationswere moving, and ferociously on guard over their prerogative. 

And, indeed, unless a little of that same sagacity, which was employedso successfully in reducing the play of Pyramus and Thisbe to thetragical capacities of Duke Theseus' court, had been put inrequisition here, instead of that dead historical silence, which theworld complains of so much, we might have been treated to some verylively historical details in this case, corresponding to other detailswhich the literary history of the time exhibits, in the case ofauthors who came out in an evil hour in their own names, withprecisely the same doctrines, which are taught here word for word, with impunity; and the question as to whether this Literary Shadow, this Name, this Veiled Prophet in the World of Letters, ever had anyflesh and blood belonging to him anywhere, (and from the tenor of hisworks, one might almost fancy sometimes that that might have been thecase), this question would have come down to us experimentally andhistorically settled. For most unmistakeably, the claws of the youngBritish lion are here, under these old Roman togas; and it became the'masters' to consider with themselves, for there is, indeed, 'no morefearful wild fowl living' than your lion in such circumstances; and ifhe should happen to forget his part in any case, and 'roar too loud, 'it would to a dead certainty 'hang them all. '

But it was only the faint-hearted tailor who proposed to 'leave outthe killing part. ' Pyramus sets aside this cowardly proposition. Hehas named the obstacles to be encountered only for the sake ofmagnifying the fertility of his invention in overcoming them. He has adevice to make all even. 'Write me a prologue, ' he says, 'and let theprologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our _swords_; and forthe more assurance, tell them that _I, Pyramus, am not_ Pyramus, but_Bottom, the Weaver; that will put them out of fear_. ' And as to thelion, there must not only be 'another prologue, to tell that he is nota lion, ' but 'you must name his name, and half his face must be seenthrough the lion's neck, and he himself must speak through, sayingthus, or to the same _defect_, Ladies, or fair ladies, my life foryours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. '

To such devices, in good earnest, were those compelled to resort whoventured upon the ticklish experiment of presenting heroicentertainments for king's palaces, where 'hanging was the word' incase of a fright; but, with a genius like this behind the scenes, sofertile in invention, so various in gifts, who could aggravate hisvoice so effectually, giving you one moment the pitch of 'the suckingdove, ' or 'roaring you like any nightingale, ' and the next, 'theHercle's vein, '--with a genius who knew how to play, not 'the tyrant'spart only, ' but 'the lover's, which is more condoling, ' and whosesuggestion that the audience should look to their eyes in that case, was by no means a superfluous one; with a genius who had all passionsat his command, who could drown, at his pleasure, the sharp critic'seye, or blind it with showers of pity, or 'make it water with themerriest tears, that the passion of loud laughter ever shed, ' withsuch resources, prince's edicts could be laughed to scorn. It was vainto forbid such an one, to meddle with anything that was, or had been, or could be. 

But does any one say--'To what purpose, ' if the end were concealed soeffectually? And does any one suppose, because no faintest suspicionof the true purpose of this play, and of all these plays, has fromthat hour to this, apparently ever crossed the English mind, at homeor abroad, though no suspicion of the existence of any purpose in thembeyond that of putting the author in easy circumstances, appears asyet to have occurred to any one, --does any one suppose that this play, and all these plays, have on that account, failed of their purpose;and that they have not been all this time, steadily accomplishing it?Who will undertake to estimate, for instance, the philosophical, educational influence of this single Play, on every boy who hasspouted extracts from it, from the author's time to ours, from thepalaces of England, to the log school-house in the back-woods ofAmerica?

But suppose now, instead of being the aimless, spontaneous, miraculousproduct of a stupid, 'rude mechanical' bent on producing somethingwhich should please the eye, and flatter the prejudices of royalty, and perfectly ignorant of the nature of that which he hadproduced;--suppose that instead of appearing as the work ofStarveling, and Snout, and Nick Bottom, the Weaver, or any person ofthat grade and calibre, that this play had appeared at the time, asthe work of an English scholar, as most assuredly it was, profoundlyversed in the history of states in general, as well as in the historyof the English state in particular, profoundly versed in the historyof nature in general, as well as in the history of human nature inparticular. Suppose, for instance, it had appeared as the work of anEnglish statesman, already suspected of liberal opinions, butstedfastly bent for some reason or other, on advancement at court, with his eye still intently fixed, however secretly, on thoseinsidious changes that were then in progress in the state, who knewperfectly well what crisis that ship of state was steering for;_query_, whether some of the passages here quoted would have tended tothat 'advancement' he '_lacked_. ' Suppose that instead of JuliusCaesar, 'looking through the lion's neck, ' and gracefully rejectingthe offered prostrations, it had been the English courtier, condemnedto these degrading personal submissions, who 'roared you out, ' on hisown account, after this fashion. Imagine a good sturdy Englishaudience returning the sentiment, thundering their applause at thisand other passages here quoted, in the presence of a Tudor or aStuart. 

One might safely conclude, even if the date had not been otherwisesettled, that anything so offensive as this never was produced in thepresence of Queen Elizabeth. King James might be flattered intoswallowing even such treasonable stuff as this; but in her time, thepoor lion was compelled to aggravate his voice after another fashion. Nothing much above the sucking-dove pitch, could be ventured on whenher quick ears were present. He 'roared you' indeed, all through herpart of the Elizabethan time; but it was like any nightingale. Theclash and clang of these Roman Plays were for the less sensitive andmore learned Stuart. 

 _Metellus Cimber_. Most high, most mighty, And most puissant Caesar; Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat An humble heart:--[_Kneeling_. ]

 _Caesar_. I must prevent thee, Cimber. _These couchings and these lowly courtesies: Might_ fire the blood of ordinary men; AND TURN PRE-ORDINANCE, and FIRST DECREE, INTO THE LAW OF CHILDREN. Be not fond To think that CAESAR bears _such_ REBEL _blood_, That will be thawed from the _true quality_, With that which melteth FOOLS. (?) I mean, _sweet words, Low, crooked curtsies_, and _base spaniel fawning. Thy brother_ by _decree_ is banished; If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn for _him, I spurn thee like a cur_, out of my way. Know CAESAR DOTH NOT WRONG. 

To appreciate this, one must recall not merely the humiliatingpersonal prostrations which the ceremonial of the English Courtrequired then, but that base prostration of truth and duty and honour, under the feet of vanity and will and passion, which they symbolized. 

Thus far _Caesar_, but the subject's views on this point, as here setforth, are scarcely less explicit, but then it is a _Roman_ subjectwho speaks, and the Roman costume and features, look savingly throughthe lion's neck. 

One of the radical technicalities of that new philosophy of the humannature which permeates all this historical exhibition, comes in here, however; and it is one which must be mastered before any of theseplays can be really read. The radical point in the new philosophy, asit applies to the human nature in particular, is the pivot on whichall turns here, --here as elsewhere in the writings of thisschool, --the distinction of 'the double self, ' the distinction betweenthe particular and private nature, with its unenlightened instincts ofpassion, humour, will, caprice, --that self which is changeful, at warwith itself, self-inconsistent, and, therefore, truly, no SELF, --sincethe true self is the principle of identity and immutability, --thedistinction between that 'private' _nature_ when it is developedinstinctively as 'selfishness, ' and that rational immutable self whichis constitutionally present though latent, in all men, and one in themall; that noble _special_ human form which embraces and reconciles inits intention, the private good with the good of that worthier wholewhereof we are individually parts and members; 'this is thedistinction on which all turns here. ' For this philosophy refuses, onphilosophical grounds, to accept this low, instinctive private nature, in any dressing up of accidental power as the god of its idolatry, inplace of that 'divine or angelical nature, which is the perfection ofthe human form, ' and the true sovereignty. Obedience to thatnature, --'the approach to, or assumption of, ' that makes, in thisphilosophy, the end of the human endeavour, 'and the error and falseimitation of that good, is that which is the tempest of the humanlife. '

But let us hear the passionate Cassius, who is full of individualitieshimself, and ready to tyrannize with them, but somehow, as it wouldseem, not fond of submitting to the 'single self' in others. 

 'Well, honour _is_ the subject of my story. -- I can not tell what you, and other men, Think of this life; but for my _single self_, I had as lief not BE, as live to be In awe of such a thing _as I myself_. I was _born_ free as Caesar; so were you. We both have fed as well: and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. '--

And the proof of this personal equality is then given; and it isprecisely the one which Lear produces, 'When the wind made me chatter, there I found them, --there I smelt them out. '--

 'For once upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, etc. * * * * * --Caesar cried, Help me, Cassius, or I sink. --And this man Is now become a god, and Cassius is A wretched creature, and _must bend his body_, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him--_I did mark How he did shake_: 'tis true, this god did shake. '

[This was a pretty fellow to have about a king's privacy taking notesof this sort on his tablets. Among 'those saw and forms and pressurespast, which youth and observatior copied there, ' all that partreserved for _Caesar_ and his history, appears to have escaped thesponge in some way. 

 'They told me I was every thing, 'tis a lie! I am not _ague_ proof. '--_Lear_. 

 His coward lips did from their colour fly. 'And that same _eye whose bend doth awe the world, Did lose his lustre!--Julius Caesar_. 

 '--When I do stare see how _the subject_ quakes. --'_Lear_. ]

 I did hear him groan: Aye, and that tongue of his _that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books_. Alas! it cried, '_Give me some drink_, Titinius, ' As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of _such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world_, And bear the palm alone. 

 _Brutus_. Another _general shout_! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honours that are heap'd on Caesar. 

 _Cassius_. Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world, Like a Colossus: and we petty men Walk under his huge legs; and peep about To find ourselves DISHONOURABLE GRAVES. Men, at _some time_, are _masters of their fates, The fault, dear Brutus_, IS NOT _in our_ STARS, But in ourselves that we are underlings. _Brutus_ and _Caesar_: What should be in that _Caesar_? * * * * * Now in the names of all the gods at once, _Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great_? AGE, thou art shamed: _Rome, thou_ hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age, since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with _One man_? When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but _One man_? Now is it Home indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. [When there is in it (truly) but _One only_, --MAN]. O! you and I have heard our fathers say, There _was a Brutus once_, that would have brook'd The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as _a king_. 

 _Brutus_. What you have said, I will consider;--what you have to say I will with patience hear: and _find a time_ Both _meet to hear, and answer such high things_. Till then, my noble friend, CHEW UPON THIS;-- Brutus had rather be a _villager_, Than to _repute_ himself a SON of ROME. Under these hard conditions, as _this_ time Is like to lay upon us. [Chew upon this]. 

 _Cassius_. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. [Re-enter Caesar and his train. ]

 _Brutus_. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. 

 _Cassius_. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note to-day. 

 _Brutus_. I will do so:--But look you, Cassius, _The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow. And all the rest look like a chidden train_: Calphurnia's cheek is pale; and _Cicero_ Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes, As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being crossed in conference by some senators. 

 _Cassius_. Casca will tell us what the matter is. 

 _Caesar_. Antonius. 

 _Antony_. Caesar. 

 _Caesar_. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look. _He thinks too much: such men are dangerous_. 

 _Antony_. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous: He is a noble Roman, and well given. 

 _Caesar_. Would he were fatter:--But I fear him not; Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. _He reads much: He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost Antony_; he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles _in such a sort, As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing_. Such men as he are never at heart's ease, Whiles they behold a _greater than themselves_; And therefore are they very dangerous, I rather tell thee _what is to be feared_, Than what _I_ fear, FOR ALWAYS I AM CAESAR. _Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf_, And tell me _truly_ what thou think'st of him. 

 [_Exeunt Caesar and his train. Casca stays behind_. ]

 _Casca_. You pulled me by the _cloak_: would you speak with me?

 _Brutus_. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced to-day, That Caesar looks so sad. 

 _Casca_. Why you were with him. Were you not?

 _Brutus_. I should not then ask Casca what hath chanced. 

 _Casca_. Why there was a crown offered him: and, being offered, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a shouting. 

 _Brutus_. What was the second noise for?

 _Casca_. Why for that too. 

 _Brutus_. They shouted thrice. What was the last cry for?

 _Casca_. Why for that too. 

 _Brutus_. Was the crown offered him thrice?

 _Casca_. Ay marry was't. And he put it by thrice, every time gentler than the other; and at every putting by, mine honest neighbours shouted. 

 _Cassius_. _Who offered him the crown_?

 _Casca_. Why, Antony. 

 _Brutus_. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. 

 _Casca_. I can as well be _hanged_ as tell the manner of it. It was mere foolery. I did not mark it. I saw _Mark Antony_ offer him a crown; yet 't was not a crown;--neither 't was one of these coronets;--and, as I told you, he put it by once; but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very both to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement hooted, and clapped their chapped hands, and threw up their sweaty night caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath, because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar; for he swooned and fell down at it: and, for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. 

 _Cassius_. But soft, I pray you: WHAT? DID CAESAR SWOON?

 _Casca_. _He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth, and was speechless_. 

 _Brutus_. 'Tis very like; he hath the falling sickness. 

 _Cassius_. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, _we have the falling sickness_. 

 _Casca_. _I know not what you mean by that_: but I am sure, Caesar fell down. If the _tag-rag people_ did not clap him and hiss him, _according as he pleased and displeased them_, as they use to do the Players in the theatre, I am no true man. 

 _Brutus_. What said he, when he came unto himself. 

 _Casca_. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the _common herd_ was glad when he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut. --An I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word; I would I might go to hell among the rogues: and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said anything amiss, he desired their worships to think it was _his infirmity_. Three or four wenches, where I stood, cried, 'Alas, good soul!'--and forgave him with all their hearts: But there's no heed to be taken of them; _if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less_. 

 _Brutus_. And after that, he came thus sad away?

 _Casca_. Ay. 

 _Cassius_. Did _Cicero say anything_?

 _Casca_. Ay, _he spoke Greek_. 

 _Cassius_. To what effect?

 _Casca_. _Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again. But those that understood him, smiled at one another, and shook their heads_: but for mine own part, it was _Greek to me_. I could tell you more news, too: Marullus and Flavius, for _pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence_. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it. 

Brutus says of Casca, when he is gone, 'He was quick mettle _when hewent to school_'; and Cassius replies, '_So he is now_--however heputs on this _tardy form_. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, which gives men stomach _to digest_ his words with better appetite. ''_And so it_ is, ' Brutus returns;--and so it is, indeed, as any onemay perceive, who will take the pains to bestow upon these passagesthe attention which the author's own criticism bespeaks for them. 

To the ear of such an one, the roar of the blank verse of Cassius isstill here, subdued, indeed, but continued, through all the humour ofthis comic prose. 

But it is Brutus who must lend to the Poet the sanction of his nameand popularity, when he would strike home at last to the heart of hissubject. Brutus, however, is not yet fully won: and, in order tosecure him, Cassius will this night throw in at his window, '_inseveral hands--as if they came from several citizens_--writings, inwhich, OBSCURELY, CAESAR'S AMBITION SHALL BE GLANCED AT. ' And, 'Afterthis, ' he says, --

 'Let Caesar seat him sure, For we will shake him, or worse days endure. '

But in the interval, that night of wild tragic splendour must come, with its thunder-bolts and showers of fire, and unnatural horror. Forthese elements have a true part to perform here, as in Lear and otherplays; they come in, not merely as subsidiary to the 'artisticeffect'--not merely because their wild Titanic play forms an imposingharmonious accompaniment to the play of the human passions and their'wildness'--but as a grand scientific exhibition of the element whichthe Poet is pursuing under all its Protean forms--as a most palpableand effective exhibition to the sense of that identical thing againstwhich he has raised his eternal standard of revolt, refusing to own, under any name, its mastery. 

But one can hear, in that wild lurid night, in the streets of Rome, amid the cross blue lightnings, what could not have been whispered inthe streets of England then, or spoken in the ear in closets. 

 _Cicero_. [Encountering Casca in the street, with his sword drawn. ] Good-even, Casca; brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless? and why stare you so?

 _Casca_. Are _you_ not moved, _when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm_? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the _scolding winds_ Have rived the _knotty oaks_; and I have seen The _ambitious ocean swell, and rage and foam_, To be exalted with the threatening clouds; But never till to-night, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a _civil strife in heaven_; Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. 

But the night has had other spectacles, it seems, which, to his eye, appeared to have some relation to the coming struggle; in answer toCicero's '_Why_, saw you anything more wonderful?' Thus he describesthem. 

 '_A common slave, --you know him, well by sight_, Held up his _left hand_, which did flame and burn _Like twenty torches join'd. Against the Capitol_ I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went _surly by_. '

 [And he had seen, 'drawn on a head, ']

 'A hundred ghastly _women, Transformed with their fears_; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And, yesterday, the _bird_ of _night_ did sit, Even _at noon-day, upon the market-place_, Hooting, and shrieking. '

An ominous circumstance, --that last. A portent sure as fate. When suchthings begin to appear, 'men need not go to heaven to predict imminentchanges. '

Cicero concedes that 'it is indeed a strange disposed time?' andinserts the statement that 'men may construe things after _their_fashion, clean from the purpose of the things themselves. ' But this istoo disturbed a sky for _him_ to walk in, so exit Cicero, and enterone of another kind of mettle, who thinks 'the night a very pleasantone to honest men;' who boasts that he has been walking about thestreets 'unbraced, baring his bosom to the thunder stone, ' and playingwith 'the cross blue lightning;' and when Casca reproves him for thistemerity, he replies, 'You are dull, Casca, and those _sparks of life_ That should be in a Roman, you do want, Or else you use not. '

For as to these extraordinary phenomena in nature, he says, 'If youwould consider the true cause

 Why all these things change, from their _ordinance_, Their _natures_ and _fore-formed faculties_, To _monstrous_ quality; why, you shall find, That heaven hath _infused_ them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear, and warning, Unto _some_ MONSTROUS STATE. Now could _I_, Casca, Name to _thee_ a man _most like this dreadful night_; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars As doth the lion in the Capitol: _A man no mightier than thyself_, or _me_, _In personal action_; yet _prodigious grown_, And _fearful_, as these _strange eruptions are_. 

 _Casca_. 'Tis _Caesar_ that you mean: Is it not, Cassius?

 _Cassius_. LET IT BE WHO IT is: for Romans _now_ Have _thewes_ and _limbs_ like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers' _minds_ are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance shows us womanish. 

 _Casca_. Indeed, they say, the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king. And he shall wear his crown by sea, and land, In every place, save here in Italy. 

 _Cassius_. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: Nor STONY TOWER, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be _retentive to the strength of spirit_. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny, that _I_ do bear, _I_ can shake off at pleasure. 

 _Casca_. So can _I_; So every bondman _in his own hand bears_ The power to cancel his captivity. 

 _Cassius_. _And_ why _should Caesar be a tyrant_ then? Poor man! I know, _he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep He were no lion, were not Romans hinds_. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire, Begin it with weak straws: _What trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves for the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar_? But, O grief! _Where_ hast thou led me? _I_ perhaps, _speak this_ BEFORE A WILLING BONDMAN: But I am arm'd And dangers are to me indifferent. 

 _Casca_. You speak to Casca; and to such a man, That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold my hand: _Be factious for redress of all these griefs_: And _I will set this foot of mine as far, As who goes farthest_. 

 _Cassius_. There's a bargain made. 

This is sufficiently explicit, an unprejudiced listener would beinclined to say--indeed, it is difficult to conceive how any morepositively instructive exhibition of the subject, could well have beenmade. Certainly no one can deny that this fact of the personalhelplessness, the physical weakness of those in whom this arbitrarypower over the liberties and lives of others is vested, seems for somereason or other to have taken strong possession of the Poet'simagination. For how else, otherwise should he reproduce it so often, so elaborately under such a variety of forms?--with such astedfastness and pertinacity of purpose?

The fact that the power which makes these personalities so'prodigious, ' so 'monstrous, ' overshadowing the world, '_shaming theAge_' with their 'colossal' individualities, no matter what new light, what new gifts of healing for its ills, that age has been endowedwith, levelling all to their will, contracting all to the limit oftheir stinted nature, making of all its glories but 'rubbish, offal toilluminate their vileness, '--the fact that the power which enablescreatures like these, to convulse nations with their whims, and delugethem with blood, at their pleasure, --which puts the lives andliberties of the noblest, always most obnoxious to them, under theirheel--the fact that this power resides after all, _not in thesepersons themselves_, --that they are utterly helpless, pitiful, contemptible, in themselves; but that it exists in the 'thewes andlimbs' of those who are content to be absorbed in their personality, who are content to make muscles for them, in those who are content tohe mere machines for the 'only one man's' will and passion to operatewith, --the fact that this so fearful power lies all in the consent ofthose who suffer from it, is the fact which this Poet wishes to bepermitted to communicate, and which he will communicate in one form oranother, to those whom it concerns to know it. 

It is a fact, which he is not content merely to state, however, in somany words, and so have done with it. He will impress it on theimagination with all kinds of vivid representation. He will exhaustthe splendours of his Art in uttering it. He will leave a statement onthis subject, profoundly philosophical, but one that all the worldwill be able to comprehend eventually, one that the world will neverbe able to unlearn. 

The single individual helplessness of the man whom the multitude, inthis case, were ready to arm with unlimited power over their ownwelfare--that physical weakness, already so strenuously insisted on byCassius, at last attains its climax in the representation, when, inthe midst of his haughtiest display of will and personal authority, stricken by the hands of the men he scorned, by the hand of one 'hehad just spurned like a cur out of his path, ' he falls at the foot ofPompey's statue--or, rather, 'when at the base of Pompey's statue helies along'--amid all the noise, and tumult, and rushing action of thescene that follows--through all its protracted arrangements, itsspeeches, and ceremonials--not unmarked, indeed, --the centre of alleyes, --but, mute, motionless, a thing of pity, 'A PIECE OF BLEEDINGEARTH. '

That helpless cry in the Tiber, 'Save me, Cassius, or I sink!'--thatfeeble cry from the sick man's bed in Spain, 'Give me some drink, Titinius!'--and all that pitiful display of weakness, moral andphysical, at the would-be coronation, which Casca's report conveys sounsparingly--the falling down in the street speechless, which Cassiusemphasises with his scornful '_What? did_ CAESAR SWOON?'--all thismakes but a part of the exhibition, which the lamentations of MarkAntony complete:--

 'O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to _this little measure_?'

_This_? and 'the eye' of the spectator, more learned than 'his ear, 'follows the speaker's eye, and measures it. 

 '_Fare thee well_. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world: now lies he _there_. And _none so poor, to do him reverence_. '

The Poet's tone breaks through Mark Antony's; the Poet's fingerpoints, '_now lies he there'--there_!

That form which 'lies there, ' with its mute eloquence speaking thisPoet's word, is what he calls 'a Transient Hieroglyphic, ' which makes, he says, 'a deeper impression on minds of a certain order, than thelanguage of arbitrary signs;' and his 'delivery' on the most importantquestions will be found, upon examination, to derive its principalemphasis from a running text in this hand. '_For_, in such business, 'he says, '_action_ is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant more_learned_ than the ears. '

Or, as he puts it in another place: 'What is sensible always strikesthe memory more strongly, and sooner _impresses_ itself, than what isintellectual. Thus the memory of _brutes_ is excited by sensible, butnot by intellectual things. And therefore it is easier to retain theimage of a _sportsman hunting_, than of the corresponding notion of_invention_--of an apothecary ranging his boxes, than of thecorresponding notion of _disposition_--of an orator making a speech, than of the term Eloquence--or _a boy repeating verses_, than the term_Memory_--_or_ of A PLAYER acting his part, than the correspondingnotion of--ACTION. '

So, also, '_Tom o' Bedlam_' was a better word for 'houseless misery, 'than all the king's prayer, good as it was, about 'houseless heads, and unfed sides, ' in general, and 'looped, and windowed raggedness. '

'We construct, ' says this author, in another place--rejecting theordinary history as not suitable for scientific purposes, because itis 'varied, and diffusive, and confounds and disturbs theunderstanding, unless it be fixed and exhibited in due order'--weconstruct 'tables and _combinations_ of _instances_, upon such a planand in such order, that the understanding be enabled to act uponthem. '

CHAPTER II. 

CAESAR'S SPIRIT. 

_I'll_ meet thee at Phillippi. 

In Julius Caesar, the most splendid and magnanimous representative ofarbitrary power is selected--'the foremost man of all theworld, '--even by the concession of those who condemn him to death; sothat here it is the mere abstract question as to the expediency andpropriety of permitting _any one man_ to impose his individual will onthe nation. Whatever personalities are involved in the question_here_--with Brutus, at least--tend to bias the decision in hisfavour. For so he tells us, as with agitated step he walks his orchardon that wild night which succeeds his conference with Cassius, revolving his part, and reading, by the light of the exhalationswhizzing in the air, the papers that have been found thrown in at hisstudy window. 

 'It must be by his death: and, _for my part_, I know _no personal cause_ to spurn at him, BUT FOR THE GENERAL. He would be crown'd:-- How _that might change his nature, there's the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder_; And that _craves wary walking_. Crown him? That;-- And then, _I grant_, we put a sting in him, That _at his will_ he may do danger with. The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins _Remorse from power_: And, to speak truth of _Caesar_, I have not known when _his affections_ sway'd More than his _reason_. But 't is a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber upward turns his face: But when he once attains _the utmost round_, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend: So Caesar may; Then, lest he may, PREVENT. And, since the quarrel, Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus; that _what he is, augmented_, Would run to _these, and these extremities_: And _therefore_ think him as a serpent's egg, Which, _hatch'd_, would, AS HIS KIND, grow mischievous; AND KILL HIM IN THE SHELL. '

Pretty sentiments these, to set before a king already engaged in socritical a contest with his subjects; pleasant entertainment, onewould say, for the representative of a monarchy that had contrived towake the sleeping Brutus in its dominions, --that was preparing, eventhen, for its own death-struggle on this very question, which _this_Brutus searches to its core so untenderly. 

'Have you heard the argument?' says the 'bloat king' in Hamlet. 'Isthere no offence in it?'

Now, let the reader suppose, for one instant, that this work had beenproduced from the outset openly, for what any reader of common sensewill perceive it to be, with all its fire, an elaborate, scholarlycomposition, the product of the profoundest philosophic invention, thefruit of the ripest scholarship of the age;--let him suppose, forargument's sake, that it had been produced for what it is, the work ofa scholar, and a statesman, and a courtier, --a statesman alreadyjealously watched, or already, perhaps, in deadly collision with thisvery power he is defining here so largely, and tracking to itsultimate scientific comprehensions;--and then let the reader imagine, if he can, Elizabeth or James, but especially Elizabeth, listeningentranced to such passages as the one last quoted, with an audiencedisposed to make points of some of the 'choice Italian' lines in it. 

Does not all the world know that scholars, men of reverence, men ofworld-wide renown, men of every accomplishment, were tortured, andmutilated, and hung, and beheaded, in both these two reigns, forwritings wherein Caesar's ambition was infinitely more obscurelyhinted at--writings unspeakably less offensive to majesty than this?

But, then, a Play was a Play, and old Romans would be Romans; therewas, notoriously, no royal way of managing them; and if kings wouldhave tragical mirth out of them, they must take their treason in goodpart, and make themselves as merry with it as they could. The poorPoet was, of course, no more responsible for these men than Chaucerwas for his pilgrims. He but reported them. 

And besides, in that broad, many-sided view of the subject which theauthor's evolution of it from the root involves, --in that pursuit oftyranny in essence through all its disguises, --other exhibitions of itwere involved, which might seem, to the careless eye, purposelydesigned to counteract the effect of the views above quoted. 

The fact that mere arbitrary will, that the individual humour andbias, is incapable of furnishing a _rule_ of _action_ anywhere, --thefact that mere will, or blind passion, whether in the _One_, or the_Few_, or the _Many_, should have no part, above all, in the businessof the STATE, --should lend no colour or bias to itsadministration, --the fact that 'the general good, ' 'the common weal, 'which is justice, and reason, and humanity, --the 'ONE ONLYMAN, '--should, in some way, under some form or other, get to the headof that and _rule_, this is all which the Poet will contend for. 

But, alas, HOW? The unspeakable difficulties in the way of thesolution of this problem, --the difficulties which the radical bias inthe individual human nature, even under its noblest forms, creates, --the difficulties which the ignorance, and stupidity, andpassion of the multitude created then, and still create, appear herewithout _any mitigation_. They are studiously brought out in theirboldest colours. There's no attempt to shade them down. They make, indeed, the TRAGEDY. 

And it is this general impartial treatment of his subjects which makesthis author's writings, with all their boldness, generally, so safe;for it seems to leave him without any bias for any person or anyparty--without any _opinion_ on any topic; for his truth embraces andresolves all partial views, and is as broad as nature's own. 

And how could he better neutralise the effect of these patrioticspeeches, and prove his loyalty in the face of them, than to show ashe does, most vigorously and effectively, that these patriotsthemselves, so rebellious to tyranny, so opposed to the one-man powerin others, so determined to die, rather than submit to the impositionof the humours of any man, instead of law and justice, --werethemselves but men, and were as full of will and humours, and as readyto tyrannise with them, too, upon occasion, as Caesar himself; andwere no more fit to be trusted with absolute power than he was, nor, in fact, half so fit. 

Caesar does, indeed, send word to the senate--'_The cause is in_ MYWILL, _I will not come_; (_That_ is enough, ' he says, '_to satisfy thesenate_. ') And while the conspirators are exchanging glances, and thedaggers are stealing from their sheaths, he offers the strength of hisdecree, the immutability 'of his absolute shall, ' to the suppliant forhis brother's pardon. 

But then Portia gives us to understand, that she, too, has her privatetroubles;--that even that excellent man, Brutus, is not without hismoods in his domestic administrations, --for on one occasion, when hetreats her to 'ungentle looks, ' and 'stamps his foot, ' and angrilygesticulates her out of his presence, she makes good her retreat, thinking 'it was but the effect of humour, which, ' she says, 'sometimehath his hour with every man'; and, good and patriotic as Brutus trulyis, Cassius perceives, upon experiment, that after all _he_ too is buta man, and, with a particular and private nature, as well as a largerone 'which is the worthier, ' and not unassailable through that 'singleI myself': he, too, may be 'thawed from the true quality with thatwhich melteth fools, '--with words that flatter 'his particular. ' Inhis conference with him, Cassius addresses himself skilfully to thisweakness;--he poises the name of Caesar with that of Brutus, and, atthe last, he clinches his patriotic appeal, with an appeal to hispersonal sentiment, of baffled, mortified emulation; for thosewritings, thrown in at his window, purporting to come from severalcitizens, 'all tended to the great opinion that Rome held of _his_name;' and, alas! the Poet will not tell us that this did notunconsciously wake, in that pure mind, the feather's-weight that wasperhaps needed to turn the scale. 

And the very children know, by heart, what a time there was betweenthese two men afterwards, these men that had 'struck the foremost manof all the world, ' and had congratulated themselves that it was notmurder, and that they were not villains, because it was for justice. Precious disclosures we have in this scene. It is this very Cassius, this patriot, who had as lief _not_ BE as submit to injustice; whobrings his avaricious humour, 'his itching palm, ' into the state, and'sells and marts his offices for gold, to undeservers. ' Brutus doesindeed come down upon him with a most unlimited burst of patrioticindignation, which looks, at first, like a mere frenzy of honestdisgust at wrong in the abstract, in spite of the partiality offriendship; but, when Cassius charges him, afterwards, withexaggerating his friend's infirmities, he says, frankly, 'I did not, _till you practised them on_ ME. ' And we find, as the dialogueproceeds, that it is indeed a personal matter with him: Cassius hasrefused him gold to pay his legions with. 

And see, now, what kind of taunt it is, that Brutus throws in thissame patriot's face after it had been proclaimed, by his order, through the streets of Rome, that Tyranny 'is dead': after Cassius hadshouted through his own lungs. 

'Some to the common pulpits, and cry out LIBERTY, FREEDOM, ENFRANCHISEMENT. ' (_Enfranchisement_?)

It would have been strange, indeed, if in so general and philosophicala view of the question, that sacred, domestic institution, which, through all this sublime frenzy for equal rights, maintained itself sopeacefully under the patriot's roof, had escaped without a touch. 

Brutus says:--

 'Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted _when a madman stares_?'

 'Look when I stare, see how the subject quakes. '

This sounds, already, as if Tyranny were not quite dead. 

 '_Cassius_. O ye gods, ye gods, must I endure all this!

 _Brutus_. All this? ay more: Fret till your proud heart break; _Go, show_ YOUR SLAVES _how choleric you are_, And bid YOUR BONDMEN tremble. Must _I_ budge? Must _I_ observe _you_? Must _I stand_ and _crouch Under your testy humour_? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen Though it do split you. '

So it was a mistake, then, it seems; and, notwithstanding that shoutof triumph, and that bloody flourishing of knives, Tyranny _was not_dead. 

But one cannot help thinking that that shout must have sounded ratherstrangely in an English theatre just then, and that it was a somewhatdelicate experiment to give Brutus his pulpit on the stage, toharangue the people from. But the author knew what he was doing. Thatcold, stilted harangue, that logical chopping on the side of freedom, was not going to set fire to any one's blood; and was not there MarkAntony that plain, blunt man, coming directly after Brutus, --'with hiseyes as red as fire with weeping, ' with 'the mantle, ' of the militaryhero, the popular favourite, _in his hand_, with his glowing oratory, with his sweet words, and his skilful appeal to the passions of thepeople, under his plain, blunt professions, --to wipe out every traceof Brutus's _reasons_, and lead them whither he would; and would notthe moral of it all be, that with such A PEOPLE, --with such a power asthat, behind the state, there was no use in killing Caesars--thatTyranny could not die. 

 'I fear there will a worse one come in his place. '

But this is Rome in her decline, that the artist touches here soboldly. But what now, if old Rome herself, --plebeian Rome, in thedeadliest onset of her struggle against tyranny, Rome lashed into furyand conscious strength, rising from under the hard heel of heroppressors; what if Rome, in the act of creating her Tribunes; or, ifRome, with her Tribunes at her head, wresting from her oppressors aconstitutional establishment of popular rights, --what if this could beexhibited, by permission; what bounds as to the freedom of thediscussion would it be possible to establish afterwards? There hadbeen no National Latin Tragedy, Frederic Schlegel suggests, --becauseno Latin Dramatist could venture to do this very thing; but of courseCaesar or Coriolanus on the Tiber was one thing, and Caesar orCoriolanus on the Thames was another; and an English author might beallowed, then, to say of the one, with impunity, what it wouldcertainly have cost him his good right hand, or his ears, or his head, to say of the other, --what it did cost the Founder of this school inphilosophy his head, to be suspected of saying of the other. 

Nevertheless, the great question between an arbitrary and aconstitutional government, the principle of a government which veststhe whole power of the state in the uncontrolled will of a singleindividual member of it; the whole history and philosophy of amilitary government, from its origin in the heroic ages, --from thecrowning of the military hero on the battle field in the moment ofvictory, to the final consummation of its conquest of the liberty ofthe subject, could be as clearly set forth under the one form as theother; not without some startling specialities in the filling up, too, with a tone in the details now and then, to say the least, notexclusively antique, for this was a mode of treating classicalsubjects in that age, too common to attract attention. 

And thus, whole plays could be written out and out, on this verysubject. Take, for instance, but these two, Coriolanus and JuliusCaesar, --plays in which, by a skilful distribution of the argument andthe action, with a skilful interchange of parts now and then, --theboldest passages being put alternately into the mouths of the Tribunesand Patricians, --that great question, which was so soon to become theoutspoken question of the nation and the age, could already bediscussed in all its vexed and complicated relations, in all itsaspects and bearings, as deliberately as it could be to-day; exactlyas it was, in fact, discussed not long afterwards in swarms of Englishpamphlets, in harangues from English pulpits, in English parliamentsand on English battle-fields, --exactly as it was discussed when that'lofty Roman scene' came 'to be acted over' here, with thecold-blooded prosaic formalities of an English judicature. 

CORIOLANUS

THE QUESTION OF THE CONSULSHIP;

OR, THE SCIENTIFIC CURE OF THE COMMON-WEAL PROPOUNDED. 

 'Well, march we on To give obedience where 'tis truly owed: Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal, And _with him_, pour we in our country's purge _Each drop of us_. Or so much as it needs To dew the sovereign Flower, _and drown the weeds_'--_Macbeth_. 

 'Have you heard the argument?'

CHAPTER I. 

THE ELIZABETHAN HEROISM. 

 'Mildly is the word. ' 'In a better hour, Let what _is meet_ be said it must be _meet_, And throw their power in the dust. '

It is the Military Chieftain of ancient Rome who pronounces here thewords in which the argument of the Elizabethan revolutionist is sotersely comprehended. 

It is the representative of an heroic aristocracy, not one of ancientprivilege merely, not one armed with parchments only, claiming descentfrom heroes; but the yet living leaders of the rabble people tomilitary conquest, and the only leaders who are understood to be ableto marshal from their ranks an effective force for military defence. 

But this is not all. The scope of the poetic design requires here, under the sheath which this dramatic exhibition of an ancientaristocracy offers it, the impersonation of another and more sovereigndifference in men; and this poet has ends to serve, to which a merehistorical accuracy in the reproduction of this ancient struggle ofstate-factions, in an extinct European common-wealth, is of littleconsequence; though he is not wanting in that either, or indifferentto it, when occasion serves. 

From the _speeches_ inserted here and there, we find that this is atthe same time an aristocracy of learning which is put upon the stagehere, that it is an aristocracy of statesmanship and civil ability, that it is composed of the select men of the state, and not its electonly; that it is the true and natural head of the healthful bodypolitic, and not 'the horn of the monster' only. This is thearistocracy which appears to be in session in the background of thispiece at least, and we are not without some occasional glimpses oftheir proceedings, and this is the element of the poetic combinationwhich comes out in the _dialogue_, whenever the necessary question ofthe play requires it. 

For it is the collision between the civil interests and the interestswhich the unlearned heroic ages enthrone, that is coming off here. Itis the collision between the government which uneducated masses of mencreate and confirm, and recreate in any age, and the government whichthe enlightened man 'in a better hour' demands, which the common senseand sentiment of man, as distinguished from the brute, demands, whether in the one, or the few, or the many. --This is the strugglewhich is getting into form and order here, --here _first_. These arethe parties to it, and in the reign of the last of the Tudors and thefirst of the Stuarts, they must be content to fight it out on anystage which their time can afford to lease to them for thatperformance, without being over scrupulous as to the names of theactors, or the historical correctness of the costumes, and otherparticulars; not minding a little shuffling in the parts, now andthen, if it suits their poet's convenience, who has no conscience atall on such points, and who is of the opinion that this is the verystage which an action of such gravity ought to be exhibited on, in thefirst place; and that a very careful and critical rehearsal of ithere, ought to precede the performance elsewhere; though a contraryopinion was not then without its advocates. 

It is as the mouth-piece of this intellectual faction in the state, while it is as yet an _aristocracy_, contending with the physicalforce of it, struggling for the mastery of it with its numericalmajority; it is the Man in the state, the new MAN struggling with thechief which a popular ignorance has endowed with dominion over him; itis the HERO who contends for the majesty of reason and the kingdom ofthe mind, it is the new speaker, the new, and now at last, commandingspeaker for that law, which was old when this myth was named, whichwas not of yesterday when Antigone quoted it, who speaks now from thisRoman's lips, these words of doom, --the reflection on the 'timesdeceased, ' the prophecy of 'things not yet come to life, ' the word ofnew ages. 

 'In A REBELLION, When what's not MEET, but what must be, was law, THEN WERE THEY CHOSEN: in a better hour Let what _is meet_ be said it must be _meet_, And throw their power in the dust. '

_Not_ in the old, sombre, Etruscan streets of ancient Rome, _not_where the _Roman_ market-place, joined the Capitoline hill and beganto ascend it, crossed the road from Palatinus thither, and began toobstruct it, not in the courts and colonnades of the primeval hill ofpalaces, were the terms of this proposal found. And not from the oldlogician's chair, was the sweep of their comprehension made; not inany ancient school of rhetoric or logic were they cast and locked inthat conjunction. It was another kind of weapon that the old _Roman_Jove had to take in hand, when amid the din of the Roman forum, _he_awoke at last from his bronze and marble, to his empirical struggle, his unlearned, experimental struggle with the wolf and her nursling, with his own baptized, red-robed, usurping Mars. It was not with anysuch subtlety as this, that the struggle of state forces which, underone name or another, sooner or later, in the European states is sureto come, had hitherto been conducted. 

And not from the lips of the haughty patrician chief, rising from thedust of ages at the spell of genius, to encounter his old plebeianvanquishers, and fight his long-lost battles o'er again, at ashowman's bidding, for a showman's greed--to be stung anew intopatrician scorn--to repeat those rattling volleys of the old martialLatin wrath, 'in states unborn' and 'accents then unknown, ' for anhour's idle entertainment, for 'a six-pen'orth or shilling's worth' ofgaping amusement to a playhouse throng, not--NOT from any such sourcecame that utterance. 

It came from the council-table of a sovereignty that was plotting herein secret then the empire that the sun shall not set on; whosebeginning only, we have seen. It came from the secret chamber of a newunion and society of men, --a union based on a new and, for the firsttime, scientific acquaintance with the nature that is in men, with thesovereignty that is in all men. It was the Poet of this society whoput those words together--the Poet who has heard all its _pros_ and_cons_, who reports them all, and gives to them all their exact weightin the new balance of his decisions. 

Among other things, it was understood in this association, that thepower, which was at that time supreme in England, was in fact, thoughnot in name, a _popular_ power, --a power, at least, sustained only bythe popular will, though men had not, indeed, as yet, begun toperceive that momentous circumstance, --a power which, being 'but thehorn and noise o' the monster, ' was able to oppose its '_absoluteshall_' to the embodied wisdom of the state, --not to its ancientimmemorial government only, but to 'its _chartered_ liberties in thebody of the weal, ' and 'to a graver bench than ever frowned inGreece'; and the Poet has put on his record of debates on those'questions of gravity, ' that were agitating then this secret Chamberof Peers, a distinct demand on the part of this ancientleadership, --the leadership of 'the honoured number, ' the honourableand right honourable few, that this mass of ignorance, and stupidity, and blind custom, and incapacity for rule, --this combination of mereinstinctive force, which the physical majority in unlearned timesconstitutes, which supplies, in its want, and ignorance, andpassivity, and in its passionate admiration of heroism and love ofleadership, the ready material of tyranny, shall be annihilated, andcease to have any leadership or voice in the state; and this demand isput by the Poet into the mouth of one who cannot see from his point ofobservation--with his ineffable contempt for the people--what the Poetsees from his, that the demand, as he puts it, is simply 'theimpossible. ' For this is a question in the mixed mathematics, and 'the_greater part_ carries it. '

That instinctive, unintelligent force in the state--that blindvolcanic force--which foolish states dare to keep pent up within them, is that which the philosopher's eye is intent on also; he, too, hasmarked this as the primary source of mischief, --he, too, is at warwith it, --he, too, would annihilate it; but he has his own mode ofwarfare for it; he thinks it must be done with Apollo's own darts, ifit be done when 'tis done, and not with the military chieftain'sweapon. 

This work is one in which the question of heroism and nobility isscientifically treated, and in the most rigid manner, 'by line andlevel, ' and through that representative form in which the historicalpretence of it is tried, --through that scientific negation, with itsmerely instinctive, vulgar, unlearned ambition--with its monstrous'outstretching' on the one hand, and its dwarfish limitations on theother, --through all that finely drawn, historic picture of that whichclaims the human subjection, the clear scientific lines of the trueideal type are visible, --the outline of the true nobility andgovernment is visible, --towering above that detected insufficiency, into the perfection of the _human_ form, --into the heaven of the truedivineness, --into the chair of the perpetual dictatorship, --into theconsulship whose year revolves not, whose year is _the state_. 

Neither is this true affirmation here in the form of a scientificabstraction merely. It is not here in the general merely. 'TheInstance, ' the particular impersonation of nobility and heroism, whichthis play exhibits, is, indeed, the false heroism and nobility. It isthe hitherto uncriticised, and, therefore, uncorrected, popularaffirmation on this subject which is embodied here, and this turns outto be, as usual, the clearest scientific negative that could beinvented. But in the design, and in all the labour of this piece, --inthe steadfast purpose that is always working out that definition, withits so exquisite, but thankless, unowned, unrecognised toil, gravingit and pointing it with its pen of diamond in the rock for ever, approving itself 'to the Workmaster' only, --in this incessantdesign, --in this veiled, mysterious authorship, --an historicalapproximation to the true type of magnanimity and heroism is alwayspresent. But there is more in it than this. 

It is the old popular notion of heroism which fills the foreground;but the Elizabethan heroism is always lurking behind it, watching itsmoment, ready to seize it; and under that cover, it contrives toadvance and pronounce many words, which, in its own name and form, itcould not then have been so prosperously delivered of. Under thedisguise of that historical impersonation--under the mask of that oldRoman hero, other, quite other, heroic forms--historic forms--not_less_ illustrious, not less memorable, from time to time steal in;and ere we know it, the suppressed Elizabethan men are on the stage, and the Theatre is, indeed, the Globe; and it is shaking and flashingwith the iron heel and the thunder of their leadership; and thethrones of oppression are downfalling; and the ages that seemed 'faroff, ' the ages that were nigh, are there--are there as they are_here_. 

The historical position of the men who could entertain the views whichthis Play embodies, in the age in which it was written--the wholeposition of the men in whom this idea of nobility and government wasalready struggling to become historical--flashes out from that obscureback-ground into the most vivid historical representation, when oncethe light--'the great light' which 'the times give to _true_interpretations'--has been brought to bear upon it. And it does sohappen, that _that_ is the light which we are particularly directed tohold up to this particular play, and, what is more, to this particularpoint in it. 'So _our_ virtues, ' says the old Volscian captain, TullusAufidius, lamenting the limitations of his historical position, andapologizing for the figure he makes in history--

 'So _our virtues_ Lie in the interpretation of THE TIMES. '

['THE TIMES, in many cases, give great light to true_interpretations_, ' says the other, speaking of books, and the methodof reading them; but this one applies that suggestion particularly to_lives_. ]

 'And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a hair To extol what it hath done. '

The spirit of the Elizabethan heroism is indeed here, and under thecover of this old Roman story; and under cover of those so markeddifferences in the positions which suffice to detain the unstudiouseye, through the medium of that which is common under thosedifferences, the history of the Elizabethan heroism is here also. Thespirit of it is here, not in that subtler nature only--that yet, perhaps, subtler, calmer, stronger nature, in which 'blood andjudgment were so well co-mingled'--so well, in such new degree andproportion, that their balance made a new force, a new generativeforce, in history--not in that one only, the one in whom this newhistoric form is visible and palpable already, but in the haughtierand more unbending historic _attitude_, at least, of his great'co-mate and brother in exile. ' It is here in the form of the greatmilitary chieftain of that new heroic line, who found himself, withall his strategy, involved in a single-handed contest with the stateand its whole physical strength, in his contest with that personalpower in whose single arm, in whose miserable finger-joints, the stateand all its force then lay. Under that old, threadbare, martialcloak, --under the safe disguise of martial tyranny in 'thefew, '--whenever the business of the play requires it, whenever 'hiscue comes, ' _he_ is there. Under that old, rusty Roman helmet, hissmothered speech, his 'speech of fire, ' his passionate speech, 'forbidso long, ' drops thick and fast, drops unquenched at last, and glowsfor ever. It is the headless Banquo--'the blood-boltered Banquo'--thatstalks through that shadowy background all unharmed; _his Fleance_lives, and in him 'Nature's copy _is_ eterne. '

His house of kings, with gold-bound brows, and sceptres in theirhands, with _two-fold_ balls and sceptres in their hands--are herefilling the stage, and claiming it to the crack of doom; and now he'smiles, ' he _smiles_ upon his baffled foe, 'and points at them forHIS. '

The whole difficulty of this great Elizabethan position, and the moralof it, is most carefully and elaborately exhibited here. No plea atthe bar was ever more finely and eloquently laboured. It was for thebar of 'foreign nations and future ages' that this defence wasprepared: the speaker who speaks so 'pressly, ' is the lawyer; andthere is nothing left unsaid at last. But it is not exhibited in wordsmerely. It is acted. It is brought out dramatically. It is presentedto the eye as well as to the ear. The impossibility of any other modeof proceeding under those conditions is not demonstrated in thisinstance by a diagram, drawn on a piece of paper, and handed aboutamong the jury; it is not an exact drawing of the street, and thehouse, and the corner where the difficulty occurred, with the numberof yards and feet put down in ink or pencil marks; it is somethingmuch more lively and tangible than that which we have here, underpardon of this old Roman myth. 

For the story, as to this element of it, is indeed not new. The storyof the struggle of the few with the many, of the one with the many, ofthe one with 'the many-headed, ' is indeed an old one. Back into thedays of demi-gods and gods it takes us. It is the story of thecelestial Titan, with his benefactions for men, and force andstrength, with art to aid them--reluctant art--compelled to servetheir ends, enringing his limbs, and driving hard the stakes. Here, indeed, in the Fable, in the proper hero of it, it is the struggle ofthe 'partliness' of pride and selfish ambition, lifting itself up inthe place of God, and arraying itself against the common-_weal_, aswell as the common-will; but the physical relation of the one to themany, the position of the individual who differs from his time onradical questions, the relative strength of the parties to this war, and the weapons and the mode of warfare inevitably prescribed to theminority under such conditions--all this is carefully brought out fromthe speciality of this instance, and presented in its most generalform; and the application of the result to the position of the man whocontends _for_ the common-weal, against the selfish will, and passion, and narrowness, and short-sightedness of the multitude, is distinctlymade. 

Yes, the Elizabethan part is here; that all-unappreciated and odiouspart, which the great men of the Elizabethan time found forced uponthem; that most odious part of all, which, the greatest of his timefound forced upon _him_ as the condition of his greatness. It is herealready, negatively defined, in this passionate defiance, which ringsout at last in the Roman street, when the hero's pride bursts throughhis resolve, when he breaks down at last in his studied part, and allconsiderations of policy, all regard to that which was dearer to himthan 'his _single mould_, ' is given to the winds in the tempest of hiswrath, and he stands at bay, and confronts _alone_ 'the beast withmany heads. '

It is thus that he measures the man he contends with, the antagonistwho is but 'the horn and noise of the monster':--

 'Thou injurious TRIBUNE! Within thine eyes sat _twenty thousand_ deaths, In thy hands clenched _as many millions_, in Thy lying tongue _both numbers_, I would say, Thou liest, unto thee, with voice as free As I do pray the gods. '

But there was a heroism of a finer strain than that at work in Englandthen, imitating the graces of the gods to better purpose; a heroismwhich must fight a harder field than that, which must fight its owngreat battles through alone, without acclamations, without spectators;which must come off victorious, and never count its 'cicatrices, ' orclaim 'the war's garland. '

If we would know the secret of those struggles, those hard conflictsthat were going on here then, in whose results all the future ages ofmankind were concerned, we must penetrate with this Poet the secret ofthe Roman patrician's house; we must listen, through that thin poeticbarrier, to the great chief himself, the chief of the unborn age of anew civilization--the leader, and hero, and conqueror of the ages ofPeace--as he enters and paces his own hall, with the angry fire in hiseyes, and utters there the words for which there is no utterancewithout--as he listens there anew to the argument of that for which helives, and seeks to reconcile himself anew to that baseness which histime demands of him. 

We must seek, here, not the part of him only who endured long andmuch, but was, at last, provoked into a premature boldness, andinvolved in a fatal collision with the state, but that of him whoendured to the end, who played his life-long part withoutself-betrayal. We must seek, here, not the part of the great martialchieftain only, but the part of that heroic chief and leader of menand ages, who discovered, in the sixteenth century, when the chivalryof the sword was still exalting its standard of honour as supreme, when the law of the sword was still the world's law, that bruteinstinct was not the true valour, that there was a better part of itthan instinct, though he knows and confesses, --though he is the firstto discover, that instinct is a great matter. We must seek, here, _thewords_, the very words of that part which we shall find _acted_elsewhere, --the part of the chief who was determined, for his part, 'to live and fight another day, ' who was not willing to spend_him_self in such conflicts as those in which he saw his mostillustrious contemporaries perish at his side, on his right hand andon his left, in the reign of the Tudor, and in the reign of theStuart. And he has not been at all sparing of his hints on thissubject over his own name, for those who have leisure to take them. 

'The moral of this fable is, ' he says, commenting in a certain place, on the wisdom of _the Ancients_, 'that men should not be confident ofthemselves, and imagine that a discovery of their excellences willalways render them acceptable. _For this can only succeed_ accordingto _the nature_ and _manners_ of the person they _court or_ solicit, who, if he be a man not of the same gifts and endowments, butaltogether of a haughty and insolent behaviour--(_here_ represented by_the person of Juno_)--_they must entirely drop the character_ thatcarries the least show of worth or gracefulness; if they proceed upon_any other_ footing it is _downright folly. Nor_ is it sufficient to_act_ the deformity of _obsequiousness_, unless they _really changethemselves_, and _become_ abject and contemptible _in their persons_. 'This was a time when abject and contemptible _persons_ could do whatothers could not do. Large enterprises, new developments of art andscience, the most radical social innovations, were undertaken andmanaged, and very successfully, too, in that age, by persons of thatdescription, though not without frequent glances on their part, atthat little, apparently somewhat contradictory circumstance, in theirhistory. 

But the fables in which the wisdom of the Moderns, and the secrets of_their_ sages are lodged, are the fables we are unlocking here. Let uslisten to these 'secrets of policy' for ourselves, and not take themon trust any longer. 

 _A room in Coriolanus's house_. 

 [_Enter Coriolanus and Patricians_. ]

 _Cor_. Let them _pull all about mine ears_, present me _Death on the wheel_, or at wild horses' heels, Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight, yet will I still _Be thus to them_. 

 [Under certain conditions that is heroism, no doubt. ]

 _First Patrician. You do the nobler_. 

 [For the question is of NOBILITY. ]

 _Cor_. I muse my mother Does not approve me further. I talk of _you_. [_To Volumnia_. ] Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me _False to my nature_? Rather say _I play The man I am_. 

 _Vol_. O sir, sir, sir, I _would have had you put your power well on Before you had worn it out_. Lesser had been The thwarting of your dispositions, if You had _not show'd them how you were disposed, Ere they lacked power to cross you_. 

 * * * * *

 [_Enter Menenius and Senators_. ]

 _Men_. Come, come, you have been too rough Something too rough; You must return, and mend it. 

 _1 Sen_. _There's no remedy, Unless_, by _not_ so doing, _our good city Cleave in the midst and perish_. 

 _Vol_. Pray be counselled: _I_ have a _heart_ as little apt as yours But yet _a brain_ [hear] that leads my use of anger To better _vantage_. 

 _Men_. Well said, _noble_ woman; _Before he should thus stoop to the_ herd, but that The VIOLENT PIT O' THE TIME, _craves it as_ PHYSIC For the WHOLE STATE, _I_ would put _mine_ armour on, Which I can scarcely bear. 

 [It is the diseased common-weal whose case this Doctor is undertaking. _That_ is our subject. ]

 _Cor_. What must I do?

 _Men_. Return to the Tribunes. 

 _Cor_. Well, What then? what then?

 _Men_. Repent what you have spoke. 

 _Cor_. For them? I _can not do it to the gods_: Must I then do't to _them_?

 _Vol_. You are too _absolute_; _Though_ therein you can never be _too noble But when extremities speak_. I have heard you say, HONOR _and_ POLICY [hear] like unsevered friends _I' the war_ do grow together: _Grant that_, and tell me. In peace, what _each_ of them by the other loses That they combine not there?

 _Cor_. Tush; tush!

 _Men_. _A good demand_. 

 _Vol_. If _it be honor_, in your wars, to seem The same you are not, (which FOR YOUR BEST ENDS _You adopt your policy_), how is it _less_, or _worse_ That it shall hold companionship in peace With honor, as in war; _since that to both It stands in like request_?

 _Cor_. Why _force you this_? [Truly. ]

 _Vol_. _Because_ that _now_, IT LIES ON YOU to speak _To the people, not_ by _your own instruction_, Nor by the _matter which your heart prompts you_ to, But with such words that are but rated _in_ _Your tongue_ though but bastards and syllables _Of no_ allowance, to _your bosom's truth_. Now this no more dishonors you at all, Than to take in _a town_ with _gentle words_, Which else would put you to your fortune, and THE HAZARD of MUCH BLOOD. --[Hear. ] I would dissemble _with my nature_, where _My fortune and my friends at stake_ required _I should do so in honor_. _I am_ in this; Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles, And you will rather show our _general lowts_ How you can frown, than spend a _fawn_ upon them. For the _inheritance_ of their loves, and _safe-guard_ Of _what that want might ruin_ [hear] NOBLE lady!

 _Come go with us_. Speak fair: you may salve so, [It is the diseased common-weal we talk of still. ]

 You may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, _but_ the _loss_ Of what is past. 

 [That was this Doctor's method, who was a Doctor of Laws as well as Medicine, and very skilful in medicines 'palliative' as well as 'alterative. ']

 _Vol_. I pry'thee now, my son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand, And thus far having stretched it (_here_ be with them), Thy _knee bussing the stones_, for in such business _Action_ is eloquence, and the _eyes_ of _the ignorant_ More _learned_ than the _ears_--waving thy head, Which often thus, correcting thy stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling: or say to them: Thou art _their_ soldier, and _being bred in broils_, Hast not the soft way, which thou dost confess _Were fit for thee to use_, as _they to claim_, In asking _their good_ loves; but thou wilt frame Thyself _forsooth hereafter theirs_, so far As thou hast power and person. 

 Pry'thee now _Go and be ruled: although I know_ thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Here is Cominius. 

 [_Enter Cominius_. ]

 _Com. I have been i' the market-place_, and, sir, _'tis fit_ You make STRONG PARTY, _or_ defend yourself By CALMNESS, or by ABSENCE. ALL's in anger. 

 _Men. Only fair speech. I think 'twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit_. 

 _Vol_. He must, and will. Pry'thee now _say_ you will _and go about it_. 

 _Cor_. Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce? _Must I_ With _my base tongue, give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do't: Yet were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Marcius_, they, to dust should grind it, And throw it against the wind;--to the market-place; You have put me now to such a part, which never _I_ shall discharge _to the life_. 

 _Com_. Come, come, we'll prompt you. 

 _Vol_. I pry'thee now, sweet son, as thou hast said, _My_ praises made thee first a soldier [--_Volumnia_--], so To have my praise for this, _perform a part Than hast not done before_. 

 _Cor_. Well, I must do't. _Away my disposition_, and possess me Some harlot's spirit! _My throat_ of _war_ be turned, Which quired with my _drum_ into a pipe! Small as an eunuch's or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of _knaves_ Tent in my cheeks; and school-boy's tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue Make _motion through my lips_; and my _arm'd knees Who bowed but in my stirrup, bend like his_ That _hath received an alms_. I will not do't, Lest I _surcease_ to _honor mine own truth_, And _by my body's action teach my mind_ A most _inherent baseness_. 

 _Vol_. At thy choice, then; To beg of thee, it is my more dishonor Than thou of them. Come _all to ruin_; let _Thy mother_ rather _feel thy pride_, than fear Thy dangerous stoutness, for _I_ mock at death With as big a heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy _valiantness was mine_, thou suck'dst it from me, But _owe thy pride thyself_. 

 _Cor_. Pray be content. _Mother_ I _am going to the market place_, Chide me no more. I'll _mountebank their loves_, Cog their hearts from them, _and come back beloved_ _Of all the trades in Rome_. --[That he will--] Look I am going. Commend me to my wife. I'll return Consul [--That he will--] Or never trust to what my tongue can do, _I' the way of flattery further_. 

 _Vol. Do your will. [Exit_. ]

 _Com_. Away, the tribunes do attend you: _arm yourself_ To answer _mildly_; for they are prepared With accusations as I hear more strong Than are upon you yet. 

 _Cor_. _The word is mildly_: Pray you let us go, Let them accuse me by _invention_, I Will answer in mine honor. 

 _Men_. _Ay, but mildly_. 

 _Cor_. Well, mildly be it then, mildly. 

 [_The Forum. Enter Coriolanus and his party_. ]

 _Tribune_. Well, here he comes. 

 _Men_. _Calmly_, I do beseech you. 

 _Cor. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece Will bear the knave by the volume_. The honoured gods Keep Rome in safety, and the CHAIRS of _justice_ Supplied with WORTHY MEN; _plant_ LOVE among us. _Throng_ OUR LARGE TEMPLES _with the shows_ of PEACE, _And_ NOT _our_ STREETS _with_ WAR. 

 _Sen_. AMEN! AMEN!

 _Men_. A NOBLE wish. 

Thus far the Poet: but the mask through which he speaks is wanted forother purposes, for these occasional auto-biographical glimpses arebut the side play of the great historical exhibition which is inprogress here, and are introduced in entire subordination to itsrequisitions. 

It is, indeed, an old story into which all this Elizabethan history iscrowded. That mimic scene in which the great historic instances in thescience of human nature and human life were brought out with suchscientific accuracy, and with such matchless artistic power andsplendour, was, in fact, what the Poet himself, who ought to know, tells us it is; with so much emphasis, --not merely the mirror ofnature in general, but the daguerreotype of the then yet living age, the plate which was able to give to the very _body_ of it, its _formand pressure_. That is what it was. And what is more, it was the onlyMirror, the only Spectator, the only Times, in which the times couldget reflected and deliberated on then, with any degree of freedom andvivacity. And yet there were minds here in England then, as acute, asreflective, as able to lead the popular mind as those that compose ourleaders and reviews today. There was a mind here then, reflecting not'ages past' only, but one that had taken its knowledge of the pastfrom the present, that found 'in all men's lives, ' a history figuringthe nature of the times deceased; prophetic also: and this was themind of the one who writes 'spirits are not finely touched but to fineissues. '

They had to take old stories, --these sly, ambitious aspirants topower, who were not disposed to give up their natural right todictate, for the lack of an organ, or because they found the properinsignia of their office usurped: it was necessary that they shouldtake old stories, or invent new ones, 'to make those slights upon thebanks of Thames, that so did take' not 'Eliza and our James' only, butthat people of whom 'Eliza and our James' were only 'the outstretchedshadows, ' 'the monster, ' of whose 'noise' these sovereigns, as theauthor of this play took it, were 'but the horn. '

They had to take old stories of one kind and another, as they happenedto find them, and vamp them up to suit their purposes; stories, old ornew, they did not much care which. 

Old and memorable ones, so memorable that the world herself with hergreat faculty of oblivion, could not forget them, but carried them inher mind from age to age, --stories so memorable that all men knew themby heart, --so the author could find one to his purpose, --were best forsome things, --for many things; but for others new ones must beinvented; and certainly there would be no difficulty as to that, forlack of gifts at least, in the mind whence these old ones were comingout so freshly, in the gloss of their new-coined immortality. 

It is, indeed, an old story that we have here, a story of that ancientRome, whose 'just, free and flourishing state, ' the author of this newscience of policy confesses himself, --under his _universal_ name, --sochildishly enamoured of, that he interests himself in it to a degreeof passion, though he 'neither loves it in its _birth_ or its_decline_, '--[under its kings or its emperors. ]--It is a story of_Republican_ Rome, and the difference, the radical difference, betweenthe civil magistracy which represented the Roman people, and thatunconstitutional popular power which the popular tyranny creates, isby no means omitted in the exposition. That difference, indeed, isthat which makes the representation possible; it is brought out andinsisted on, '_they_ choose their officers;' it is a difference whichis made much of, for it contains one of the radical points in thepoetic intention. 

But without going into the argument, the large and comprehensiveargument, of this most rich and grave and splendid composition, crowded from the first line of it to the last, with the results of apolitical learning which has no match in letters, which had none then, which has none now; no, or the world would be in another case than itis, for it is a political learning which has its roots in the newphilosophy, it is grounded in the philosophy of the nature of things, it is radical as the _Prima Philosophia_, --without attempting toexhaust the meaning of a work embodying through all its unsurpassedvigor and vivacity of poetic representation, the new philosophicstatesman's ripest lore, the patient fruits of 'observationstrange, '--without going into his argument of the whole, the readerwho merely wishes to see for himself, at a glance, in a word, as amatter of curiosity merely; whether the view here given of thepolitical sagacity and prescience of the Elizabethan Man of Letters, is in the least chargeable with exaggeration, has only to look at thecontext of that revolutionary speech and proposal, that revolutionaryburst of eloquence which has been here claimed as a proper historicalissue of the age of Elizabeth. He will not have to read very far tosatisfy himself as to that. It will be necessary, indeed, for thatpurpose, that he should have eyes in his head, eyes not purelyidiotic, but with the ordinary amount of human speculation in them, and, moreover, it will be necessary that he should use them, --as eyesare ordinarily used in such cases, --nothing more. But unfortunatelythis is just the kind of scrutiny which nobody has been able to bestowon this work hitherto, on account of those historical obstructionswith which, at the time it was written, it was found necessary toguard such discussions, discussions running into such delicatequestions in a manner so essentially incomparably free. 

For, in fact, there is no plainer piece of English extant, when onecomes to look at it. All that has been claimed in the Historical partof this work, [not published in this volume] may be found here withoutany research, on the mere surface of the dialogue. Looking at it neverso obliquely, with never so small a fraction of an eye, one cannothelp seeing it. 

The reader who would possess himself of the utmost meaning of thesepassages, one who would comprehend their farthest reaches, must indeedbe content to wait until he can carry with him into all the parts thatknowledge of the authors general intention in this work, which only amost thorough and careful study of it will yield. 

It is, indeed, a work in which the whole question of government isseized at its source--one in which the whole difficulty of it isgrappled with unflinching courage and veracity. It is a work in whichthat question of classes in the state, which lies on the surface ofit, is treated in a general, and not exclusive manner; or, where thetreatment is narrowed and pointed, as it is throughout in the runningcommentary, it is narrowed and pointed to the question of the then yetliving age, and to those momentous developments of it which, 'in theirweak beginnings, ' the philosophic eye had detected, and not to a stateof things which had to cease before the first Punic war could bebegun. 

The question of _classes_, and their respective claims in governments, is indeed incidentally treated here, but in this author's owndistinctive manner, which is one that is sure to take out, always--even in his lightest, most sportive handling--the heart of hissubject, so as to leave little else but gleanings to the author whofollows in that track hereafter. 

For this is one of those unsurpassably daring productions of theElizabethan Muse, which, after long experiment, encouraged by thatprotracted immunity from suspicion, and stimulated by the hurrying onof the great crisis, it threw out at last in the face and eyes oftyranny, Things which are but intimated in the earlier plays--political allusions, which are brought out there amid cracklingvolleys of conceits, under cover of a battery of quips and jests--political doctrines, which lie there wrapped in thickest involutionsof philosophic subtleties, are all unlocked and open here on thesurface: he that runs may take them if he will. 

CHAPTER II. 

CRITICISM OF THE MARTIAL GOVERNMENT. 

 'Would you proceed _especially_ against _Caius_ MARCIUS?' 'Against him FIRST: He's a _very dog_ to THE COMMONALTY. '

In this exhibition of the social orders to which human societyinstinctively tends, and that so-called _state_ into which humancombinations in barbaric ages rudely settles, the _principle_ of thecombination--the principle of gradation, and subjection, andpermanence--is called in question, and exposed as a purely instinctiveprinciple, as, in fact, only a principle of revolution disguised; anda higher one, the distinctively human element, the principle of KIND, is now, for the first time, demanded on scientific grounds, as theessential principle of any permanent human combination--as the naturalprinciple, the only one which the science of nature can recognise as aprinciple of STATE. 

It is the PEACE principle which this great scientific war-hater andcaptain of the ages of peace is in search of, with his new _organum_;though he is philosopher enough to know that, in diseased states, warsare nature's own rude remedies, her barbarous surgery, for evils yetmore unendurable. He has found himself chosen a justice of thepeace--the world's peace; and it is the principle of permanence, oflaw and subjection--in a word, it is the principle of _state_, asopposed to revolution and dissolution--which he is judging of inbehalf of his kind. And he makes a business of it. He goes about inhis own fashion. He gets up this great war-piece on purpose to findit. 

He has got a state on his stage, which is ceasing to be a _state_ atthe moment in which he shows it to us; a state which has the warprinciple--the principle of conquest within no longer working in itinsidiously as government, but developed as war; for it has justoverstepped the endurable point in its mastery. It is a revolutionthat is coming off when the curtain rises. For the government has beengnawing the Roman common-weal at home, with those same teeth itravened the Volscians with abroad, till it has reached the vitals atlast, and the common-weal has betaken itself to the Volscian'sweapons:--the people have risen. They are all out when the play beginson an armed hunt for their rat-like, gnawing, corn-consuming rulers. They are determined to 'kill them, ' and have 'corn at their ownprice. ' 'If the _wars_ eat us not, _they_ will, ' is the word; 'andthere's all THE LOVE _they_ bear us. ' '_Rome_ and _her rats_ are atthe point of battle, ' cries the Poet. The _one_ side _shall havebale_, is his prophecy. 'Without _good nature_, ' he says elsewhere, using the term _good_ in its scientific sense, '_men_ are only aNOBLER kind of VERMIN'; and he makes a most unsparing application ofthis principle in his criticisms. Many a splendid historical figure ismade to show its teeth, and rat-like mien and propensities, throughall the splendour of its disguises, merely by the application of hissimple philosophical tests. For the question, as he puts it, is thequestion between animal instinct, between mere appetite, and reason;and the question incidentally arises in the course of the exhibition, whether the common-weal, when it comes to anything like common-sense, is going to stand being gnawed in this way, for the benefit of anyindividual, or clique, or party. 

For the ground on which the classes or estates, and their respectiveclaims to the government, are tried here, is the ground of the_common_-weal; and the question as to the fitness of any existingclass in the state for an exclusive, unlimited control of the welfareof the whole, is more than suggested. That which stops short of theweal of the whole for its end, is that which is under criticism here;and whether it exist in 'the one, ' or 'the few, ' or 'the many, '--andthese are the terms that are employed here, --whether it exist in thecivil magistracy, sustained by a popular submission, or in the powerof the victorious military chief, at the head of his still extant andresistless armament, it is necessarily rejected as a principle ofsovereignty and permanence, in this purely scientific view of thehuman conditions of it. It is a question which this author handleswith a thorough impartiality, in all his political treatises, let themcome in what name and form they will, with more or less clearness, indeed, as the circumstances seem to dictate. 

But _nowhere_ is the whole history of the military government, collected from the obscurity of the past, and brought out with suchinflexible design--with such vividness and strength of historicexhibition, as it is _here_. It is traced to its beginnings in thedistinctions which nature herself creates, --those physical, and moral, and intellectual distinctions, with which she crowns, in her happiermoods, the large resplendent brows of her born kings and masters. Itis traced from its origin in the crowning of the victorious chief onthe field of battle, to the moment in which the sword of militaryconquest is turned back on the conquerors by the chief into whosehands they gave it; and the sword of conquest abroad becomes, at home, the sword of state. 

Nay, this Play goes farther, and embraces the contingency of a foreignrule--one, too, in which the _conqueror_ takes his surname from the_conquest_; it brings home 'the enemy of the whole state, ' as a king, in triumph to the capital, whose streets he has filled with mourning;and though the author does not tell us in this case, at he does inanother, that the nation was awed 'with an offertory of standards' inthe temple, and that 'orisons and Te Deums were again sung, '--thevictor 'not meaning that the people _should forget_ too soon _that hecame in by battle_'--points, not much short of that, in the way ofspeciality, are not wanting. More than one conqueror, indeed, looksout from this old chieftain's Roman casque. 'There is a little touchof _Harry_ in the scene'; and though the author goes out of his way totell us that 'he must by no means say his hero is _covetous_, ' it willnot be the Elizabethan Philosopher's fault, if we do not know _which_Harry it is that says--

 _If you have writ your annals true_, 'tis there, That like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volsces in Corioli: _Alone_, I did it. 

 * * * * *

 _Auf_. Read it, noble lords; But tell _the traitor_, in the _highest degree_ He hath abused your powers. 

 _Cor_. Traitor!--How now?

 _Auf_. Ay, _traitor_, Marcius. 

 _Cor_. _Marcius_!

 _Auf_. AY, _Marcius, Caius_ Marcius; Dost thou think I'll grace thee with THAT ROBBERY, _thy_ STOLEN NAME CORIOLANUS in CORIOLI?'--[_the conqueror in the conquest_. ]

Never, indeed, was 'the garland of war, ' whether glistening freshly onthe hero's brow on the fresh battle-field, or whether glittering, transmuted into civic gold and gems, on the brow of his hereditarysuccessor, subjected to such a searching process before, as that withwhich the Poet, under cover of an _aristocrat's_ pretensions, andespecially under cover of his pretensions to an elective magistracy, can venture to test it. 

This _hero_, who 'speaks of the people as if he were a _god_ topunish, and not a man of their infirmity, ' is on trial for thatpretension from the first scene of this Play to the last. The authorhas, indeed, his own views of the fickle, ignorant, foolishmultitude, --such views as any one, who had occasion to experiment onit personally, in the age of Elizabeth, would not lack the means ofacquiring; and amidst those ebullitions of wrath, which he pours fromhis haughty hero's lips, one hears at times a tone that sounds alittle like some other things from the same source, as if the authorhad himself, in some way, been brought to look at the subject from apoint of observation, not altogether unlike that from which his herospeaks; or as if he might, at least, have known how to sympathise withthe haughty and unbending nature, that had been brought into suchdeadly collision with it. But in the dramatic representation, thoughit is far from being a flattering one, we listen in vain for any echoof this sentiment. In its rich and kindly humour there is no sneer, nosatire. It is the loving eye of nature's own great pupil--it is thekindly human eye, that comes near enough to point those jests, andpaint so truly; there is a great human heart here in the sceneembracing the lowly. It was the heart that was putting forth then itssilent but resistless energies into the ages of the human advancement, to take up the despised and rejected masses of men from their misery, and make of them truly one _kind_ and kindred. 

And though he has had, indeed, his own private experiences with themultitude, and the passions are, as he intimates--at least as strongin him as in another, he has his own view, also, of the commonpitifulness and weakness of the human conditions; and he has a viewwhich is, in his time, all his own, of the instrumentalities that areneeded to reach that level of human nature, and to lift men up fromthe mire of these conditions, from the wrong and wretchedness intowhich, in their unaided, unartistic, unlearned struggle withnature, --within and without, --_the kind_ are fallen. And so strong inhim is the sense of this pitifulness, that it predominates over thesharpness of his genius, and throws the divinest mists and veils ofcompassion over the harsh, scientific realities he is constrained tolay bare. 

And, in fact, it takes this monstrous pretence, and claim to _humanleadership_, which he finds passing unquestioned in his time, to bringhim out on this point fairly. The statesmanship of the man whoundertakes to make his own petty personality the measure of a _world_, who would make, not that reason which is in us _all_, and embraces the_world_, and which is _not_ personal, --not that conscience which isthe sensibility to reason, and is as broad and impartial asthat--which goes with the reason, and embraces, like that, withoutbias, the common weal, --but that which is particular, and private, andlimited to the individual, --his senses, --his passions, his privateaffections, --his mere caprice, --his mere will; the motive of thepublic action;--the statesmanship of the man who dares to offer theseto an insulted world, as reasons of state; who claims a divineprerogative to make his single will good against reason; who claims adivine right to make his private interest outweigh the weal of thewhole; who asks men to obliterate, in their judgment, its essentialprinciple, that which makes them men, the eternal principle of thewhole;--this is the phenomenon which provokes at last, in this author, the philosophic ire. The moment this thing shows itself on his stage, he puts his pity to sleep. He will show up, at last, without anymercy, in a purely scientific manner, as we see more clearlyelsewhere, the common pitifulness of the human conditions, in theperson of him who claims exemption from them, --who speaks of thepeople as if he were a god to punish, and not a man of theirinfirmity. 

'There is formed in every thing a _double nature_';--this author, whois the philosopher of _nature_, tells us on another page, --'there isformed in _every thing_ a double nature OF GOOD, the one as everythingis a total or substantive in itself, the other as it is a _part_ or_member_ of a greater body; whereof the _latter_ is in degree thegreater and the worthier, because it _tends to the conservation of amore general form_. Therefore we see the iron in _particular sympathy_moving to the loadstone; but yet, if _it exceed a certain quantity_, it forsakes the affection to the loadstone, and, like a good patriot, moves to the earth. This double nature of good is MUCH MORE(hear)--much _more_ ENGRAVEN on MAN, if he _de_GENERATE not--(declinenot from the law of his _kind_--for that _more_ is SPECIAL) unto whomthe conservation of DUTY to the PUBLIC ought to be much more_precious_ than the conservation of life and being, according to thatmemorable speech of Pompey THE GREAT, [the truly great, for this isthe question of greatness, ] when BEING IN COMMISSION OF PURVEYANCE FORA FAMINE AT ROME, and being dissuaded, with great vehemency andinstance, by his friends about him, that he should not hazard himselfto sea in an extremity of weather, answered, 'Necesse est ut eam, nonut vivam. '

But we happen to have set out here, in our play, at the very beginningof it, the specific case alluded to, in this general exhibition of theradical human law, viz. , the case of a famine in Rome, which we shallfind differently treated, in this instance, by the person who aspiresto 'the helm o' the state. '

When the question is of the true nobility and greatness, of the truestatesmanship, of the personal fitness of an individual to assume thecare of the public welfare, the question, of course, as to this doublenature, comes in. We wish to know--if any thing is going to dependupon his single _will_ in the matter, we must know, which of these twonatures is SOVEREIGN in himself, --which good he supremelyaffects, --that of his senses, passions, and private affections, thatgood which ends in his private and particular nature, --a good whichhas its _due_ place in this system, and is not unnaturally mortifiedand depressed, as it is in less scientific ones, --or that good of the_whole_, which is each man's highest good;--whether he is, in fact, a_man_, or whether, in the absence of that perfection of the humanform, which should be the end of science and government, heapproximates at all, --or undertakes to approximate at all, to the truehuman type;--whether he be, indeed, a man, in the higher sense of thatword, or whether he ranks in the scale of nature, as 'only a _nobler_kind of vermin, ' a _man_, a _noble man_, a man with a divine ideal andambition, _degenerate_ into that. 

When it is a candidate for the chief magistracy, a candidate for thesupreme power in the state, who is on his trial, of course thatquestion as to the balance between the public and private affections, which, those who know how to trace this author's hand, know he is sofond of trying elsewhere, is sure to come up. The question is, as towhether there is any affection in this claimant for power, so largeand so noble, that it can embrace heartily the common weal, and take_that_ to be _its_ good. The trial will be a sharp one. The trial ofhuman greatness which is magnanimity, must needs be. The question is, as to whether this is a nature capable of pursuing that end for itsown sake, without respect to its pivate and merely selfish recompence;whether it is one which has any such means of egress from itsparticular self, any such means of coming out of its private andexclusive motivity, that it can persevere in its care of the CommonWeal, through good and through ill report, through personal wrong andingratitude, --abandoning its private claim, and ascending by thatconquest to the divineness. 

CHAPTER III. 

INSURRECTION'S ARGUING. 

 'What is granted them?' 'Five Tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms. '

 'The rabble should have first unroofed the city, Ere so prevailed with me. '

The common people themselves have some inkling of this. This Roman whohas established his claim to rule Romans at home, by killing Volsciansabroad, appears to their simple apprehension, at the moment, at least, when they find themselves suffering the gnawings of hunger through hislegislation, to have established but a questionable claim to theirsubmission. 

And before ever he shows his head on the stage, this question, whichis the question of the play, is already started. For it is the peoplewho are permitted to come on first of all and explain their wants, anddiscuss the military hero's qualifications for rule in that relation, and that, too, in a not altogether foolish manner. For though theauthor knows how to do justice to the simplicity of their politics, heknows how to do justice also to that practical determination andstraightforwardness and largeness of sense, which even in the commonsense of uneducated masses, is already struggling a little to declareitself. 

They have one great piece of political learning which their lordlylegislators lack, and for lack of sense and comprehension cannot have. They are learned in the doctrine of their own political and socialwant; they are full of the most accurate and vivid impressions on thatsubject. Their notions of it are altogether different from those vaguegeneral abstract conceptions of it, which the brains of their refinedlordly rulers stoop to admit. The terms which that legislation dealswith, are one thing in the patrician's vocabulary, and another andquite different thing in the plebeian's; hunger means one thing in the'patrician's vocabulary, ' and another and very different thing in theplebeian's. They know, too, 'that meat was made for mouths, ' and 'thatthe gods sent not corn for the rich men only. ' They are under theimpression that there ought to be bread for them by some means orother, when the storehouses that their toil has filled areoverflowing, and though they are not clear as to the process whichshould accomplish this result, they have come to the conclusion thatthere must be some error somewhere in the legislation of those learned_few_, to whom they have resigned the task of governing them. They arestrongly of opinion that there must be some mistake in thecalculations by which those venerable wise men and _fathers_, do soinfallibly contrive to sweep the results of the poor man's toil andprivation into their own garners, --calculations which enable thelegislator to enjoy in lordly ease and splendour, the sight of theplebeian's misery, which enable him to lavish on his idlest whims, togive to his dogs that which would save lifetimes of unreckoned humanmisery. These are their views, and when the play begins, they haveresolved themselves into a committee of the whole, and are out on acommission of inquiry and administrative reform, armed with bats andclubs and other weapons, --such as came first to hand, intending tomake short work of it. This is their peace budget, and as to war, theyhave some rude notions on that subject, too;--some dim impression thatnature intended them for some other ends than to be sold in theshambles, as the purchase of some lordly chieftain's title. There's anincipient statesmanship struggling there in that rude mass, though itdoes not as yet get fairly expressed. It will take the tribuneship andthe refinements of the aristocratic leisure, to make the rude wisdomof want and toil eloquent. But it has found a tribune at last, whowill be able to speak for it, through one mouth or another, scientifically and to the purpose too, ere all is done. 

'Before we proceed any further, _hear me speak_, ' he cries, throughthe Roman leader's lips; for his Rome, too, if it be not yet 'at thepoint of battle, ' is drifting towards it rapidly, as he sees wellenough when this speech begins. 

But let us take the Play as we find it. Take the first scene of it. The stage is filled with the people, --not with their representatives, --but with the people themselves, in their own persons, in the act oftaking the government into their own hands. They are hurrying sternlyand silently through the city streets. There has been no practising of'goose step, ' to teach them that movement. They are armed with clubs, staves and other weapons, peace weapons, but there is an edge in themnow, fine enough for their purpose. The word of the play is the wordthat arrests that movement. The voice of the leader rings out, --it isa HALT that is ordered. 

'BEFORE WE PROCEED ANY FURTHER, HEAR ME SPEAK, ' cries one from themass. 

'Speak! speak!' is the reply. They are ready to hear reason. They wanta speaker. They want a voice, though never so rude, to put their sterninarticulate purpose 'into some frame. '

'You are all resolved rather TO DIE than TO FAMISH, ' continues thefirst speaker. Yes, that is it precisely; he has spoken the word. 

'RESOLVED! RESOLVED!' is the common response; for the revolutionarypoint is touched here. 

'FIRST, _you know_, Caius Marcius is CHIEF ENEMY to the people'--arude grasp at causes. This captain will establish a common_intelligence_ in his company _before they proceed any further_; thattheir acting may be one, and to purpose. For there is no command butthat here. 

_Cit. _ We know't, we know't. 

_First Cit. _ Let us _kill him_, and we'll have corn at our own price. Is't a verdict?

_Cit. No _more talking on't_. Let it bone done: away, away. 

'_One word_, good citizens, ' cries another, 'who thinks that the thingwill bear, perhaps, a little further discussion. And this is the hintfor the first speaker to produce his cause more fully. 'GOODCITIZENS, ' is the word he takes up. "_We_ are _accounted_ POORCITIZENS; the patricians GOOD. ' [That is the way the account stands, then. ] 'What AUTHORITY _surfeits_ on would relieve us. If they wouldyield us _but the superfluity_ while it were _wholesome_, we mightguess they relieved us _humanely_; but they think we are _too dear_. '[They love us as we are too well. They want poor people to reflecttheir riches. It takes plebeians to make patricians; it takes ourvalleys to make their heights. ]

'The leanness that _afflicts us_, the object of _our_ misery, is as an_inventory_ to particularize _their abundance_. _Our_ sufferance is again to _them_. --Let us revenge this with our pikes, ere we becomerakes: for the gods know, I speak this in _hunger_ for bread, and notin _thirst_ for _revenge_. 

_Second Cit_. Would you proceed _especially_ against Caius Marcius?

_First Cit_. Against him _first_;--he's a _very dog_ to thecommonalty. 

_Second Cit_. Consider you what _services_ he has done for _hiscountry_?

[That is one of the things which are about to be 'considered. ']

_First Cit. Very well_, and could be content to give him good reportfor'it, but that he _pays himself_ with _being proud_. 

_Second Cit_. Nay, but speak not maliciously. 

_First Cit_. I say unto you, what he hath done famously, he _did it tothat end_: though soft-conscienced men can be content to say it wasfor HIS COUNTRY, he did it to _please his mother_, and to be _partly_proud; which he is, even to the _altitude of his virtue_. 

_Second Cit_. What he _cannot help_ IN HIS NATURE, you account a_vice_ in him. You _must in no way_ say he is covetous. 

_First Cit. If I must not_, I need not be barren of accusations; hehath faults with surplus to tire _in repetition_. [_Shouts within_. ]What shouts are these? The other side o' the city is risen. Why staywe prating here? _To the Capitol_!

_Cit_. Come, come. 

_First Cit_. Soft; who comes here?

[_Enter Menenius Agrippa_. ]

_Second Cit_. Worthy Menenius Agrippa, one that hath always _loved thepeople_. 

_First Cit_. He's one _honest_ enough [--_honest_--a great word in theShakspere philosophy]; would _all the rest_ were so. 

[That is a good prayer when it comes to be understood. ]

_Men_. What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you, With batsand clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. 

_First Cit. Our business is not unknown to_ THE SENATE [Hear]; theyhave had _inkling_ this fortnight what we intend to do, which nowwe'll show 'em in deeds. They say, poor suitors have strong breaths;they shall know we have _strong arms, too_. 

_Men_. Why, _masters_, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Willyou undo yourselves_?

_First Cit. We cannot, sir; we are undone already_. [Revolution. ]

 _Men_. I tell you, friends, _most charitable care_ Have the _patricians_ of you. For your WANTS, --Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well _Strike at the heavens_ with your staves, as lift them Against the Roman State, whose course _will on The way it takes_, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder, than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The _gods, not_ the _patricians_, make it; and _Your knees_ to them, _not arms, must_ help. 

[This sounds very pious, but it is not the piety of the new school. The doctrine of submission and suffering is indeed taught in it, andscientifically reinforced; but then it is the patient suffering of theharm 'which is not within our power' which is commendable, accordingto its tenets, and 'a wise and industrious suffering' of it, too. Itis a wise 'accommodating of the nature of man to those points ofnature and fortune which we cannot control, ' that is pleasing to God, according to this creed. ]

 Alack! You are transported by calamity, Thither where more attends you; and you slander The helms o' the state, who care for you like _fathers_, When you curse them as enemies. 

_First Cit_. CARE FOR us! _True_, INDEED! They ne'er cared for us yet. SUFFER us TO FAMISH, and _their_ store-houses CRAMMED WITH GRAIN!_Make edicts for usury, to support usurers_! Repeal daily anyWHOLESOME ACT _established against the rich_, and provide morepiercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor! If the WARSeat us not up, THEY WILL; and there's _all the love_ they bear us. 

Menenius attempts to counteract these impressions; but his story andhis arguments appear to have some applications which he is not awareof, and are much more to the purpose of the party in arms than theyare to his own. For it is a story in which the natural subordinationof the parts to the whole in the fabric of human society isillustrated by that natural instance and symbol of unity andorganization which the single human form itself present; and thatcondition of the state which has just been exhibited--one in which thebody at large is dying of inanition that a part of it may_surfeit_--is a condition which, in the light of this story, appearsto need help of some kind, certainly. 

But the platform is now ready. It is the hero's entrance for which weare preparing. It is on the ground of this sullen want that the authorwill exhibit him and his dazzling military virtues. It is as thedoctor of this _diseased common-weal_ that he brings him in with hissword;

'_Enter_ CAIUS MARCIUS. '

and that idea--the idea of the diseased commonwealth, which Meneniushas already set forth--that notion of _parts_ and _partiality_, anddissonance and dissolution, which is a radical idea in the play, andruns into its minutest points of phraseology, breaks out at once inhis rough speech. 

 _Men_. Hail, noble Marcius!

 _Mar_. Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues, That rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make _yourselves_ scabs. 

[It is the _common-weal_ that must be made _whole_ and comely. OPINION! your opinion. ]

 _First Cit_. We have ever your good word. 

 _Mar_. In that will give good words to _thee_, will flatter Beneath abhorring. --What would you have, you _curs_, That like nor peace, nor war? the one affrights you, The other makes you proud. _He_ that trusts you, _Where he should find you lions, finds you hares_. _Where foxes, geese_! You are no surer, no Than is the coal of fire upon the ice, Or hail-stone in the sun. Your _virtue_ is, To make _him worthy_ whose _offence subdues him_, And curse that _justice_ did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate: and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. _He_ that _depends_ Upon your favours, _swims with_ fins of lead, And hews down _oaks_ with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind;

[This is not the principle of _state_, whether in the many or theone]. 

 And call _him_ noble, that was now your hate, _Him_ vile, that was your garland. _What's the matter_, That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, _which else Would feed on one another_?--What's their seeking?

 _Men_. For corn at their own rates; _whereof, they say, The city is well stor'd_. 

 _Mar_. HANG 'EM! THEY SAY? THEY'LL SIT BY THE FIRE, and PRESUME to KNOW WHAT'S DONE I' THE CAPITOL: who's like to rise, Who thrives, and who declines: side factions, and give out _Conjectural marriages; making parties strong_, And _feebling_ such _as stand not in their liking_, Below their cobbled shoes. _They say, there's grain enough_? Would the nobility lay aside their ruth, And let me use my sword, _I'd make a quarry With thousands of these quartered slaves_, AS HIGH As I could _prick my lance_. 

[The _altitude_ of his virtue;--the _measure_ of his greatness. Thatis the tableau of the first scene, in the first act of the play of thecure of the Common-weal and the Consulship. ]

 _Men_. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But I beseech you, What says the other troop?

 _Mar_. They are _dissolved_: Hang 'em! [Footnote] _They said, they were an hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs_;-- That _hunger broke stone walls_; that, _dogs_ must eat; That _meat was made for mouths_; THAT THE GODS SENT NOT CORN FOR THE RICH MEN ONLY:--With these shreds They vented their complainings; which being answer'd, And a petition granted them, _a strange one_, (To break the _heart of generosity_, _And make bold power look pale_, ) they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o'the moon, _Shouting their emulation_. 

[Footnote: 'The History of Henry VII. , ' produced in the HistoricalPart of this work, but omitted here, contains the key to thesereadings. ]

 _Men_. What is granted them. 

 _Mar_. Five tribunes _to defend their vulgar wisdoms_, Of their own choice: One's Junius Brutus, Sicinius Velutus, and I know not--'Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroof'd the city; Ere so prevail'd with me; _it will in time Win upon POWER, and throw forth greater themes_ For INSURRECTION'S arguing. 

 [Yes, surely it will. It cannot fail of it. ]

 _Men_. This is strange. _Mar_. Go, get you _home_, you _fragments_! [_fragments_. ]

 [_Enter a Messenger_. ]

 _Mes_. Where's Caius Marcius? _Mar_. Here; What's the matter? _Mes_. The news is, Sir, the Volces are in arms. _Mar_. I am glad on't; then we shall have means _to vent Our musty superfluity:_--See, our best elders. 

 [The procession from the Capitol is entering with two of the new officers of the commonwealth, and the two chief men of the army, with other senators. ]

 _First Sen_. Marcius, 'tis true, that you have lately told us; The Volsces are in arms. 

 _Mar_. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to't. I sin in envying _his nobility_: And were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he. 

 _Com_. You have fought together. 

 _Mar_. Were half to half the world by the ears, and _he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make Only my wars with him_ [Hear, hear]. He is a lion. That I am proud to _hunt_. 

 _First Sen_. _Then_, WORTHY _Marcius_, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. 

It is the relation of the spirit of military conquest, the relation ofthe military hero, and his government, to the true human need, whichis subjected to criticism here; a criticism which is necessarily anafter-thought in the natural order of the human development. 

The transition 'from the casque to the cushion, ' that so easy step inthe heroic ages, whether it be 'an entrance by conquest, ' foreign orotherwise, or whether the chieftain's own followers bring him home intriumph, and the people, whose battle he has won, conduct him to theirchair of state, in either case, that transition appears, to thisauthor's eye, worth going back, and looking into a little, in an ageso advanced in civilization, as the one in which he finds himself. 

For though he is, as any one who will take any pains to inquire, mayeasily satisfy himself, --the master in chief of the new science ofnature, --and the deepest in its secrets of any, his views on thatsubject appear to be somewhat broader, his aspirations altogether ofanother kind, from those, to which his school have since limitedthemselves. He does not content himself with pinning butterflies andhunting down beetles; his scientific curiosity is not satisfied withclassifying ferns and lichens, and ascertaining the proper historicalposition of pudding-stone and sand-stone, and in settling thedifference between them and their neighbours. Nature is always, in allher varieties wonderful, and all 'her infinite book of secrecy, ' thatbook which all the world had overlooked till he came, was to his eye, from the first, a book of spells, of magic lore, a Prospero book ofenchantments. He would get the key to her cipher, he would find thelost alphabet of her unknown tongue; there is no page of her composingin which he would scorn to seek it--none which he would scorn to readwith it: but then he has, notwithstanding, some _choice_ in hisstudies. He is of the opinion that some subjects are nobler thanothers, and that those which concern specially the human kind, have aspecial claim to their regard, and the secret of those combinationswhich result in the varieties of shell-fish, and other similar ordersof being, do _not_ exclusively, or chiefly, engage his attention. 

There is another natural curiosity, which strikes the eye of thefounder of the Science of Nature, as quite the most curious andwonderful thing going, so far, at least, as his observation hasextended, though he is willing to make, as he takes pains to state, philosophical allowance for the partiality of species in determiningthis judgment, and is perfectly willing to concede, that if anyparticular species of shell-fish, for instance, were to undertake ascience of things in general, that particular species would, no doubt, occupy the principal place in that system; especially if arts, tendingto the improvement and elevation of it, were necessarily based on thislarger specific knowledge. 

Men, and their proceedings and organisms, men, and their habits andmodes of combining, did appear to the eye of this scientific observerquite as well worth observing and noting, also, as bees and beavers, for instance, and their societies; and, accordingly, he made someobservations himself, and notes, too, in this particular department ofhis general science. For, as he tells us elsewhere, he did not wish tomap out the large fields of the science of observation in general, andexhibit to the world, in bare description, the method of it, withoutleaving some specimens of his own, of what might be done with it, inproper hands, under favourable circumstances, selecting for hisexperiments the principal and noblest subjects--those of the mostimmediate human concern. And he has not only very carefully laboured afew of these; but he has taken extraordinary pains to preserve them tous in their proper scientific form, with just as little of theligature of the time on them as it was possible to leave. 

It is no kind of beetle or butterfly, then, that this philosophercomes down upon here from the heights of his universal science--hisscience of the nature of things in general, but that great Spenserianmonstrosity, --that diseased product of nature, which individual humannature, in spite of its natural pettiness and helplessness, undercertain favourable conditions of absorption and accretion, may be madeto yield. It is that dragon of lawless power which was overspreading, in his time, all the common human affairs, and infolding in its gaudy, baleful wings all the life of men, --it is that which takes from thefirst the speculative eye of this new speculator, --this founder of thescience of things, and not of words instead of them. Here is a man ofscience, a born naturalist, who understands that _this_ phenomenonlies in his department, and takes it to be his business, among otherthings, to examine it. 

It was, indeed, a formidable phenomenon, as it presented itself to hisapprehension; and his own words are always the best, when one knowshow to read them--

'He sits in state, like a thing made for Alexander. ' 'When he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading. ''He talks like a knell, his hum is a battery; what he bids be done, isfinished at his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity, and_a heaven_ to throne in. ' 'Yes, ' is the answer; 'yes, _mercy_, if youpaint him truly. ' 'I paint him in character. '

'Is it possible that so short a time can alter the conditions of a_man_?' inquires the speculator upon this phenomenon, and then comesthe reply--'There's a differency between a grub and a butterfly, yet_your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from_ MAN TO DRAGON;he has wings, he is more than a creeping thing. '

This is Coriolanus at the head of his army; but in Julius Caesar, itis nature in the wildness of the tempest--it is a night of unnaturalhorrors, that is brought in by the Poet to illustrate the enormity ofthe evil he deals with, and its unnatural character--'to serve asinstrument of fear and warning unto _some_ MONSTROUS STATE. '

 'Now could _I_, Casca, Name to _thee_ a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars As doth the lion in the Capitol: A _man no mightier_ than thyself, or me, In _personal action, yet prodigious grown_, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. 

 _Casca_. Tis _Caesar_ that you mean: Is it not, Cassius?

 [I paint him in character. ]

 _Cassius_. Let it be--WHO IT IS: _For Romans now_ Have thewes and limbs like to their ancestors. '

CHAPTER IV. 

POLITICAL RETROSPECT. 

 'I think he'll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who _takes_ it By sovereignty of nature. '

 FLOWER OF WARRIORS

The poet finds, indeed, this monstrosity full-blown in his time. Hefinds it 'in the civil streets, ' 'talking plain cannon', 'hummingbatteries' in the most unmistakeable manner, with no particularaccount of its origin to give, without, indeed, appearing to recollectexactly how it came there, retaining only a general impression, that adescent from the celestial regions had, in some way, been effectedduring some undated period of human history, under circumstances whichthe memory of man was not expected to be able to recall in detail, anda certificate to that effect, divinely subscribed, was understood tobe included among its properties, though it does not appear to havebeen, on the face of it, so absolutely conclusive as to render alittle logical demonstration, on the part of royalty itself, superfluous. 

It was not very far from this time, that a very able and loyal servantof the crown undertook, openly, to assist the royal memory on thisdelicate point; and, though the details of that historicalrepresentation, and the manner of it, are, of course, quite differentfrom those of the Play, it will be found, upon careful examination, not so dissimilar in purport as the exterior would have seemed toimply. The philosopher does not feel called upon, in either case, tobegin by contradicting flatly, in so many words, the theory which hefinds the received one on that point. Even the _poet_, with all hisfreedom, is compelled to go to work after another fashion. 

 'And _thus_ do we, of wisdom, and of reach, With _windlasses_, and with ASSAYS of BIAS, By indirections find directions out. '

He has his own way of creating an historical retrospect. No one needknow that it _is_ a retrospect; no one will know it, perhaps, who hasnot taken the author's clue elsewhere. The crisis is already reachedwhen the play begins. The collision between the civil want and themilitary government is at its height. It is a revolution on which thecurtain rises. It is a city street filled with dark, angry swarms ofmen, who have come forth to seek out this government, in the person ofits chief, who stop only to conduct their summary trial of it, andthen hurry on to execute their verdict. 

But the poet arrests this revolution. Before we proceed any further, 'Hear _me_ speak, ' he cries, through the lips of the plebeian leader. The man of science demands a hearing, before this movement proceed anyfurther. He has a longer story to tell than that with which MeneniusAgrippa appeases his Romans. There is a cry of war in the streets. Theobscure background of that portentous scene opens, and the long vistaof the heroic ages, with all its pomp and stormy splendours, sceneupon scene, grows luminous behind it. The foreground is the same. Thearrested mutineers stand there still, with the frown knit in theirangry brows, with the weapons of their civil warfare in their hands;there is no stage direction for a change of costume, and noneperceives that they have grown older as they stand, and that theshadow of the elder time is on them. But the manager of this stage isone who knows that the elder time of history is the childhood of hiskind. 

There is a cry of war in that ancient street. The enemy of the infantstate is in arms. The people rush forth to conflict with the leader ofarmies at their head. But this time, for the first time in the historyof literature, the philosopher goes with him. The philosopher, hitherto, has been otherwise occupied. He has been too busy with hisfierce war of words; he has had too much to do with his abstractgenerals, his logical majors and minors, to get them in squadrons andright forms of war, to have any eye for such vulgar solidarities. 'Allmen are mortal. Peter and John are men. Therefore Peter and John aremortal, ' he concludes; but that is his nearest and most vivaciousapproach to historical particulars, and his cell is broad enough tocontain all that he needs for his processes and ends. He finds enoughand to spare, ready prepared to his hands, in the casual, rude, unscientific observations and spontaneous distinctions of the vulgar. His generalizations are obtained from their hasty abstractions. It hasnever occurred to him, till now, that he must begin with criticisingthese _terms_; that he must begin by making a new and scientificterminology, which shall correspond to _terms in nature_, and not beair-lines merely;--that he must take pains to collect them himself, from severest scrutiny of particulars, before ever he can arrive at'the notions of nature, ' the universal notions, which differ from thespontaneous specific notions of men, and their chimeras; before everhe can put man into his true relations with nature, before ever he canteach him to speak the word which she responds to, --the words of herdictionary--the word which is _power_. 

This is, in fact, the first time that the philosopher has undertakento go abroad. It is the first time he has ever been in the army. Softly, invisibly, he goes. There is nothing to show that he is there. As modestly, as unnoticed, as the Times 'own correspondent, ' amid allthe clang and tumult, the pomp and circumstance of glorious war, hegoes. But he is there notwithstanding. There is no breath ofscholasticism, no perfume of the cell, that the most vigorous androbust can perceive, in his battle. The scene unwinds with all itsfierce reality, undimmed by the pale cast of thought: the shout is aswild, the din as fearful, the martial fury rises, as if the old heroicpoet had it still in hand. 

But it is not the poet's voice that you hear, bursting forth intothose rhythmical ecstasies of heroic passion, --unless that faint toneof exaggeration, --that slight prolonging of it, be his. That mad joyin human blood, that wolfish glare, that lights the hero's eye, getsno reflection in his: those fiendish boasts are not from _his_ lips. Through all the frenzy of that demoniacal scene, he is still himself, with all his _human_ sense about him. Through all the crowdedincidents of that day of blood--into which he condenses, with dramaticlicense, the siege and assault of the city, the conquest and plunderof it, and the conflict in the open field, --he is keeping watch on hishero. He is eyeing him, and sketching him, as critically as if he wereindeed an entomological or botanical specimen. He is making a specimenof him, for scientific purposes, --not 'a preservation, '--he does notthink much of dried specimens in science. He proposes to dismiss thelogical Peter and John, and the logical man himself, that abstractnotion which the metaphysicians have been at loggerheads about solong. It is the true heroism, --it is the sovereign flower which he isin search of. This specimen that he is taking here will, indeed, go bythe board. He is taking him on his negative table. But for _that_purpose, --in order to get him on his 'table of rejections, ' it isnecessary to take him _alive_. The question is of government, ofsupreme power, and universal _suffrage_, of the abnegation of reason, of the annihilation of judgment, in behalf of a superiority which hasbeen understood, heretofore, to admit of _no_ question. The questionis of awe and reverence, and worship, and submission. The Poet has toput his sacrilegious hand through the dust that lies on antique time, through the sanctity of prescription and time-honoured usage, through'mountainous error' 'too highly heaped for truth to overpeer, ' inorder to make this point in his scientific table. And he wishes toblazon it a little. He will pin up this old exploded hero--this legacyof barbaric ages, to the ages of human advancement--in all hisactualities, in all the heroic splendours of his original, without'diminishing one dowle that's in his plume. '

But this retrospect has not yet reached its limit. It is not enough togo back, in the unravelling of this business, to the full-grown heroon the field of victory. 'For that which, in speculative philosophy, corresponds to the cause in practical philosophy becomes the rule;'and it is the Cure of the Common Weal, which the poet is proposing, and having determined to proceed specially against Caius Marcius, oragainst him _first_, he undertakes now to 'delve him to the root. ' Weare already on the battle field; but before ever a stroke is struck_there_, before he will attempt to show us the instinct of the warriorin his _game_, --'he is a lion that I am proud to hunt, '--when all isready and just as the hunt is going to begin, he steals softly back toRome; he unlocks the hero's private dwelling, he lays open to us thesecrets of that domestic hearth, the secrets of that nursery in whichhis hero had had his training; he shows us the breasts from which hedrew that martial fire; he produces the woman alive who sent him tothat field. [Act 1, Scene 3. _An apartment in the martial chieftain'shouse; two women, 'on two low stools, sewing_. ' 'There is where yourthrone begins, whatever it be. '] In that exquisite relief which thenatural graces of youth and womanhood provide for it, in the young, gentle, feminine wife, desolate in her husband's absence, starting atthe rumour of news from the camp, and driving back from her appalledconception, the images which her mother-in-law's fearful speechsuggests to her, --in that so beautiful relief, comes out the pictureof the Roman matron, the woman in whom the martial instincts have beeneducated and the gentler ones repressed, by the common sentiments ofher age and nation, the woman in whom the common standard of virtue, the conventional virtue of her time, has annihilated the wife and themother. 

 _Virgilia_. Had he died in the business, madam, what then?

 _Volumnia_. Then his good report should have been my son, _I therein would have found issue_. 

It is the multiplied force of a common instinct in the nation, it isthe pride of conquest in a whole people, erected into the place ofvirtue and usurping all its sanctity, which has entered this woman'snature and reformed its yielding principles. It is the _Martial_Spirit that has subdued her, for she is virtuous and religious. It isher people's god to whom she has borne her son, and in his temple shehas reared him. 

But the poet is not satisfied with all this. It is not enough tointroduce us to the hero's mother and permit us to listen to herconfidential account of his birth and training. He will produce thelittle Coriolanus himself--Coriolanus in germ--he will show us therudiments of those instincts, which his unscientific education hasstimulated into such monstrous 'o'ergrowth' (but _not_ enlightened), so that the hero on the battle-field who is winning there the oakencrown, which he will transmit if he can to his posterity, is only, after all, a boy overgrown, --a boy with his _boyishness unnaturallyprolonged by his culture_, --the impersonation of the childishness of achildish time, --the crowned impersonation of the instinct which isSOVEREIGN in an age of instinct. He shows us the drum and the sword inthe nursery, and the boy who would rather look at the military paradethan his schoolmaster;--he shows us the little viperous egg of a herotorturing and tearing the butterfly, with his 'confirmed countenance, in one of his father's moods. '

Surely we have reached 'the grub' at last, 'the creeping thing' thatwill have one day imperial armies in its wings. And we return fromthis little excursion to the field again, in time for the battle; andwhen we see the tiger in the man let loose _there_, and the boy'sfather comes out in one of his _own_ moods, that we may note it thebetter; we begin to observe where we are in the human history, andwhat age of the Advancement of Learning it is that this poet isdriving at so stedfastly, and trying to get dated; and whether it isindeed one from which the advancing ages of Learning can accept thebourne of the human wisdom, the limit of that advance. 

'And to speak _truly_ [and that after all _is_ the best way ofspeaking] _Antiquitas seculi juventus mundi_. '

'Those times are the ancient times, when the _world_ is ancient andnot those we account ancient by a computation _backward_ from_ourselves_. '--_Advancement of Learning_. But that was put down in abook in which we have only general statements, very wise indeed, andboth new and true, most exactly true, but not ready for practice, asthe author stops to tell us, and it is practice he is aiming at. Thatis from a book in which we have only 'the husks and shells ofsciences, _all the kernel_ being forced out, ' as the author informsus, 'by the _torture and press_ of the method. ' But it was a methodwhich saved them, notwithstanding. This is the book that contains the'nuts, ' and _this_ is the kernel that goes in that particular shell ora corner of it, '_Antiquitas seculi juventus mundi_. '

There, on the spot, he shows us the process by which a king, --anhistoric king, --is made. He detects and brings out and blazons, themoment in which the inequality of fortune begins, in the division ofthe spoils of victory. His hero is _not_, as he takes pains to tellus, covetous, --_unless_ it be a sin to covet honour, if it be, he isthe most offending soul alive;--it is because he is not mercenary, that his soldiers will enrich him. The poet shows us where the thronebegins, and the machinery of that engine which the earth shrinks fromwhen it moves. On his stage, it is the moment in which, the soldiersraise their victorious leader from his feet, and carry him in triumphabove them. We are there at the ceremony, for this is selected, illuminated history; this, too, is what he calls 'visible history, 'but amid all those martial acclamations and plaudits, the philosophercontrives to get in a word. 

 'He that has effected his _good will_, has o'ertaken my act. '

From the field he tracks his hero to the chair of state. First we havethe news of the victory in the city, and its effect:--

 'I'll report it Where _senators_ shall mingle tears with smiles; Where great _patricians_ shall attend, and _shrug_; I' the end admire; where ladies shall be frighted, And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the _dull tribunes_, That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts, We thank the gods _Our Rome_ hath such a soldier. '

Then we have the hero's return--the conqueror's reception; first inthe city whose battle he has won, and afterwards his reception in thecity he has conquered. Here is the latter:--

 'Your native town _you_ entered _like a post_, And had no welcomes home; but he returns, Splitting the air with noises. And _patient fools_, _Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear_ WITH GIVING HIM GLORY. '

 'A goodly city is this Antium! City, 'Tis _I_ that made thy widows; many an heir Of _these fair edifices, 'fore my wars_ Have I heard groan and droop. Then know me not, Lest that thy wives with spits, and boys with stones, In _puny battle slay me_. ' [--_know me not--lest_--' 'Let us kill him, and we will have _corn_, at our own price. ']

But the Poet does not forget that it is the proof of the militaryvirtue, as well as the history of the military power, that he hasundertaken; 'the touch of its nobility, ' as he himself words it. He istrying it by his own exact scientific standard; he is putting the testto it which the new philosophy, which is the philosophy of nature, authorises. 

For, in truth, this philosopher, this civilian, is a little jealous ofthis simple virtue of valour, which he finds in his time, as in thebarbaric ages, still in such esteem, as 'the chiefest virtue, and thatwhich most dignifies the haver. ' He is of opinion, that there may besome other profession, beside that of the sword, worth an honest man'sattention; that, if the world were more enlightened, there would beanother kind of glory, that would make 'the garland of war' shrivel. He thinks that _Jupiter_, and _not Mars_, should reign supreme: thatthere is another kind of distinction and leadership, better worth thepublic esteem, better deserving the popular gratitude and reverence. 

And when he has once taken an analysis of this kind in hand, he is notgoing to permit any scruples of delicacy to impair the operation. Hewill invade that graceful modesty in the hero, who shrinks fromhearing his exploits narrated. He will analyse that blush, and show uschemically what its hue is made of. He will bring out those retiringhonours from the haze and mist which the vague, unanalytic, popularnotions, have gathered about them. Tucked up in scarlet, braided withgold, under its forest of feathers, through all its pomp and blazonry, through all its drums; and trumpets, and clarions, undaunted by thepopular cry, undaunted by that so potent word of 'patriotism' whichguards it from invasion, he will search it out. 

For this purpose he will go a little nearer to it than is the heroicpoet's wont. When the city is wild with the news of this greatvictory, and the streets are swarming at the tidings of the hero'sapproach, he will take _his_ stand with _the family party_, and beckonus to a place where we can listen to what is going on _there_, thoughthe heroics and the blank verse must halt for it. 

The glee and fluster might appear to a cool spectator a littleundignified; but then we are understood to be, like Menenius, oldfriends of the family, and too much carried away with the excitementof the moment to be very critical. 

 _Volumnia_. Honourable Menenius, _my boy, Marcius_, approaches. For the love of _Juno_, let's go. 

 _Men_. Ha! Marcius coming home!

 _Vol_. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous _approbation_. 

 _Men. Take my cap, Jupiter_, and I thank thee. _Hoo_! Marcius coming home?

 _Two Ladies_. Nay, 't is true. 

 _Vol_. Look! Here's a letter from him; _the state_ hath another, _his wife_ another, and I think there's one at home for _you_. 

 _Men_. I will make my very house reel to night:--A letter for me?

 _The Wife_. Yes, certainly, there a letter for you; I saw it. 

 _Men_. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician . .. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded. 

 _The Wife_. Oh, no, no, no!

 _The Mother_. Oh, he is wounded. I thank the gods for 't. 

 _Men_. So do I, too, if it be not too much:--_Brings a victory in his pocket_: The wounds become him. 

 _Vol. On's brow_, Menenius: he comes the third time home with _the oaken garland_. 

 _Men_. .. . Is the senate possessed of this?

 _Vol_. Good ladies, let's go! Yes, yes, yes: the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives _my son_ the whole name of the war. 

 _Valeria_. In truth, there's wondrous things spoke of him. 

 _Men_. Wondrous, ay, I warrant you. .. 

 _Vir_. The gods grant them true!

 _Vol_. True? Pow wow!

 _Men_. True? I'll be sworn they are true. Where's he wounded? [To the Tribunes, who _come forward_. ] Marcius is coming home: he has--_more cause to be_--PROUD. --Where is he wounded?

 _Vol_. I' the shoulder, and i' the left arm: _There will be large cicatrices to shew the people_, when he shall stand FOR HIS PLACE. He received in the repulse of _Tarquin_ seven hurts i' the body. 

 _Men. One_ in the neck, and _two_ in the thigh, --there's _nine_ that _I_ know. 

 _Vol_. He had, before this last expedition, _twenty-five_ wounds upon him. 

 _Men_. Now it's _twenty-seven_: every gash was an enemy's grave. 

[Of course there is no satire intended here at all. This is a Poet whodoes not know what he is about. ]

But now we come to the blank verse again; for at this moment the shoutthat announces the hero's entrance is heard; and, mingling with it, the martial tones of victory. 

 _shout and flourish. _ Hark! the trumpets!

 _Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius: before him_ He carries noise; _behind him he leaves tears_. Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie; Which being advanced, declines, and _then men die_. 

Then comes the imposing military pageant. A sennet. Trumpets sound, and enter the hero, '_crowned_' with his _oaken_ garland, sustained bythe generals on either hand, with the victorious soldiers, and aherald proclaiming before him his victory. 

 _Herald_. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli's gates: where he hath won With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus: Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

But while Rome is listening to this great story, and the people areshouting his name, the demi-god catches sight of his mother and of hiswife; and full of private duty and affection, he forgets his state, his garland stoops, the conqueror is on his knee, in filialsubmission. The woman had said truly, '_my boy_ Marcius is cominghome. ' And when he greets the weeping Virgilia, who cannot speak butwith her tears, these are the words with which he measures that_private joy_--

 Would'st thou have laughed, had I come coffin'd home, That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, _Such eyes_ the _widows_ in Corioli wear, And _mothers_ that lack _sons_. 

No; these are the Poet's words, rather--'such eyes. '

_Such_ eyes. It was the Poet who could look through thebarriers--those hitherto impervious barriers of an _enemy's town_, andsee in it, at that moment, eyes as beautiful--eyes that had been'dove's eyes, ' too, to those who had loved them, wet with othertears, --mothers that loved _their_ sons, and 'lacked them'; it was thePoet to whose _human_ sense those hard hostile walls dissolved andcleared away, till he could see the Volscian wives clasping _their_loves, as they 'came coffined home'; it was the Poet who dared tostain the joy and triumph of that fond meeting, the glory and pride ofthat triumphal entry, with those _human_ thoughts; it was he who heardabove the roll of the drum, and the swell of the clarions andtrumpets, and the shout of the rejoicing multitude above the herald'svoice--the groans of mortal anguish in the field, the cries of humansorrow in the city, the shrieks of mothers that lacked sons, thegreetings of wives whose loves '_came coffined home_. ' And he does notmind aggravating the intense selfishness, and narrowness, andstolidity of these private passions and affections of the individualto a truly unnatural and diabolical intensity, by charging on poorVolumnia and Marcius his own reminiscences; as if they could havedared to heighten their joy at that moment by counting its cost--as ifthey could have looked in the face--as if they could havecomprehended, in its actual dimensions, the theme of their vulgar, _narrow_, unlearned exultation. But this is a trick this author ismuch given to, we shall find, when we come to study him carefully. Heis not scrupulous on such points. He has a tolerable sense of thefitness of things, too. His dramatic conscience is as nice as anotherman's; but he is always ready to sin against it, when he sees reason. He is much like his own Mr. Slender in one respect, 'he will doanything in reason'; and his theory of the Chief End of Man appears todiffer essentially from the one which our modern Doctors of '_Art_'propound incidentally in their criticisms. It is the mother who cries, when she catches the swell of the trumpets that announce her son'sapproach--'_These_ are the ushers of Marcius. Before him he carriesnoise. ' It is the Poet who adds, _sotto voce, 'behind him he leavesTEARS_. '

'You are three, ' says Menenius, after some further prolongation ofthese private demonstrations, addressing himself to the threevictorious generals--

 You are three, That Rome _should_ dote on: yet, _by the faith_ of _men_, We _have_ some old crab-trees here at home, that will _not_ Be grafted to your relish. Yet WELCOME, WARRIORS: We call a _nettle_ but a _nettle_; and The _faults_ of fools, but _folly_. 

But the herald is driving on the crowd; and considering how verypublic the occasion is, and how very, very private and personal allthis chat is, it does appear to have stopped the way long enough. Thushurried, the hero gives hastily a hand 'to HIS WIFE and MOTHER' [stagedirection], but stops to say a word or two more, which has the meritof being at least to the POET'S purpose, though the common-weal mayappear to be lost sight of in the HERO'S a little; and that delicacyand reserve of manner, that modesty of nature, which is thecharacteristic of this Poet's art, serves here, as elsewhere, todisguise the internal continuities of the poetic design. The carelesseye will not track it in these finer touches. 'Where somestretched-mouth rascal' would have roared you out his prescribedmoral, 'outscolding Termagant' with it, the Poet, who is the poet oftruth, and who would have such fellows 'whipped' out of the sacredplaces of Art, with a large or small cord, as the case may be, iscontent to bring in his '_delicate burdens_, ' or to keep sight ofthem, at least, with some such reference to them as this--

 'Ere in _our own house_ I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited; From whom I have received not only greetings But with them change of honours'--[_change_. ]

That is his visit to the state-house which he is speaking of. It isthe Capitol which is put down in _his_ plan of the city on his way tohis own house. 'The state has a letter from him, and his wife another;and I think there is one for you, too. '

Volumnia understands that delicate intimation as to _the change_ ofhonours, and in return, takes occasion to express to him, on the spot, her views about the consulship, and the use to which the newcicatrices are to be converted. 

Coriolanus replies to this in words that admit, as this Poet's wordsoften do, of a double construction; for the Poet is, indeed, lurkingunder all this. He is always present, and he often slips in a word forhimself, when his characters are busy, and thinking of their own partsonly. He is very apt to make use of occasions for emphasis, to put in_one word_ for his speakers, and _two_ for himself. It is irregular, but he does not stand much upon precedents; it was the only way he hadof writing his life then--

 'Know, good mother, I had rather be _their servant in my way_, Than _sway with them in theirs_. _Cominius. On, to_ THE CAPITOL. ' [_Flourish Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. The Tribunes remain. _]

And when the great pageant has moved on 'in state, as before'--whenthe shouts of the people, and the triumphal swell and din, have diedaway, this is the manner in which our two tribunes look at each other. They know their voices would not make so much as a ripple, at thatmoment, in the tide of that great sea of popular ignorance, which itis their business to sway, --the tide which is setting all one waythen, in one of _its_ monstrous swells, and bearing every living thingwith it, --the tide which is taking the military hero '_On to_ THECAPITOL. ' But though they cannot then oppose it, they can note it. Andit is thus that they register that popular confirmation at home, ofthe soldier's vote on the field. 

It is a picture of the hero's return, good for all ages in its livingoutline, composed in that 'charactery' which lays the past and futureopen. It is a picture good for the Roman hero's entry; 'and were nowthe general of our gracious empress, as in _good time he may_, fromIreland coming, bringing _rebellion_ broached _on his sword_'--wouldit, or would it not, suit him?

It is a picture of the hero's return, good for all ages in its mainfeature, for all the ages, at least of a brutish popular ignorance, ofa merely instinctive human growth and formation; but it is a picturetaken from the life, --caught, --detained with the secret of thatpalette, whose secret none has yet found, and the detail is all, not_Roman_, but, _Elizabethan_. Those '_variable complexions_, ' that onesees, 'smothering the stalls, bulks, windows, filling the leads, ' androofs, even to the 'ridges, ' all agreeing in one expression, areElizabethan. It is an Elizabethan crowd that we have got into, in someway, and it is worth noting if it were only for that. There goes 'theseld shown flamen, _puffing_ his way to _win a vulgar station_, ' hereis a 'veiled dame' who lets us see that 'war of white and damask inher nicely gawded cheeks, ' a moment;--look at that 'kitchen malkin, 'peering over the wall there with 'her richest lockram' 'pinned on herreechy neck, ' eyeing the hero as he passes; and look at this poor babyhere, this Elizabethan baby, saved, conserved alive, crying himself'into a _rapture_' while his 'prattling nurse' has ears and eyes forthe hero only, as 'she chats him. ' Look at them all, for everycreature you see here, from 'the seld shown flamen' to the 'kitchenmalkin, ' belongs soul and body to 'our gracious Empress, ' and Essexand Raleigh are still winning their garlands of the war, --that is whenthe scene is taken, but not when it was put in its place and framed inthis composition; for their game was up ere then. England preferredold heroes and their claims to new ones. 'I fear there will a worsecome in his place, ' was the cautious instinct. 

 _Bru_. All tongues speak of him, and the _bleared sights Are spectacled to see him_: Your _prattling_ nurse _Into a rapture lets her baby cry_, While she chats him: the kitchin malkin pins Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck. _Clambering the walls_ to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges horsed With _variable complexions; all agreeing In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throng, and puff To win a vulgar station_: our veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask, in Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother, As if that whatsoever god, who leads him, Were slyly crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture. 

 _Sic_. On the sudden, I warrant him consul. 

 _Bru. Then our office may, During his power, go sleep. _

 _Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours . .. . But will Lose that he hath won. _

 _Cru. In that there's comfort. _

 _Sic_. Doubt not, the _commoners, for whom we stand_, --

[While they resolve upon the measures to be taken, which we shall noteelsewhere, a messenger enters. ]

 _Bru_. What's the matter?

 _Mess_. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought, That _Marcius_ shall be consul: I have seen The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind To hear him speak: The matrons flung their gloves, _Ladies_ and _maids_ the _scarfs_ and _handkerchiefs_, Upon him as he passed: _the nobles bended, As to Jove's statue; and the commons made A shower, and thunder_, with their _caps, and shouts_: I never saw the like. 

 _Bru. Lets to the Capitol; And carry_ with us _ears and eyes for_ THE TIME, _But hearts_ for the EVENT. 

[And let us to the Capitol also, and hear the civic claim of the oakengarland, the military claim to dispose of the _common-weal_, as setforth by one who is himself a general 'commander-in-chief' of Rome'sarmies, and see whether or no the Poet's own doubtful cheer on thebattle-field has any echo in this place. ]

 _Com. It is held, That valour is the chiefest virtue_, and _Most dignifies the haver_: IF IT BE, _The man I speak_ of cannot in the world Be _singly_ counterpois'd. 

[If it be? And he goes on to tell a story which fits, in all itspoints, a great hero, a true chieftain, brave as heroes of oldromance, who lived when this was written, concluding thus--]

 _Com_. He _stopped the fliers_; And, by his rare example, made the coward Turn terror into sport: _as waves before A vessel under sail_, SO MEN OBEY'D, _And fell below his stem_: his sword, (death's stamp. ) Where it did mark, it took; _from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was timed with dying cries_: alone he enter'd The mortal gate o'the city, which he painted With shunless destiny, aidless came off, And with a sudden re-enforcement struck Corioli, like a planet: now, ALL'S HIS: When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce His ready sense: then straight _his doubled spirit_ Re-quicken'd what in flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he; where he did _Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil_: and _till we call'd Both field and city ours, he never stood To ease his breast with panting_. 

 _Men_. WORTHY MAN!

 _First Sen. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him. _

[One more quality, however, his pleader insists on, as additionalproof of this '_fitness_' for though it is a negative one, itsopposite had not been reckoned among the kingly virtues, and the poettakes some pains to bring that opposite quality into relief, throughout, by this negative. ]

 _Com_. Our _spoils_ he kicked at; And look'd upon things precious, as they were The common muck o' the world. 

 _Men_. HE'S RIGHT NOBLE; _Let him be call'd for. _

 _First Sen. Call for Coriolanus. _

 _Off. He doth appear. _

At the opening of this scene, two officers appeared on the stage, '_laying cushions_, ' for this is one of those specimens of the newmethod of investigation applied to the noblest subjects, 'whichrepresents, as it were, _to the eye_, the whole order of theinvention, ' and into the Capitol stalks now the casque, for this isthat 'step from the casque to the cushion' which the Poet isconsidering in the abstract; but it does not suit his purpose to treatof it in these abstract terms merely, because 'reason cannot be sosensible. ' This, too, is one of those grand historic moments whichthis new, select, prepared history must represent to the eye in allits momentous historic splendour, for this is the kind of popularinstruction which reproduces the past, which represents the historicevent, not in perspective, but as present. And this is the 'business, 'and this is the play in which we are told 'action is eloquence, andthe eyes of the ignorant more learned than the ears. '

The seats of state are prepared for him. 'Call _Coriolanus_, ' is thesenate's word. The conqueror's step is heard. 'He does appear. '

 _Men_. The senate, Coriolanus, are well pleased To make thee consul. 

 _Cor_. I do owe them still My life, and services. 

 _Men_. IT THEN REMAINS, THAT YOU DO SPEAK TO THE PEOPLE. 

 _Cor_. I do beseech you, _Let me overleap that custom_. 

 _Sic. Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will they bate One jot of their ceremony. _

 _Men. Put them not to't_:--[his friendly adviser says. ] Pray you, go fit you _to the custom_; and Take to you, _as your predecessors have_, Your honour, with _your form_. 

 _Cor_. It is a part That I shall blush in acting, _and might well Be taken from the people_. 

 _Bru. Mark you that!_

 _Cor_. To brag unto them, --_Thus I did, and thus_;-- Show them the unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had received _them for the hire_ Of _their breath only_. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE POPULAR ELECTION. 

 'The greater part carries it. If he would but incline to the people, There never was a worthier man. '

And yet, after all, that is what he wants for them, and must have orhe is nothing; for as the Poet tells us elsewhere, 'our monarchs andour outstretched heroes are but the beggar's shadows. ' The difficultyis, that he wishes to take his 'hire' in some more quiet way, withoutbeing rudely reminded of the nature of the transaction. 

But the Poet's toils are about him. The man of science has caught thehero, the king in germ; the dragon wings are not yet spread. He wishesto exhibit the embryo monarch in this particular stage of hisdevelopment, and the scientific process proceeds with as little regardto the victim's wishes, as if he were indeed that humble product ofnature to which the Poet likens him. 'There's a differency between agrub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. ' Just on thatstep between 'the casque and the cushion, ' the philosopher arrestshim. 

For this history denotes, as we have seen, a foregone conclusion. Thescholar has privately anatomized in his study the dragon's wings, andthis theatrical synthesis is designed to be an instructive one. Hewishes to show, in a palpable form, what _is_ and what is _not_, essential to the mechanism of that greatness which, though it presentsitself to the eye in the contemptible physique, and moral infirmityand pettiness of the human individual, is yet clothed with powers somonstrous, so real, so terrific, that all men are afflicted withthem;--this thing in which 'the conditions of a man are so altered, 'this thing which 'has grown from man to dragon, which is more than acreeping thing. ' He will show that after all it is nothing in theworld but the _popular power_ itself, the power of the peopleinstinctively, unscientifically and unartistically exercised. 

The Poet has analysed that so potent name by which men call it, and hewill show upon his stage, by that same method which his followers havemade familiar to us, in other departments of investigation, theelements of its power. He will let us see how it was those despised'mechanics, ' those 'poor citizens, ' with their strong arms and voices, who were throwing themselves, --in their enthusiasm, --en-masse intothat engine, and only asking to be welded in it; that would have madeof this citizen a thing so terrific. He will show how, after all, itwas the despised _commons_ who were making of that citizen a king, ofthat soldier a monarch, --who were changing with the alchemy of the'shower and thunder they made with their caps and voices, ' his oakleaves and acorns, into gold and jewels. 

He will show it on the platform of a state, where that vote isformally and constitutionally given, and not in a state where it isonly a virtual and tacit one. He will show it in detail. He will causethe multitude to be _represented_, and pass by _twos_ and _threes_across his stage, and compel the haughty chief, the would be ruler, tobeg of them, individually, their suffrages, and show them hisclaim, --such as it is, the '_unaching scars that he should hide_. '

It is to this Poet's purpose to exhibit that despised element in thestate, which the popular submission creates, that unnoticed element ofthe common suffrage which looks so smooth on its surface, which seemsto the haughty chief so little worth his notice, when it goes his wayand bears him on its crest. But the experimenter will undertake toshow what it is by ruffling it, by instigating this chief to puthimself in the madness of his private affections, in the frenzy of hispride, into open opposition with it. He will show us what it is byplaying with it. He will wake it from its unvisited depths, and bidhis hero strive with it. 

He will show what that popular consent, or the consent of 'thecommons' amounts to, in the king-making process, by _omitting it_ orby _withdrawing it_, before it is too late to withdraw it;--accordingto the now well-known rules of that new art of scientificinvestigation, which was then getting worked out and cleared, fromthis author's own methods of investigation. For it was because thisfaculty was in him, so unlike what it was in others, that he was ableto write that science of it, by which other men, stepping into hisarmour, have been able to achieve so much. 

He will show how those dragon teeth and claws, that were just gettingthe steel into them, which would have armed that single will againstthe whole, and its _weal_, crumble for the lack of it; he will show usthe new-fledged wings, with all their fresh gauds, collapsing anddissolving with that popular withdrawal. He will continue the process, till there is nothing left of all that gorgeous state pageant, whichcame in with the flourish of trumpets and the voice of the herald longand loud, and the echoing thunder of the commons, but a poor grub of aman, in his native conditions, a private citizen, denied even thecommon privilege of citizenship, --with only his wife and his motherand a friend or two, to cling to him, --turned out of the city gates, to seek his fortune. 

But that is the moment in which the Poet ventures to bring out alittle more fully, in the form of positive statement, that latentaffirmation, that definition of the true nobility which underlies allthe play and glistens through it in many a fine, but hitherto, unnoticed point; that affirmation which all these negatives concludein, that latent idea of the true personal greatness and its essentialrelation to the common-weal and the state, which is the predominantidea of the play, which shapes all the criticism and points all thesatire of it. It is there that the true hero speaks out for a momentfrom the lips of that old military heroism, of a greatness which doesnot cease when the wings of state drop off from it, of an honour thattakes no stain though all the human voices join to sully it, --thedignity that rises and soars and gains the point of immutability, whenall the world would have it under foot. But in that nobility men needtraining, --_scientific training_. The instinctive, unartistic humangrowth, or the empirical unscientific arts of culture, give but avulgar counterfeit of it, or at best a poor, sickly, distorted, convulsive, unsatisfactory type of it, for 'being gentle, wounded, '--(and it is gentility and nobility and the true aristocracythat we speak of here, )--'craves a NOBLE CUNNING;' so the old militarychieftain tells us. It is a _cunning_ which his author does not put_him_ upon practising personally. Practically he represents anotherschool of heroes. It is the _word_ of that higher heroism in which hewas himself wanting, it is the criticism on his own part, it is theaffirmation which all this grand historic negative is always pointingto, which the author borrows his lips to utter. 

The result in this case, the overthrow of the military hero on his wayto the chair of state, is occasioned by the _premature_ arrogance towhich his passionate nature impels him. For his fiery dispositionrefuses to obey the decision of his will, and overleaps in itspassion, all the barriers of that policy which his calmer moments hadprescribed. The result is occasioned by his open display of hiscontempt for the people, before he had as yet mastered theorganizations which would make that display, in an unenlightened age, perhaps, a safe one. 

This point of time is much insisted on, and emphasized. 

'Let them pull all about mine ears, ' cries the hero, as he enters hisown house, after his first encounter with the multitude in theirwrath. 

 'Let them pull all about mine ears, present me _Death on the wheel_, or at wild horses' heels, Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight, yet will I still-- _Be_ THUS _to them_. '

[For that is the sublime conclusion of these heroics. ]

'You do the _nobler_, ' responds the Coryphĉus of that chorus ofpatricians who accompany him home, and who ought, of course, to bejudges of nobility. But there is another approbation wanted. Volumniais there; but she listens in silence. 'I muse, ' he continues--

 'I muse my mother Does not approve me further--who was wont To call them woollen vassals, _things created To buy and sell with groats_; to show bare heads In _congregations_, to YAWN, be STILL, AND WONDER, When one but of my _ordinance_ stood up To speak of PEACE or WAR. I talk of you [_to Volumnia_. ] Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me _False to my nature_? [_Softly_] Either say I _play_ The man I am. 

 _Vol_. O sir, sir, sir, I would have had you _put your power well on_, Ere you had worn it out. 

 _Cor_. Let go. 

 _Vol_. Lesser had been The _thwarting of your dispositions_, IF You had not shown them _how_ you were _disposed_ Ere they lacked _power_ to cross you. 

 _Cor_. Let them HANG!

 _Vol_. _Ay, and_ BURN _too_!

For that was the '_disposition_' which these Commons, if they hadwaited but a little longer, might have 'lacked _power to cross_. ' Thatwas the disposition they had thwarted. 

But then it is necessary to our purpose, as it was to the author's, tonotice that the collision in this case is a _forced_ one. It grows byplot. The people are _put up to it_. For there are men in thatcommonwealth who are competent to instruct the Commons in the doctrineof the _common weal_, and who are carefully and perseveringly applyingthemselves to that task; though they are men who know how to bidetheir time, and they will wait till the soaring insolence of the herois brought into open collision with that enlightened popular will. 

They will wait till the military hero's quarrel with the commonwealthbreaks out anew. For they know that it lies in the nature of things, and cannot but occur. The éclat of his victory, and the military prideof the nation, films it over for a time; but the quarrel is a radicalone, and cannot be healed. 

For this chief of soldiers, and would-be head and ruler of the stateknows no _commonwealth_. His soul is not large enough to admit of thatconception. The walls of ignorance, that he shuts himself up in, darken and narrow his world to the sphere of his own _microcosm_, --and, therefore, there is a natural war between the world and him. The_state_ of universal subjection, on the part of others, to his singleexclusive passions and affections, the state in which the whole issacrificed to the part, is the only state that will satisfy him. Thatis the peace he is disposed to conquer; that is the consummation withwhich he would _stay_; that is _his_ notion of _state_. When thatconsummation is attained, or when such an approximation to it as hejudges to be within his reach, is attained, then, and not till then, he is for _conservation_;--_revolution then_ is sin; but, till then hewill have change and overturning--he will fill the earth with rapine, and fire, and slaughter. But this is just the peace and war principle, which this man, who proposes a durable and solid peace, and the truestate, a state constructed with reference to true definitions andaxioms, --this is the peace and war principle which the man of science, on scientific grounds, objects to. 'He likes nor peace nor war' onthose terms. The conclusions he has framed from those solid premiseswhich he finds in the nature of things, makes him the leader of theopposition in both cases. In one way or another he will make war onthat peace; he will kindle the revolutionary fires against thatconservation. In one way or another, in one age or another, he willsilence that war with all its pomp and circumstance, with all the dinof its fifes, and drums, and trumpets. He will make over to theignominy of ignorant and barbaric ages, --'for we call a nettle but anettle, ' he will turn into a forgotten pageant of the rude, early, instinctive ages, the yet brutal ages of an undeveloped humanity, thattriumphant reception at home, of the Conqueror of Foreign States. Hewill undermine, in all the states, the ethics and religion of bruteforce, till men shall grow sick, at last, of the old, rusty, bygonetrumpery of its insignia, and say, 'Take away those baubles. '

But the hero that we deal with here, is but the pure negation of thatheroism which his author conceives of, aspires to, and will have, historical, which he defines as the pattern of man's nature in allmen. This one knows no _common_-wealth; the wealth that is wealth inhis eyes, is all his own; the weal that he conceives of, is the wealthat is warm at his own heart only. At best he can go out of hisparticular only as far as the limits of his own hearthstone, or thelimits of his clique or caste. And in his selfish passion, when thatdemands it, he will sacrifice the nearest to him. As to the Commons, they are 'but things to buy and sell with groats, ' a herd, a mass, amachine, to be informed with his single will, to be subordinated tohis single wishes; in peace enduring the gnawings of hunger, that thegarners their toil has filled may overflow for him, --enduring thebadges of a degradation which blots out the essential humanity inthem, to feed his pride;--in war offered up in droves, to win thegarland of the war for him. That is the old hero's commonwealth. Hissmall brain, his brutish head, could conceive no other. The ages inwhich he ruled the world with his instincts, with his fox-likecunning, with his wolfish fury, with his dog-like ravening, --thosebrute ages could know no other. 

But it is the sturdy European race that the hero has to deal withhere; and though, in the moment of victory, it is ready always tochain itself to the conqueror's car, and, in the exultation ofconquest, and love for the conqueror, fastens on itself, with joy, thefetters of ages, this quarrel is always breaking out in it anew: itdoes not like being governed with the edge of the sword;--it is notfond of martial law as a permanent institution. 

Two very sagacious tribunes these old Romans happen to have on hand inthis emergency: birds considerably too old to be caught with thischaff of victory and military virtue, which puts the populace intosuch a frenzy, and very learnedly they talk on this subject, with aslight tendency to anachronisms in their mode of expression, inlanguage which sounds a little, at times, as if they might have hadaccess to some more recent documents, than the archives of mythicalRome could just then furnish to them. 

But the reader should judge for himself of the correctness of thiscriticism. 

Refusing to join in the military procession on its way to the Capitol, and stopping in the street for a little conference on the subject, when it has gone by, after that vivid complaint of the universalprostration to the military hero already quoted, the conferenceproceeds thus:--

 _Sic_. On the sudden, I warrant him consul. 

 _Bru_. Then _our office_ may, _During his power_, go sleep. 

 _Sic_. He cannot temperately transport his honours From where he should begin, and end; but will Lose those that he hath won. 

 _Bru_. In _that_ there's comfort. 

 _Sic_. Doubt not, the commoners, _for whom we stand_. But _they, upon their ancient malice_, will Forget, with the least cause, these _his new honours_; Which that he'll give them, make as little question As he is proud to do't. 

 _Bru_. I heard him swear, Were _he_ to stand for consul, never would he Appear i'the market-place, nor on him put The napless vesture of humility; Nor, showing (as the _manner is_) his wounds To the people, beg their stinking breaths. 

 _Sic_. _'Tis right_. 

 _Bru_. It was his word: O, he would miss it, rather Than _carry it, but by the suit o'the gentry to him_, And the _desire of the nobles_. 

 _Sic_. _I wish no better_, Than have him hold _that_ purpose, and to put it In execution. 

 _Bru_. 'Tis most like he will. 

 _Sic_. It shall be to him then, as our good wills A sure destruction. 

 _Bru_. So it must fall out To him, or our authorities. For an end, We must suggest the people, in what hatred He still hath held them; that to his power he would _Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders_, and DISPROPERTIED THEIR FREEDOMS: [--note the expression--] holding them, IN HUMAN ACTION AND CAPACITY, Of no more soul _nor fitness for_ THE WORLD Than CAMELS in their war; who have their provand _Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them_. 

 _Sic_. _This as you say, suggested At some time, when his soaring insolence Shall teach the people_ (which time shall not want) _If he be put upon't_; and that's as easy As to set dogs on sheep; will be HIS FIRE _To_ KINDLE THEIR DRY STUBBLE; AND THEIR BLAZE SHALL DARKEN HIM FOR EVER. 

 [There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased, The which observed a man may prophesy, With a near aim of the main chance of things, As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings, lie intreasured: Such things become the hatch and brood of time. --_Henry IV_. ]

Coriolanus, elected by the Senate to the consulship, proposes, in hisarrogance, as we have already seen, to dispense with the usual form, which he understands to be a form merely, of asking the consent of thepeople, and exhibiting to them his claim to their suffrages. Thetribunes have sternly withstood this proposition, and will hear of 'nojot' of encroachment upon the dignity and state of the Commons. Afterthe flourish with which the election in the Senate Chamber concludes, and the withdrawal of the Senate, again they stop to discuss, confidentially, 'the situation. '

 _Bru_. You _see_ how he intends to use the people. 

 _Sic_. May _they perceive his intent_; he will require them As if he did contemn what they requested Should be in their power to give. 

 _Bru_. Come, we'll inform them Of our proceedings here: on the market-place I know they do attend us. 

And to the market-place we go; for it is there that the people arecollecting in throngs; no bats or clubs in their hands now, but stillfull of their passion of gratitude and admiration for the hero'spatriotic achievements, against the common foe; and, under theinfluence of that sentiment, wrought to its highest pitch by thataction and reaction which is the incident of the common sentiment in'the greater congregations, ' or 'extensive wholes, ' eager to sanctionwith their 'approbation, ' the appointment of the Senate, though thegraver sort appear to be, even then, haunted with some unpleasantreminiscences, and not without an occasional misgiving as to thewisdom of the proceeding. There is a little tone of the former meetinglurking here still. 

 _First Cit_. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him. 

 _Second Cit_. We may, Sir, if we will. 

 _Third Cit_. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do. Ingratitude is _monstrous_: and for the multitude to be ungrateful, were to make a monster of the multitude, --

[There are scientific points here. This term 'monstrosity' is one ofthe radical terms in the science of nature; but, like many others, itis used in the popular sense, while the sweep and exactitude of thescientific definition, or '_form_' is introduced into it. ]

 --of the which, we, being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members. 

 _First Cit_. And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve: for once, when we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the _many_-headed multitude. 

 _Third Cit_. We have been called so _of many_; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald, _but that our wits are so diversely coloured_: and truly I think, if ALL _our wits_ were to issue out of ONE skull, they would fly east, west, north, south; and _their consent_ of _one direct_ way should be at once to ALL the points o'the compass. 

[An enigma; but the sphinx could propound no better one. Truly thisman has had good teaching. He knows how to translate the old priestlyEtruscan into the vernacular. ]

 _Second Cit_. Think you so? Which way, do you judge, my wit would fly?

 _Third Cit_. Nay, _your wit_ will not so soon out as _another man's_ WILL, 'tis _strongly wedged up_ in a block-head: _but if it were at liberty_ . .. 

 _Second Cit_. You are never without your tricks:--. .. 

 _Third Cit_. Are you _all_ resolved to give your voices? _But that's no matter. The greater part carries it_. I say, if he would _incline to the people_, there was never a worthier man. 

 [_Enter Coriolanus and Menenius_. ]

 Here he comes, and in the _gown_ of _humility_; mark his behaviour. We are not to stay _all_ together, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He's to make his _requests by particulars_: wherein _every one of us has a single honour_, in giving him our own voices with our own tongues: _therefore_ FOLLOW ME, and I'LL DIRECT YOU HOW YOU SHALL GO BY HIM. 

 [The voice of the true leader is lurking here, and all through these scenes the '_double_' meanings are thickly sown. ]

 _All_. _Content, content!_

 _Men_. O Sir, you are not right: have you not known The worthiest men have done it?

 _Cor_. What must I say?-- I pray, Sir?--Plague upon't! I cannot bring My tongue to such a pace:--Look, Sir, --my wounds;-- I got them in my country's service, _when Some certain of your brethren roar'd, and ran From the noise of_ OUR OWN DRUMS. 

 _Men_. O me, the gods! _You must not speak of that_; you must desire them To think upon you. 

 _Cor_. Think upon _me? Hang 'em!_ I would they would forget me, _like the virtues_ Which our _divines lose_ by them. 

 _Men_. _You'll mar all_; I'll leave you: Pray you, speak to them, I pray you, In _wholesome_ manner. 

 [And now, instead of being thronged with a mob of citizens--instructed how they are to go by him with the honor of their _single_ voices they enter 'by twos' and 'threes. ']

 [Enter two Citizens. ]

 Cor. Bid them wash their faces, And keep their teeth clean. _--So, here comes a _brace_, You know the cause, Sir, of my standing here. 

 _First Cit_. We do, Sir; _tell us what hath brought you to't_, _Cor. Mine own desert. _--[The would-be consul answers. ]

 _Second Cit_. Your own desert?

 _Cor_. Ay, not Mine own desire. 

 [His _own_ desert has brought him to the consulship; his _own_ desire would have omitted the conciliation of the people, and the deference to their will, that with all his desert somehow he seems to find expected from him. ]

 _First Cit_. How! not your own desire!

 _Cor_. No, Sir. 'Twas never my desire yet, _To trouble the poor with begging_. 

He desires what the poor have to give him however; but he desires totake it, without begging. But it is the heart of the true hero thatspeaks in earnest through that mockery, and the reference is to astate of things towards which the whole criticism of the play issteadfastly pointed, a state in which sovereigns were reluctantlycompelled to beg from the poor, what they would rather have takenwithout their leave, or, at least, a state in which the _form_ of thisbegging was still maintained, though there lacked but little to makeit a form only, a state of things in which a country gentleman mightbe called on to sell 'his brass pans' without being supplied, on thepart of the State, with what might appear, to him, any respectablereason for it, putting his life in peril, and coming off, with ahair's-breadth escape, of all his future usefulness, if he were boldenough to question the proceeding; a state of things in which a poorlaw-reader might feel himself called upon to buy a gown for a lady, whose gowns were none of the cheapest, at a time when the state of hisfinances might render it extremely inconvenient to do so. 

But to return to the Roman citizen, for the play is written by one whoknows that the human nature is what it is in all ages, or, at least, until it is improved with better arts of culture than the world hasyet tried on it. 

 _First Cit. You must think, if we give you anything, We hope to gain by you. _

 _Cor. Well then_, I pray, YOUR PRICE O'THE CONSULSHIP?

 _First Cit_. The price is, Sir, to ask it _kindly_. 

 _Cor. Kindly_? Sir, I pray let me ha't: I have wounds to show you, Which shall be yours in private. --Your good voice, Sir; What say you?

 _Second Cit_. You shall have it, _worthy_ Sir. 

 _Cor_. A _match_, Sir: There is in all two worthy voices begg'd:-- _I have your alms_; adieu. 

 _First Cit_. But this is something _odd_. 

 _Second Cit. An 'twere to give again_, --But 'tis no matter. 

 [_Exeunt two Citizens_. ]

 [_Enter two other Citizens_. ]

 _Cor_. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices, that I may be consul, I have here _the customary gown_. 

 _Third Cit_. You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly. 

 _Cor. Your enigma_?

 _Third Cit_. You have been a _scourge to her enemies_, you _have been a rod to her friends_; you have _not_ INDEED, loved the COMMON PEOPLE. 

 _Cor_. You should account me the more virtuous, that I have not been common in my love. I will, Sir, flatter my sworn brother the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; 'tis a condition _they account_ GENTLE: and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, _I will practise_ the _insinuating nod_, and be _off to them most counterfeitly_; that is, Sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of _some popular man, and give it bountifully to the desirers_. Therefore, beseech you, I may be consul. 

 _Fourth Cit_. We hope to find you _our friend_; and _therefore_ give you our voices heartily. 

 _Third Cit_. You have received many wounds for your country. 

 _Cor_. I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no further. 

 _Both Cit_. The gods give you joy, Sir, heartily! [_Exeunt_. ]

 _Cor_. Most sweet voices!-- Better it is to die, better to starve, . .. Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus. --I am half through; _The one part suffer'd, the other will I do_. 

 [_Enter three other Citizens. _]

 Here come more voices, -- Your Voices: _for your_ voices _I have fought_: _Watch'd_ for _your voices; for your voices, bear Of wounds two dozen odd_; battles thrice six, I have seen and heard of; _for your voices_, Done many things, _some less, some more_: your voices: _Indeed, I would be consul_. 

 _Fifth Cit_. He has done _nobly_, and _cannot go without any honest man's voice_. 

 _Sixth Cit_. Therefore let him be consul: The gods give him joy, and make him _good friend to the people_. 

 _All_. Amen, Amen. -- _God save thee, noble_ consul! [_Exeunt Citizens_. ]

 _Cor_. WORTHY VOICES!

 [_Re-enter Menenius, with the tribunes Brutus, and Sicinius. _]

 _Men_. You have stood your limitation; and the tribunes Endue you with the people's voice: _Remains_, That in the _official marks_ invested, you _Anon_ do meet the senate. 

 _Cor_. Is this done?

 _Sic_. The _custom_ of _request_ you have discharged: _The people do admit you_; and are _summon'd_ To meet anon, _upon your approbation_. 

 _Cor_. Where? At the senate-house?

 _Sic. There_ Coriolanus. 

 _Cor. May I change these garments_?

 _Sic_. You may, Sir. 

 _Cor_. That I'll straight do, and _knowing myself again_, Repair to the senate house. 

 _Men_. I'll keep you company. --Will you along. 

 _Bru. We stay here for the people_. 

 _Sic_. Fare you well. 

 [_Exeunt Coriolanus and Menenius_. ]

 _He has it now_; and by his looks, methinks, 'Tis warm at his heart. 

 _Bru. With a proud heart he wore His humble weeds_: Will you dismiss the people?

[This is the popular election: but the afterthought, the review, thecritical review, is that which must follow, for this is not the samepeople we had on the stage when the play began. They are the same inperson, perhaps; but it is no longer a mob, armed with clubs, clamouring for bread, rushing forth to kill their chiefs, and havecorn at their own price. It is a people conscious of their politicalpower and dignity, an organised people; it is a people with aconstituted head, capable of instructing them in the doctrine ofpolitical duties and rights. It is the tribune now who conducts thisreview of the Military Hero's civil claims. It is the careful, learnedTribune who initiates, from the heights of his civil wisdom, thisgreat, popular veto, this deliberate 'rejection' of the popularaffirmation. For this is what is called, elsewhere, 'a _negative_instance. ']

 [_Re-enter Citizens_. ]

 _Sic_. How now, _my masters?_ HAVE YOU CHOSE THIS MAN?

 _First Cit_. He has our _voices_, Sir. 

 _Bru_. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves. 

 _Second Cit_. Amen, Sir: To my poor unworthy notice, _He mocked us when he begg'd our voices_. 

 _Third Cit_. Certainly He flouted us downright. 

 _First Cit_. No, 'tis his kind of speech; he did not mock us. 

 _Second Cit_. Not one amongst us save yourself, but says, He used us _scornfully_: he should have show'd us His marks of merit, wounds received for his country. 

 _Sic_. Why, so he did, I am sure. 

 _Cit_. No; no man saw 'em. [_Several speak_. ]

 _Third Cit_. He said he _had_ wounds which he could show in private; And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, 'I _would be consul_, ' says he, ' AGED CUSTOM, BUT BY YOUR VOICES, WILL NOT SO PERMIT ME; _Your voices_ THEREFORE:' When we granted that, Here was, --'I thank you for your voices, --thank you, -- Your most sweet voices:--_now you have left your voices, I have no further with you:'--Was not this mockery?_

 _Sic_. Why, either, were you ignorant to see't? Or, seeing it, of such _childish friendliness To yield your voices?_

 _Bru_. Could you not have told him As you were lesson'd--when he had no power, But was a petty servant to the state, He was your enemy; ever spake _against_ _Your_ LIBERTIES, and the CHARTERS that you bear _I'_ THE BODY of the WEAL: and now arriving A _place of potency, and sway_ o' the state, If he should still malignantly remain _Fast foe_ to the plebeii, _your voices might Be_ CURSES _to_ YOURSELVES. 

 _Sic_. Thus to have said As you were fore-advised, had touched his spirit, And _tried_ his inclination; from him plucked, Either his gracious promise, which _you might, As cause had called you up, have_ HELD HIM TO; _Or else_ it would have galled his surly nature, _Which easily endures, not article Tying him to aught_;--so putting him to rage, You should have ta'en advantage of his choler, And so left him unelected. 

[Somewhat sagacious instructions for these old _Roman_ statesmen togive, and not so very unlike those which English Commons foundoccasion to put in execution not long after. ]

 _Bru_. Did you perceive he did solicit you _in free contempt_, When he did need your loves; and do you think That his contempt shall not be bruising to you, When, he hath _power to crush_? Why had your bodies _No heart among you_, or had you tongues To cry against THE RECTORSHIP of--_judgment_?

 _Sic_. Have you Ere now, _deny'd the asker_, and now again, On him that _did not ask, but mock_, [with a pretence of asking, ] bestow Your sued for tongues?

 _Third Cit_. HE'S NOT CONFIRMED, _we may deny him_ YET. 

 _Second Cit. And will deny him: I'll have five hundred voices of that sound_. 

 _First Cit. I_, twice five hundred, and their friends to _piece 'em_. 

 _Bru_. Get you hence instantly, and _tell those friends_, They have chose a consul that will from them _Take their liberties_, MAKE THEM OF NO MORE VOICE THAN DOGS, that are as often BEAT for barking, As KEPT TO DO SO. 

 _Sic_. Let them assemble, And on a safer judgment, ALL REVOKE Your IGNORANT ELECTION. 

 _Bru_. Lay A fault on _us, your tribunes_; that WE LABOURED NO IMPEDIMENT BETWEEN, but that you _must_ Cast your election on him. 

 _Sic_. Say, you chose him More after our commandment, than as guided By your own true affections, and that your minds, _Pre-occupied_ with what you rather _must_ do, Than what you _should_, made you _against the grain_ To voice _him_ consul: lay the fault _on us_. 

 _Bru_. Ay, SPARE us NOT. _Say_ WE READ LECTURES TO YOU, How youngly _he began to serve his country_, How long continued, and what _stock_ he springs of; The noble house o' the _Marcians_, from whence came, That Ancus Martius, _Numa's_ daughter's son, Who, after _great Hostilius_, here was _king_: Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, _That our best water brought by conduits hither_; And Censoriuus, _darling of the people_, And nobly named so, being _censor twice_, Was his great ancestor. 

[Of course this man has never meddled with the classics at all. Hisreading and writing comes by nature. ]

 _Sic. One thus_ descended, That hath _beside well in his person wrought_, To be set _high in place, we_ did commend To your remembrances; but _you have found, Scaling his present bearing with his past_, That _he's_ your fixed _enemy_, and REVOKE _Your sudden approbation_. 

 _Bru. _. Say you ne'er had done't, -- _Harp on that still_, --but by _our putting on_, And _presently_ when you have drawn your number, Repair to the Capitol. 

 _Citizens_. [_Several speak_. ] We will so. Almost all Repent in their election. [Exeunt Citizens. ]

 _Bru_. Let them go on. This mutiny were better put in hazard, Than stay, past doubt, for greater; If, as his nature is, he fall in rage With their refusal, both observe and answer The vantage of his anger. 

 _Sic_. To the Capitol: Come, _we'll be there before the stream_ o' the people, _And this shall seem, as partly'tis, their own Which_ WE HAVE GOADED ONWARD. 

[See the Play of Henry the _Seventh_, Founder of the ElizabethanTyranny, by the same author. ]

We have witnessed the popular election on the scientific boards: wehave seen, now, in all its scientific detail, the civil confirmationof the soldier's vote on the battle-field: we have seen it in thesenate-chamber and in the market-place, and we saw it in 'thesmothered stalls, and bulks, and windows, ' and on 'the leads andridges': we have seen and heard it, not in the shower and thunder thatthe commons made with their caps and voices only, but in the scarfs, and gloves, and handkerchiefs, which 'the ladies, and maids, andmatrons threw. ' We have seen each single contribution to this greatpublic act put in by the Poet's selected representative of classes. 'The kitchen malkin, with her richest lockram pinned on her neck, clambering the wall to eye him, ' spake for hers; 'the seld-shownflamen, puffing his way to win a vulgar station, ' was hastening torecord the vote of his; 'the veiled dame, exposing the war of whiteand damask in her nicely-gawded cheeks to the spoil of Phebus' burningkisses, ' was a tribune, too, in this Poet's distribution of thetribes, and spake out for the veiled dames; 'the prattling nurse' whowill give her baby that is 'crying itself into a rapture there, whileshe chats him' her reminiscence of this scene by and by, was there togive the nurses' approbation. 

For this is the vote which the great Tribune has to sum up and count, when he comes to review at last, 'in a better hour, ' these spontaneouspublic acts--these momentous acts that seal up the future, and bindthe unborn generations of the advancing kind with the cramp of theirfetters. Not less careful than this is the analysis when he undertakesto track to its historic source one of those practical axioms, one ofthose received beliefs, which he finds determining the human conduct, limiting the human history, moulding the characters of men, determining beforehand what they shall be. This is the process when heundertakes, to get one of these rude, instinctive, spontaneousaffirmations--one of those idols of the market or of theTribe--reviewed and criticised by the heads of the Tribe, at least, 'in a better hour, '--criticised and rejected. 'Proceeding by negativesand exclusion first': this is the form in which this Tribune puts onrecord his scientific veto of that 'ignorant election. '

And in this so carefully selected and condensed combination ofhistorical spectacles--in this so new, this so magnificentlyillustrated political history--there is another historic moment to bebrought out now; and in this same form of 'visible history, ' one notless important than those already exhibited. 

In the scene that follows, we have, in the Poet's arrangement, thegreat historic spectacle of a people 'REVOKING THEIR IGNORANTELECTION, ' under the instigation and guidance of those same remarkableleaders, whose voice had been wanting (as they are careful to informus) till then in the business of the state; leaders who contrive atlast to inform the people, in plain terms, that they 'are at point tolose their liberties, ' that 'Marcius will have all from them, ' and whoapologise for their conduct afterwards by saying, that 'he affectedone sole throne, _without assistance_'; for the time had come when theTribune could repeat the Poet's whisper, 'The _one_ side shall have_bale_. '

This so critical spectacle is boldly brought out and exhibited here inall its actual historical detail. It is produced by one who is able toinclude in his dramatic programme the whole sweep of itseventualities, the whole range of its particulars, because he has madehimself acquainted with the forces, he has ascended, by scientificallyinclusive definition, to the 'powers' that are to be 'operant' in it;and he who has that 'charactery' of nature, may indeed 'lay the futureopen. ' We talk of prophecy; but there is nothing in literature tocompare at all with this great specimen of the prophecy of Induction. There is nothing to compare with it in its grasp of particulars, inits comprehension and historic accuracy of detail. 

But this great speech, which he entreats for leave to make before thatrevolutionary movement, which in its weak beginnings in his time layintreasured, should proceed any further--this preliminary speech, withits so vivid political illustration, is not yet finished. The truedoctrine of an instructed scientific election and government, that'vintage' of politics--that vintage of scientific definitions andaxioms which he is getting out of this new kind of history--that newvintage of the higher, subtler fact, which this fine selected, adaptedhistory, will be made to yield, is not yet expressed. The fault withthe popular and instinctive mode of inquiry is, he tells us, that _itbegins with affirmation_--but that is the method for gods, and notmen--men must begin with negations; they must have tables of _review_of instances, tables of negation, tables of rejection; and _divide_nature, not with fire, but with the mind, that divine fire. 'If themind attempt this affirmation from the first, ' he says, '_which italways will when left to itself_ there will spring up _phantoms, meretheories_, and _ill-defined notions, with axioms requiring dailycorrection_. These will be better or worse, according to the power andstrength of the understanding which creates them. But it is only forGod to recognise forms affirmatively, at the first glance ofcontemplation; _men_ can only proceed first by negatives, and then toconclude with affirmatives, after every species of rejection. ' Andthough he himself appears to be profoundly absorbed with the nature ofHEAT, at the moment in which he first produces these new scientificinstruments, which he calls tables of _review_, and explains their'facilities, ' he tells us plainly, that they are adapted to _othersubjects_, and that those affirmations which are most essential to thewelfare of man, will in due time come off from them, practical axiomson matters of universal and incessant practical concern, that will notwant _daily correction_, that will not want revolutionary correction, to fit them to the exigency. 

The question here is not of 'heat, ' but of SOVEREIGNTY; it is thequestion of the _consulship_, regarded from the ground of thetribuneship. It is not Coriolanus that this tribune is spending somuch breath on. The _instincts_, which unanalytic, barbaric ages, enthrone and mistake for greatness and nobility, are tried andrejected here; and the business of the play is, to get them excludedfrom the chair of state. The philosopher will have those instinctswhich men, in their 'particular and private natures, ' share with thelower orders of animals, searched out, and put in their place in humanaffairs, which is _not_, as he takes it, THE HEAD--the head of theCOMMON-weal. It is not Coriolanus; the author has no spite at allagainst him--he is partial to him, rather; it is not _Coriolanus_ butthe instincts that are on trial here, and the man--the so-called_man_--of instinct, who has no principle of state and sovereignty, noprinciple of true _man_liness and nobility in his soul; and the trialis not yet completed. The author would be glad to have that revolutionwhich he has inserted in the heart of this play deferred, if that werepossible, though he knows that it is not; he thinks it would be asaving of trouble if it could be deferred until some true andscientifically prepared notions, some practical axioms, which wouldnot need in their turn fierce historical correction--revolutionarycorrection--could be imparted to the _common mind_. 

But we must follow him in this process of _division_ and exclusion alittle further, before we come in our plot to the revolution. Thatrevolution which he foresees as imminent and inevitable, he has put onpaper here: but there is another lurking within, for which we are notyet ripe. This locked-up tribune will have to get abroad; he will haveto get his limits enlarged, and find his way into some newdepartments, before ever _that_ can begin. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE SCIENTIFIC METHOD IN POLITICS. 

'If any man think philosophy and universality to be idle studies, hedoth not consider that all professions are _from thence_ served andsupplied. '

_Advancement of Learning_. 

'We leave room on every subject for the human or optative part; for itis a part of science to make judicious inquiries and wishes. '

_Novum Organum_. 

As to the _method_ of this new kind of philosophical inquiry, which isbrought to bear here so stedfastly upon the most delicate questions, at a time when the Play-house was expressly forbidden by a RoyalOrdinance, on pain of dissolution, to touch them--in an age, too, whenParliaments were lectured, and brow-beaten, and rudely sent home, forcontumaciously persisting in meddling with questions of _state_--in anage in which prelates were shrilly interrupted in the pulpit, in themidst of their finest and gravest Sunday discourse, and told, in thepresence of their congregations, to hold their tongues and mind theirown business, if they chanced to touch upon 'questions of church, ' ona day when the Head of the Church herself, in her own sacred person, in her largest ruff, and 'rustling' in her last silk, happened to bein her pew;--as to the _method_ of the philosophical investigationswhich were conducted under such critical conditions, of course therewas no harm in displaying _that_ in the abstract, as a _method_merely. As a method of _philosophical_ inquiry, there was no harm inpresenting it in a tolerably lucid and brilliant manner, accompanyingthe exhibition with careful, and _apparently specific_, directions asto the application of it to indifferent subjects. There was no harm, indeed, in blazoning this method a little, and in soliciting theattention of the public, and the attention of mankind in general, toit in a somewhat extraordinary manner, not without some considerableblowing of trumpets. As a method of _philosophical inquiry_, merely, what earthly harm could it do? Surely there was no more innocent thingin nature than 'your philosophy, ' then, so far as any overt acts wereconcerned; it certainly was the last thing in the world that a king ora queen need trouble their heads about then. Who cared what methodsthe philosophers were taking, or whether this was a new one or an oldone, so that the men of letters could understand it? The modernSolomon was fain to confess that, for his part, he could not--that itwas beyond his depth; whereas the history of _Henry the Seventh_, bythe same author, appeared to him extremely clear and lively, and quitewithin his range, and to _that_ he gave his own personal approbation. The other work, however, as it was making so much noise in the world, and promising to go down to posterity, would serve to adorn his reign, and make it illustrious in future ages. 

There was no harm in this philosopher's setting forth his _method_then, and giving very minute and strict directions in regard to itsapplications to 'certain subjects. ' As to what the Author of it didwith it himself--that, of course, was another thing, and nobody'sbusiness but his own just then, as it happened. 

So totally was the world off its guard at the moment of this great andgreatest innovation in its practice--so totally unaccustomed were menthen to look for anything like _power_ in the quarter from which thisseemed to be proceeding--so impossible was it for this single book toremove that previous impression--that the Author of the Novum Organumcould even venture to intersperse these directions, with regard to itsspecific and particular applications, with pointed and not infrequentallusions to the comprehensive nature--the essentially comprehensivenature--of '_the Machine_' whose application to these _certaininstances_ he is at such pains to specify; he could, indeed, produceit with a continuous side-long glance at this so portentous quality ofit. 

Nay, he could go farther than that, and venture to assert openly, overhis own name, and leave on record for the benefit of posterity, _theassertion_ that this new method of inquiry _does apply_, directly andprimarily, to those questions in which the human race are _primarilyconcerned_; that it strikes at once to the heart of those questions, and was invented to that end. 

Such a certificate and warranty of the New Machine was put up by thehands of the Inventor on the face of it, when he dedicated it to thehuman use--when he appealed in its behalf from the criticism of thetimes that were near, to those that were far off. Nay, he takes painsto tell us; he tells us in that same moment, what one who studies theNOVUM ORGANUM with the key of '_Times_' does not need to be told--cansee for himself--that in his _description of the method_ he hasalready contrived to _make the application_, the _universal_ practical_application_. 

In his PREROGATIVE INSTANCES, the mind of man is brought out alreadyfrom its SPECIFIC narrowness, from its own abstract logical conceitsand arrogant prenotions, into that collision with fact--the broaderfact, the universal fact--and subjected to that discipline from itwhich is the intention of this logic. It is a 'machine' which is meantto serve to Man as a '_New' Mind_--the scientific mind, which is inharmony with nature--a mind informed and enlarged with the universallaws, the laws of KINDS, instead of the spontaneous uninstructed mind, instead of the narrow specific mind of a barbaric race, filled withits own preposterous prenotions and vain conceits, and at war withuniversal nature; boldly pursuing its deadly feud with _that_, pridingitself on it, making a virtue of it. It is a machine in which thosehuman faculties which are the gifts of God to man, as the instrumentsof his welfare, are for the first time scientifically conjoined. It isa Machine in which _the senses_, those hitherto despised instrumentsin _philosophy_, by means of a scientific rule and oversight, and withthe aid of scientific instruments, are made available for philosophicpurposes. It is a Machine in which that organization whereby theuniversal nature _impresses_ itself on us--reports itself tous--striking its incessant telegraphs on us, whether we read them ornot, is for the first time brought to the philosopher's aid; and it isa Machine, also, by which _speculation_, that hitherto despisedinstrument in _practice_, is for the first time, brought to the aid ofthe man of practice. It is doubly 'New': it is a Machine in whichspeculation becomes practical--it is a Machine in which practicebecomes scientific. 

 [_Fool_. Canst thou tell why a man's nose stands in the middle of his face?

 _Lear_. No. 

 _Fool_. Why, to keep his eyes on either side of it, that what he cannot smell out, he may spy into. ]

In 'THE PREROGATIVE INSTANCES, ' the universal matter of _fact_ isalready taken up and disposed of in grand masses, under theseheadships and chief cases, not in a miscellaneous, but scientificmanner. The Nature of Things is all there; for this is a Logic whichbows the mind of man to the law of the universal nature, and _informs_and enlarges it with that. It is not a Logic merely in the old senseof that term. The old Logic, and the cobwebs of metaphysics that grewout of it, are the things which this Machine is going to puff away, with the mere whiff and wind of its inroads into nature, and dispersefor ever. It is not a logic merely as logic has hitherto been limited, but a philosophy. A logic in which the general 'notions of nature'which are _causes_, powers, simple powers, elemental powers, truedifferences, are substituted for those spontaneous, rude, uncorrected, _specific_ notions, --_pre_-notions of men, which have in that form, asthey stand thus, no correlative in nature, and are thereforeimpotent--not true _terms_ and _forms_, but air-words, air-lines, merely. It is a logic which includes the Mind of NATURE, and her laws;and not one which is limited to the mind of _Man_, and so fitted toits _incapacity_ as to nurse him in his natural ignorance, to educatehim in his born foolery and conceit, to teach him to ignore by rule, and set at nought the infinite mystery of nature. 

The universal history, all of it that the mind of man is constitutedto grasp, is here in the general, under these PREROGATIVE INSTANCES, in the luminous order of the Inventor of this science, blazingthroughout with his genius, and the mind that has abolished itsprenotions, and renounced its rude, instinctive, barbaric tendencies, and has taken this scientific Organum instead; has armed itself withthe Nature of Things, and is prepared to grapple with allspecifications and particulars. 

The author tells us plainly, that those seemingly pedanticarrangements with which he is compelled to perplex his subject in thisgreat work of his, the work in which he openly introduces HISINNOVATION, --as that--will fall off by and by, when there is no longerany need of them. They are but the natural guards with which greatNature, working in the instinct of the philosophic genius, protectsher choicest growth, --the husk of that grain which must have times, and a time to grow in, --the bark which the sap must stop to build, ereits delicate works within are safe. They are like the sheaths withwhich she hides through frost and wind and shower, until their hourhas come, her vernal patterns, her secret toils, her magic cunning, her struggling aspirations, her glorious successes, her celestialtriumphs. 

In the midst of this studious fog of scholasticism, this complicatednetwork of superficial divisions, the man of humour, who is always notfar off and ready to assist in the priestly ministrations as he seesoccasion, gently directs our attention to those more simple andnatural divisions of the subject, and those more immediately practicalterms, which it might be possible to use, under certain circumstances, in speaking of the _same subjects_, into which, however, _these_ areeasily resolvable, as soon as the right point of observation is taken. Through all this haze, he contrives to show us confidentially, theoutline of those grand natural divisions, which he has already clearlyproduced--under their scholastic names, indeed, --in his book of theAdvancement of Learning; but which he cannot so openly continue, in awork produced professedly, as a practical instrument fit forapplication to immediate use, and where the true application isconstantly entering the vitals of subjects too delicate to be openlyglanced at then. 

But he gives us to understand, however, that he _has_ made theapplication of this method to practice, in a much more _specific, detailed_ manner, in another place, that he _has_ brought it down fromthose more general forms of the Novum Organum, into 'the nobler'departments, 'the more chosen' departments of that universal field ofhuman practice, which the Novum Organum takes up in its great outline, and boldly and clearly claims in the general, though when it comes tospecific applications and particulars, it does so stedfastly strike, or appear to strike, into that one track of practice, which was theonly one left open to it then, --which it keeps still as rigidly as ifit had no other. He has brought it out, he tells us, from that trunkof 'universality, ' and carried it with his own hand into the minutestpoints and fibres of particulars, those points and fibres, thoseliving articulations in which the grand natural divisions he indicateshere, naturally terminate; the divisions which the philosopher who'makes the Art and Practic part of life, the _mistress_ to hisTheoric, ' must of course follow. He tells us that he _has_ applied itto PARTICULAR ARTS, to those departments of the human experience andpractice in which the need of a _rule_ is most felt, and where thingshave been suffered to go on hitherto, in a specially miscellaneousmanner, and that his axioms of practice in these departments have beenso scientifically constructed from particulars, that he thinks theywill be apt to know their way to particulars again;--that theirspecifications are at the same time so comprehensive and so minute, that he considers them fit for immediate use, or at least so far forthfitted, as to require but little skill on the part of thepractitioner, to insure them against failure in practice. The processbeing, of course, in this application to the exigencies of practice, necessarily disentangled from those technicalities and relics of theold wordy scholasticism in which he was compelled to incase and sealup his meanings, in his _professedly_ scientific works, and especiallyin his professedly _practical_ scientific work. 

But these so important applications of his philosophy to practice, ofwhich he issues so fair a prospectus, though he frequently _refers_ tothem, could not then be published. The time had not come, andpersonally, he was obliged to leave, before it came. He was careful, however, to make the best provision which could be made, under suchcircumstances, for the carrying out of his intentions; for he left awill. These works of _practice_ could not then be published; and ifthey could have been, there was no public then ready for them. Theycould not be _published_; but there was nothing to hinder their beingput under cover. There was no difficulty to a man of skill in packingthem up in a portable form, under lids and covers of one sort andanother, so unexceptionable, that all the world could carry themabout, for a century or two, and not perceive that there was any harmin them. Very curiously wrought covers they might be too, with sometaste of the wonders of mine art pressing through, a little here andthere. They might be put under a very gorgeous and attractive cover inone case, and under a very odd and fantastic one in another; but insuch a manner as to command, in both cases, the admiration and wonderof men, so as to pique perpetually their curiosity and provokeinquiry, until the time had come and the key was found. 

'Some may raise this question, ' he says, talking as he does sometimesin the historical plural of his philosophic chair, --'_this question, rather than objection_, '--[it was much to be preferred in that formcertainly]--'whether we talk of perfecting NATURAL PHILOSOPHY alone, according to our method, or _the other sciences such as_--ETHICS, LOGIC, POLITICS. ' A pretty _question_ to raise just then, truly, though this philosopher sees fit to take it so demurely. 'Whether wetalk of _perfecting politics_ with our method, ' Elizabethanpolitics, --and not politics only, but whether we talk of _perfecting'ethics'_ with it also, and 'logic, --common logic, ' which last is asmuch in need of perfecting as anything, and the beginning ofperfecting of that is the reform in the others. 'We certainlyintend, '--the emphasis here is on the word '_certainly_, ' though thereader who has not the key of the times may not perceive it; 'Wecertainly intend to comprehend them ALL. ' For this is the author whosewords are most of them emphatic. We must read his sentences more thanonce to get all the emphasis. We certainly INTEND to comprehend themall. 'We are not vain promisers, ' he says, emphasizing _that_ word inanother place, and putting this intention into the shape of a_promise_. 

And as _common logic which regulates matters_ by syllogism is applied, not only to natural, but to every other science, so our inductivemethod _likewise_, comprehends them _all_. --Again--[he thinks thisbears repeating, repeating in this connection, for now he is measuringthe claims of this new method, this _new logic_, with the claims ofthat which he finds in possession, regulating matters by syllogism, not producing a very logical result, however:] 'For we form a history, and tables of invention, for ANGER, FEAR, SHAME, and the like, ' [thatis--we _form_ a _history_ and tables of _invention_ for the passionsor affections, ] 'and _also_ for EXAMPLES IN CIVIL LIFE, and the MENTALOPERATIONS . .. As well as for HEAT, COLD, LIGHT, VEGETATION and THELIKE, ' and he directs us to the Fourth Part of the Instauration, whichhe reserves for his noblest and more chosen subjects for theconfirmation of this assertion. 

'_But_ since our method of interpretation, after preparing andarranging a history, does not content itself with examining _theopinions and desires_ of THE MIND--[hear]--like common logic, but alsoinspects THE NATURE of THINGS, we so regulate the mind that it may beenabled to _apply itself_, in every respect, correctly to _thatnature_. ' Our _examples_ in this part of the work, which is but asmall and preparatory part of it, are limited, as you will observe, to_heat, cold, light, vegetation_, and _the like_; but this is theexplanation of the general intention, which will enable you todisregard that circumstance in your reading of it. --Those exampleswill serve their purpose with the minds that they detain. They arepreparatory, and greatly useful, if you read this new logic from theheight of this explanation, you will have a mind, formed by thatprocess, able to apply itself, in every respect, correctly to thesubjects omitted here by name, but so clearly claimed, not as theproper subjects only, but as the _actual_ subjects of the newinvestigation. But lest you should not understand this explanation, hecontinues--'_On this account_ we deliver _necessary_ and _various_precepts in _our doctrine of interpretation_, so that we may apply, insome measure, to the method of discovering _the quality and conditionof the subject matter of investigation_. ' And this is the apology foromitting here, or _seeming_ to omit, _such sciences as_ Ethics, Politics, and that science which is alluded to under the name of_Common Logic_. 

This is, indeed, a very instructive paragraph, though it is agratuitous one for the scholar who has found leisure to read this workwith the aid of that doctrine of _interpretation_ referred to, especially if he is already familiar with its particular applicationsto the noble subjects just specified. 

Among the prerogative instances--'suggestive instances' areincluded--'such as _suggest or_ point out _that_ which is_advantageous to mankind_; for _bare power_ and _knowledge_ in_themselves exalt_, rather than _enrich_, human nature. _We shall havea better opportunity of discovering these, when we treat of theapplication to practice. _ BESIDES, in the WORK of INTERPRETATION, weLEAVE ROOM ON EVERY SUBJECT for the _human or optative_ part; FOR ITis A PART OF SCIENCE, to make JUDICIOUS INQUIRIES and WISHES. ' 'The_generally_ useful instances. They are such as relate to variouspoints, and _frequently occur_, sparing by that means _considerablelabour_ and _new trials_. The proper place for speaking of_instruments_, and _contrivances_, will be that in which we speak of_application to practice_, and the _method_ of EXPERIMENT. _All thathas hitherto been ascertained and made use of_, WILL BE APPLIED in thePARTICULAR HISTORY of EACH ART. ' [We certainly intend to _include_them ALL, such as Ethics, Politics, and Common Logic. ]

'We have now, therefore, exhibited the species, or _simple elements_of the _motions_, _tendencies_, and _active powers_, which are mostuniversal in nature; and no small portion of NATURAL, _that is_, UNIVERSAL SCIENCE, has been _sketched out_. We do _not_, however, deny_that_ OTHER INSTANCES can, _perhaps, be added_' (he has confinedhimself chiefly to the physical agencies under this head, with asidelong glance at others, now and then), 'and our _divisions changed_to some _more natural order_ of _things_ [hear], and also reduced to a_less number_ [hear], in which respect we do _not_ allude to any_abstract_ classification, as if one were to say, '--and he quoteshere, in this apparently disparaging manner, his own grand, new-coinedclassification, which he has drawn out with his new method from theheart of nature, and applied to the human, --which he had to go intothe universal nature to find, that very classification which he hasexhibited _abstractly_ in his Advancement of Learning--_abstractly_, and, therefore, without coming into any dangerous contact with anyone's preconceptions, --'as if one were to say, that bodies desire the_preservation, exaltation_, propagation, or fruition of their natures;or, that motion tends to the preservation and benefit, either of theUNIVERSE, as in the case of the motions of _resistance_ and_connection_--those two _universal_ motions and tendencies--or ofEXTENSIVE WHOLES, as in the case of those of the _greatercongregation_. ' These are phrases which look innocent enough; there isno offensive approximation to particulars here, apparently; what harmcan there be in the philosophy of 'extensive wholes, ' and 'largercongregations'? Nobody can call that meddling with 'church and state. 'Surely one may speak of the nature of things in general, under suchgeneral terms as these, without being suspected of an intention toinnovate. 'Have you heard the argument?' says the king to Hamlet. 'Isthere no offence in it?' 'None in the world. ' But the philosopher goeson, and does come occasionally, even here, to words which begin tosound at little suspicious in such connexions, or would, if one didnot know how _general_ the intention must be in this application ofthem. They are _abstract_ terms, and, of course, nobody need see thatthey are a different kind of abstraction from the old ones, that thegrappling-hook on all particulars has been abstracted in them. Supposeone were to say, then, to resume, 'that motion tends to thepreservation and benefit, either of _the universe_, as in the case ofthe motions of _resistance_ and _connection_, or of _extensivewholes_, as in the case of the motions of _the greater congregation_--[what are these motions, then?]--REVOLUTION and ABHORRENCE of CHANGE, or of _particular forms_, as in the case of _the others_. ' This looksa little like growing towards a point. We are apt to consider thesemotions in certain _specific_ forms, as they appear in those extensivewholes and larger congregations, which it is not necessary to namemore particularly in this connection, though they are terms of a'suggestive' character, to borrow the author's own expression, andbelong properly to subjects which this author has just included inhis system. 

But this is none other than his own philosophy which he seems to becriticising, and rating, and rejecting here so scornfully; but if wego on a little further, we shall find what the criticism amounts to, and that it is only the limitation of it to _the generalstatement_--that it is _the abstract_ form of it, which he complainsof. He wishes to direct our attention to the fact, that he does notconsider it good for anything in that general form in which he has putit in his Book of Learning. This is the deficiency which he is alwayspointing out in that work, because this is the deficiency which it hasbeen his chief labour to supply. Till that defect, that grand defectwhich his philosophy exhibits, as it stands in his books of abstractscience, is supplied--that defect to which, even in these worksthemselves, he is always directing our attention--he cannot, withoutself-contradiction, propound his philosophy to the world as apractical one, good for human relief. 

In order that it should accomplish the ends to which it is addressed, it is not enough, he tells us in so many words, to exhibit it in theabstract, in general terms, for these are but 'the husks and shells ofsciences. ' It must be brought down and applied to those artisticreformations which afflicted, oppressed human nature demands--to thoseartistic constructions to which human nature spontaneously, instinctively tends, and empirically struggles to achieve. 

'For _although_, ' he continues, '_such remarks_--those lastquoted--_be_ just, _unless they terminate in_ MATTER AND CONSTRUCTION, _according to the_ TRUE DEFINITIONS, _they are_ SPECULATIVE, and ofLITTLE USE. ' But in the Novum Organum, those more natural divisionsare reduced to a form in which it IS _possible to commence practice_with them at once, in certain departments, where there is no objectionto _innovation_, --where the proposal for the relief of the humanestate is met without opposition, --where the new scientificachievements in the conquest of nature are met with a universal, unanimous human plaudit and gratulation. 

'_In the meantime_, ' he continues, after condemning those abstractterms, and declaring, that unless they terminate in _matter andconstruction, according_ to _true definitions_, they are_speculative_, and of _little use_--'_In the meantime, ourclassification will suffice_, and be of much use in the considerationof the PREDOMINANCE of POWERS, and examining the WRESTLING INSTANCES, which constitute our PRESENT SUBJECT. ' [The subject that was _present_then. The question. ]

So that the Novum Organum presents itself to us, in these passages, only as a preparation and arming of the mind for a closer dealing withthe nature of things, in particular instances, which are _not_ thereinstanced, --for those more critical 'WRESTLING INSTANCES' which thescientific re-constructions, according to true definitions, in thehigher departments of human want will constitute, --those _wrestling_instances, which will naturally arise whenever the philosophy whichconcerns itself experimentally with the question of the predominanceof powers--the philosophy which includes in its programme thepractical application of the principles of revolution and abhorrenceof change, in 'greater congregations' and 'extensive wholes, ' as wellas the principles of _motion_ in 'particular forms'--shall come to beapplied to its nobler, to its noblest subjects. That is the philosophywhich dismisses its technicalities, which finds such words as thesewhen the question of the predominance of powers, and the question ofrevolution and abhorrence of change in the greater congregations andextensive wholes, comes to be practically handled. This is the way wephilosophise 'when we come to particulars. '

 'In _a rebellion_, When what's _not meet_, but what must be, was law, Then were they chosen. In a better hour, Let what _is meet_ be said it must be _meet_, And _throw their power in the dust_. '

That is what we should call, in a _general_ way, 'the motion ofrevolution' in our book of abstractions; this is the moment in whichit _predominates_ over 'the abhorrence of change, ' if not in theextensive whole--if not in _the whole_ of the greater congregation, inthat part of it for whom this one speaks; and this is the criticalmoment which the man of science makes so much of, --brings out soscientifically, so elaborately in this experiment. But this is a partof science which he is mainly familiar with. Here is a place, forinstance, where the motion of particular forms is skilfully brought tothe aid of that larger motion. Here we have an experiment in whichthese petty motives come in to aid the revolutionary movement in theminds of the leaders of it, and with their feather's weight turn thescale, when the abhorrence of change is too nicely balanced with itsantagonistic force for a predominance of powers without it. 

 'But for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as _I_ myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you. 

 * * * * *

 Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world _Like a Colossus_; and we, petty men, Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves _dishonorable graves_. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. _Brutus_ and _Caesar_. What should be in _that Caesar_? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Conjure with them; _Brutus_ will start a spirit as soon as _Caesar_. _Now in the name_ of _all the gods at once_, _Upon what meat doth this our_ CAESAR _feed, That he is grown so great_? AGE, _thou_ art shamed: Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods. When went there by an AGE, since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with ONE MAN? When could they say, till now, that talked of _Rome_, That _her wide walls_ encompassed _but One Man_? _Now_ is it _Rome indeed_, and _room enough_, When there is in it but _One Only Man_. 

 * * * * *

 What you would work me to, I have some aim; _How I have thought of this_, and of _these times_, I shall recount hereafter. Now could _I_, Casca, _Name_ to thee a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars As doth the lion in the Capitol, A man no mightier than thyself, or me, In PERSONAL ACTION; yet _prodigious_ grown, And _fearful as these strange eruptions are_. ' ''T is Caesar _that you mean_: Is it _not_, Cassius?' 'Let it be--WHO IT is: for Romans now Have thewes and limbs like to their ancestors. 

 * * * * *

 Poor man, I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep. _He_ were no _lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire, Begin it_ with--WEAK STRAWS. What _trash_ is--Rome What rubbish, and what offal, _when it serves for the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as_--Caesar. But-- _I_ perhaps _speak this_ Before a willing bondman. 

And here is another case where the question of the predominance ofpowers arises. In this instance, it is the question of _British_freedom that comes up; and the _tribute_--not the tax--that aCaesar--the first Caesar himself, had exacted, is refused 'in a betterhour, ' by a people kindling with ancestral recollections, throwingthemselves upon their ancient rights, and '_the natural bravery oftheir isle_, ' and ready to re-assert their ancient liberties. 

The Ambassador of Augustus makes his master's complaint at the BritishCourt. The answer of the State runs thus, king, queen and princetaking part in it, as the Poet's convenience seems to require. 

'This tribute, ' complains the Roman; 'by thee, lately, is leftuntendered. '

 _Queen_. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever. 

 _Prince Cloten_. _There be many Caesars_, Ere such another Julius. Britain is _A world by itself_; and we will nothing pay, For wearing our own noses. [_General principles_. ]

 _Queen_. That opportunity _Which then they had to take from us, to resume We have again. _ Remember, sir, my liege, [It is the people who are represented here by Cymbeline. ]

 _The kings your ancestors_; together with The natural bravery of your isle; which stands As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in With rocks unscaleable, and roaring waters; With sands, that will not bear your enemies' boats, But suck them up to the top-mast. 

 * * * * *

 _Cloten_. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid: _Our kingdom is stronger_ than it was at that time; and, as _I said_, there is no more _such_ Caesars: _other_ of them _may have crooked noses_; but, to owe _such straight arms_, none. 

 _Cymbeline_. Son, let your mother end. 

 _Cloten. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan_: I do not say, I am one; but I have a hand. --Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, Sir, no more tribute, pray you now. 

 _Cymbeline_. You must know, Till the _injurious Romans_ did extort This tribute from us, _we were free: Caesar's ambition_ . .. . Against all colour, here Did put the yoke upon us; which to _shake off_, Becomes a warlike people, _whom we reckon_ _Ourselves to be_. We do say then to Caesar, _Our_ ancestor was that Mulmutius, _which Ordained_ OUR LAWS, whose use THE SWORD OF CAESAR _Hath too much mangled_; whose REPAIR and FRANCHISE, Shall, by the power we hold, be _our good deed_. Mulmutius _made our laws_, Who was the first of BRITAIN which did put His brows within a golden crown, and called _Himself_ a KING. 

That is the tune when the Caesar comes this way, to a people who havesuch an ancestor to refer to; no matter what costume he comes in. Thisis Caesar in Britain; and though Prince Cloten appears to inclinenaturally to prose, as the medium best adapted to the expression ofhis views, the blank verse of Cymbeline is as good as that of Brutusand Cassius, and seems to run in their vein very much. 

It is in some such terms as these that we handle those universalmotions on whose balance the welfare of the world depends--'themotions of _resistance_ and _connection_, ' as the Elizabethanphilosopher, with a broader grasp than the Newtonian, calls them--whenwe come to the diagrams which represent particulars. This is the kindof language which this author adopts when he comes to themodifications of those motions which are incident to extensive wholesin the case of the greater congregations; that is, '_revolution_' and'_abhorrence of change_, ' and to those which belong to _particularforms_ also. For it is the science of life; and when the universalscience touches the human life, it will have nothing less vivaciousthan this. It will have the _particular of life_ here also. It willnot have abstract revolutionists, any more than it will have abstractbutterflies, or bivalves, or univalves. This is the kind of 'loud'talk that one is apt to hear in this man's school; and the clash andclang that this very play now under review is full of, is just thenoise that is sure to come out of his laboratory, whenever he getsupon one of these experiments in 'extensive wholes, ' which he is sofond of trying. It is the noise that one always hears on his stage, whenever the question of 'particular forms' and _predominance ofpowers comes_ to be put experimentally, at least, _in this class_ of'wrestling instances. '

For we have here a form of composition in which that more simple andnatural order above referred to is adopted--where those clearscientific classifications, which this author himself plainly exhibitsin another scientific work, though he disguises them in the NovumOrganum, are again brought out, no longer in the abstract, butgrappling the matter; where, instead of the scientific technicalitiesjust quoted--instead of those abstract terms, such as 'extensivewholes, ' 'greater congregation, ' 'fruition of their natures, ' and thelike--we have terms not less scientific, the equivalents of these, butmore living--words ringing with the detail of life in its scientificcondensations--reddening with the glow, or whitening with the calm, ofits ideal intensities--pursuing it everywhere--everywhere, to the lastheight of its poetic fervors and exaltations. 

And it is because this so vivid popular science has its issue fromthis 'source'--it is because it proceeds from this scientific centre, on the scientific radii, through all the divergencies andrefrangibilities of the universal beam--it is because all thisinexhaustible multiplicity and variety of particulars is threaded withthe fibre of the universal science--it is because all thesethick-flowering imaginations, these 'mellow hangings, ' are hung uponthe stems and branches that unite in the trunk of the _primaphilosophia_--it is because of this that men find it so prophetic, soinclusive, so magical; _this_ is the reason they find _all_ in it. 'Ihave either told, or designed to tell, _all_, ' says the expositor ofthese plays. 'What I cannot speak, I point out with my finger. ' Forall the building of this genius is a building on that scientificground-plan he has left us; and that is a plan which includes all _thehuman_ field. It is the plan of the _Great Instauration_. 

CHAPTER VII. 

VOLUMNIA AND HER BOY. 

 'My boy _Marcius_ approaches. '

 'Why should I war without the walls of Troy, That find such cruel battle here within? Each Trojan that is master of his heart, Let him to field. '

 Is not the ground which _Machiavel_ wisely and largely discourseth concerning governments, that the way to establish and _preserve_ them, is to reduce them _ad principia_; a rule in religion and nature, _as well as_ in civil administration? [Again. ] Was not _the Persian_ magic a _reduction_ or correspondence of the _principles_ and _architectures_ of nature to the rules and policy of governments?'--['_Questions to be asked_. ']--_Advancement of Learning_. 

It is by means of this popular rejection of the Hero's claims, whichthe tribunes succeed in procuring, that the Poet is enabled tocomplete his exhibition and test of the virtue which he finds in histime 'chiefest among men, and that which most dignifies the haver';the virtue which he finds in his time rewarded with patents ofnobility, with patrician trust, with priestly authority, with immortalfame, and thrones and dominions, with the disposal of the humanwelfare, and the entail of it to the crack of doom--no matter what'goslings' the law of entail may devolve it on. 

He makes use of this incident to complete that separation he iseffecting in the hitherto unanalysed, ill-defined, popular notions, and received and unquestioned axioms of practice--that separation ofthe instinctive military heroism, and the principle of the so-calledheroic greatness, from the true principles of heroism and nobility, the true principle of subjection and sovereignty in the individualhuman nature and in the common-weal. 

That _martial_ virtue has been under criticism and suspicion torn thebeginning of this action. It was shown from the first--from thatground and point of observation which the sufferings of the diseasedcommon-weal made for it--in no favourable light. It was branded in thefirst scene, in the person of its Hero, as 'a dog to the commonalty. 'It is one of the wretched 'commons' who invents, in his distress, thattitle for it; but the Poet himself exhibits it, not descriptivelyonly, but dramatically, as something more brutish than that--eatingthe poor man's corn that the gods have sent him, and gnawing hisvitals, devouring him soul and body, 'tooth and fell. ' It was shown upfrom the first as an instinct that men share with 'rats'. It wasbrought out from the first, and exhibited with its teeth in the heartof the common-weal. The Play begins with a cross-questioning in thecivil streets, of that sentiment which the hasty affirmations of menenthrone. It was brought out from the first--it came tramping on inthe first act, in the first scene--with its sneer at the commons'distress, longing to make 'a quarry of the _quartered_ slaves, ashigh' as the plumed hero of it 'could prick his lance'; and that, too, because they rebelled at famine, as slaves will do sometimes, when thecommon notion of hunger is permitted to instruct them in the principleof new unions; when that so impressive, and urgent, and unappeasableteacher comes down to them from the Capitol, and is permitted by theirrulers to induct them experimentally into the doctrine of 'extensivewholes, ' and 'larger congregations, ' and 'the predominance of powers. 'And it so happened, that the threat above quoted was precisely thethreat which the founder of the reigning house had been able to carryinto effect here a hundred years before, in putting down aninsurrection of that kind, as this author chanced to be the man toknow. 

But the cry of the enemy is heard without; and this same principle, which shows itself in such questionable proofs of love at home, becomes with the change of circumstances--patriotism. But the Poetdoes not lose sight of its identity under this change. This love, thatlooks so like hatred in the Roman streets, that sniffs there sohaughtily at questions about corn, and the price of 'coals, ' and theprice of labour, while it loves Rome so madly at the Volsciangates--this love, that sneers at the hunger and misery of the commonsat home, while it makes such frantic demonstrations against the_common_ enemy abroad, appears to him to be a very questionable kindof _love_, to say the least of it. 

In that fine, conspicuous specimen of this quality, which the hero ofhis story offers him--this quality which the hostilities of nationsdeify--he undertakes to sift it a little. While in the name of thatvirtue which has at least the merit of comprehending and conserving alarger unity, a more extensive whole, than the limit of one's ownpersonality, 'it runs reeking o'er the lives of men, as 'twere aperpetual spoil'; while under cover of that name which in barbaricages limits human virtue, and puts down upon the map the outline ofit--the bound which human greatness and virtue is required to come outto; while in the name of _country_ it shows itself 'from face to foota thing of blood, whose every motion is timed with dying cries, 'undaunted by the tragic sublimities of the scene, this Poet confrontsit, and boldly identifies it as that same principle of state andnobility which he has already exhibited at home. 

That sanguinary passion which the heat of conflict provokes is but theincident; it is the principle of _acquisition_, it is the naturalprinciple of absorption, it is the instinct that nature is full of, that nature is alive with; but the one that she is at war with, too--at war with in the parts--one that she is forever opposed to, andconquering in the members, with her mathematical axioms--with her lawof the whole, of 'the worthier whole, ' of 'the greater congregation';it is that principle of acquisition which it is the business of thestate to set bounds to in the human constitution--which gets brandedwith _other_ names, very vulgar ones, too, when the faculty of graspand absorption is smaller. That, and none other, is the principlewhich predominates, and is set at large here. The leashed 'dog' of thecommonalty at home, is let slip here in the conquered town. The teeththat preyed on the Roman weal there, have elongated and grown wolfishon the Volscian fields. The consummation of the captor's deeds in thecaptured city--those matchless deeds of valor--the consummation for_Coriolanus_ in _Corioli_, for 'the _conqueror_ in the _conquest_, 'is--'NOW ALL'S HIS. ' And the story of the battle without is--'He neverstopped to ease his breast with panting, till he could call both fieldand city--OURS. '

The Poet sets down nought in malice, but he will have the secret ofthis LOVE, he will have the heart out of it--this love that stops soshort with geographic limits, --that changes with the crossing of aline into a demon from the lowest pit. 

But it is a fair and noble specimen, it is a highly-qualified, 'illustrious instance, ' of this instinctive heroic virtue, he hasseized on here, and made ready now for his experiment; and even whenhe brings him in, reeking from the fresh battlefield, with the bloodundried on his brow, rejoicing in his harvest, even amid the horrorsof the conquered town, this Poet, with his own ineffable and matchlessgrace of moderation, will have us pause and listen while _his_Coriolanus, ere he will take food or wine in _his_ Corioli, givesorders that the Volscian who was kind to him personally--the poor manat whose house he lay--shall be saved, when he is so weary withslaying Volscians that 'his very memory is tired, ' and he cannot speakhis poor friend's name. 

He tracks this conqueror home again, and he watches him more sharplythan ever--this man, whose new name is borrowed from his taken town. CORIOLANUS of CORIOLI. _Marcius_, plain _Caius Marcius_, now no more. He will think it treason--even in the conquered city he will resentit--if any presume to call him by that petty name henceforth, orforget for a breathing space to include in his identity the town--thetown, that in its sacked and plundered streets, and dying cries--that, with that 'painting' which he took from it so lavishly, though hescorned the soldiers who took 'spoons'--has clothed him with hispurple honours: those honours which this Poet will not let him wearany longer, tracked in the misty outline of the past, or in the mistycomplexity of the unanalysed conceptions of the vulgar, the fatalunscientific _opinion_ of the many-headed many; that old coat of arms, which the man of science will trace now anew (and not here only) withhis new historic pencil, which he will fill now anew--not hereonly--which he will fill on another page also, 'approaching hisparticular more near'--with all its fresh, recent historic detail, with all its hideous, barbaric detail. 

He is jealous, --this new Poet of his kind, --he is jealous of this lovethat makes such work in Volscian homes, in Volscian mother's sons, under this name, 'that men sanctify, and turn up the white of the eyesto. ' He flings out suspicions on the way home, that it is even_narrower_ than it claims to be: he is in the city before it; hecontrives to jet a jar into the sound of the trumpets that announceits triumphant entry; he has thrown over all the glory of its enteringpageant, the suspicion that it is base and mercenary, that it is baseand _avaricious_, though it puts nothing in its pocket, but takes itshire on its brows. 

 _Menenius_. Brings a victory in his pocket. _Volumnia_. On's brows Menenius. 

He surprises the mother counting up the cicatrices. He arrests thecavalcade on its way to the Capitol, and bids us note, in thoseprivate whispers of family confidence, how the Camp and the Capitolstand in this hero's chart, put down on the road to 'our own house. 'Nay, he will bring out the haughty chieftain in person, and show himon his stage, standing in his 'wolfish gown, ' showing the scars that_he should hide_, and asking, like a mendicant, for his hire. Andthough he does it proudly enough, and as if he did not care for thisreturn, though he sets down his own services, and expects the peopleto set them down, to a disinterested love for his _country_, it is tothis Poet's purpose to show that he was mistaken as to that. It is tohis purpose to show that these two so different things which he findsconfounded under one name and notion in the popular understandinghere, and, what is worst of all, in the practical understanding of thepopulace, are two, and not one. That the mark of the primaldifferences, the original differences, the difference of things, thesimplicity of nature herself divides them, makes two of them, two, --not one. He has caught one of those rude, vulgar notions here, which he speaks of elsewhere so often, those notions which make suchmischief in the human life, and he is severely separating it--he isseparating the martial virtue--from the true heroism, 'with the mind, that divine fire. ' He is separating this kind of heroism from thatcover under which it insinuates itself into governments, with which itmakes its most bewildering claim to the popular approbation. 

He is bound to show that the true love of the common-weal, thatprinciple which recognises and embraces the weal of others as its own, that principle which enters into and constitutes each man's ownnoblest life, is a thing of another growth and essence, a thing whichneeds a different culture from any that the Roman Volumnia could giveit, a culture which unalytic, barbaric ages--wanting in all thescientific arts--could not give it. 

He will show, in a conspicuous instance, what that kind of patriotismamounts to, in the man who aspires to 'the helm o' the State, ' whilethere is yet no state within himself, while the mere instincts of thelower nature have, in their turn, the sway and sovereignty in him. Hewill show what that patriotism amounts to in one so schooled, when thehire it asks so disdainfully is withheld. And he will bring out thispoint too, as he brings out all the rest, in that large, scenic, theatric, illuminated lettering, which this popular design requires, and which his myth furnishes him, ready to his hand. He will have his'transient hieroglyphics, ' his _tableaux vivants_, his 'dumb-shows' toaid him here also, because this, too, is for the spectators--this, too, is for the audience whose eyes are more learned than their ears. 

It is a natural hero, one who achieves his greatness, and not one whois merely born great, whom the Poet deals with here. 'He has that inhis face which men love--_authority_. ' 'As waves before a vessel undersail, so men obey him and fall below his stern. ' The Romans havestripped off his wings and turned him out of the city gates, but theheroic instinct of greatness and generalship is not thus defeated. Hecarries with him that which will collect new armies, and make himtheir victorious leader. Availing himself of the pride and hostilityof nations, he is sure of a captaincy. His occupation is not gone solong as the unscientific ages last. The principle of his heroism andnobility has only been developed in new force by this opposition. Hewill have a new degree; he will purchase a new patent of it; he will_forge_ himself a new and _better_ name, for 'the patricians arecalled _good_ citizens. ' He will forget Corioli; _Coriolanus_ now nomore, he will conquer _Rome_, and incorporate that henceforth in hisname. He will make himself great, not by the grandeur of a truecitizenship and membership of the larger whole, in his privatesubjection to it, --not by emerging from his particular into the selfthat comprehends the whole; he will make himself great by subduing thewhole to his particular, the greater to the less, the whole to thepart. He will triumph over the Common-weal, and bind his brow with anew garland. That is his magnanimity. He will take it from without, ifthey will not let him have it within. He will turn against thatcountry, which he loved so dearly, that same edge which the Volscianhearts have felt so long. 'There's some among you have _beheld_ mefighting, ' he says. 'Come, _try upon yourselves_ what you have _seenme_?' He is only that same narrow, petty, pitiful private man healways was, in the city, and in the field, at the head of the Romanlegions, and in the legislator's chair, when, to right his singlewrong, or because the people would not let him have _all_ from them, he comes upon the stage at last with Volscian steel, and sits down, Captain of the Volscian armies, at Rome's gates. 

'This morning, ' says Menenius, after the reprieve, 'this morning forten thousand of your throats, I'd not have given a doit. ' But this isonly the same 'good citizen' we saw in the first scene, who longed tomake a quarry of _thousands of the quartered slaves_, as high as hecould prick his lance! That was 'the altitude of his virtue' _then_. It is the same citizenship with its conditions altered. 

So well and thoroughly has the philosopher done his workthroughout--so completely has he filled the Roman story with his'richer and bolder meanings, ' that when the old, familiar scene, whichmakes the denouement of the Roman myth, comes out at last in therepresentation, it comes as the crowning point of this Poet's owninvention. It is but the felicitous artistic consummation of thepiece, when this hero, in his conflicting passions and instincts, gives at last, to one private affection and impulse, the State hewould have sacrificed to another; when he gives to his boy's prattlinginanities, to his wife's silence, to the moisture in her eyes, to ashade less on her cheek, to the loss of a line there, to his mother'sscolding eloquence, and her imperious commands, the great city of thegods, the city he would have offered up, with all its sanctities, withall its household shrines and solemn temples, as one reeking, smokingholocaust, to his wounded honour. That is the principle of thecitizenship that was 'accounted GOOD' when this play began, when thisplay was written. 

 'He was a kind of nothing, _titleless_, -- Till he had forged himself _a name_ i' the fire _Of burning Rome_. '

That is his modest answer to the military friend who entreats him tospare the city. 

'Though soft-conscienced men may be content to say _it was for hiscountry_, he did it to please his mother, and to be partly proud. '

Surely that starving citizen who found himself at the beginning ofthis play, 'as lean as a rake' with this hero's legislation, and indanger of more fatal evils, was not so very wide of the truth, afterall, in his surmise as to the principles of _the heroic statesmanship_and _warfare_, when he ventured thus early on that suggestion. TheState banished him, as an enemy, and he came back with a Volscian armyto make good that verdict. But his sword without was not more cruelthan his law had been within. It was not starving only that he hadvoted for. '_Let them hang_, ' ay--(_ay_) 'and BURN TOO, ' was 'thedisposition' they had 'thwarted', --measuring 'the quarry of _thequartered slaves_, ' which it _would_ make, 'would the nobility but layaside their ruth. ' That was the disposition, that was the ignorance, the blind, brutish, demon ignorance, that 'in good time' they hadthwarted. They had ruled it out and banished it from their city onpain of death, forever; they had turned it out in its singleimpotence, and it came back '_armed_;' for this was one of rudenature's monarchs, and outstretched heroes. 

Yet is he conquered and defeated. The enemy which has made war withoutso long, which has put Corioli and Rome in such confusion, has itswarfare within also, and it is there that the hero is beaten andslain. For there is no state or fixed sovereignty in his soul. Bothsides of the city rise at once; there is a fearful battle, and thered-eyed Mars is dethroned. The end which he has pursued at such acost is within his reach at last; but he cannot grasp it. The citylies there before him, and his dragon wings encircle it; there issteel enough in the claws and teeth now, but he cannot take it. Forthere is no law and no justice of the peace, and no general within toput down the conflict of changeful, _warring selfs_, to suppress themutiny of mutually opposing, mutually _annihilating_ selfish dictates. 

In vain he seeks to make his will immutable; for the single passionhas its hour, this 'would-do' changes. With the impression the passionchanges, and the purpose that is _passionate_ must alter with it, unless pure obstinacy remain in its place, and fulfil the annulleddictate. For _such_ purpose, one person of the scientific drama tellsus--one who had had some dramatic experience in it, --

 'is but _the slave to memory_, Of violent birth, and poor validity, Which now, like fruit unripe, stick on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be. What to ourselves _in passion_ we propose, _The passion ending doth the purpose lose_. '

That is Hamlet's verbal account of it, when he undertakes to reducehis philosophy to rhyme, and gets the player to insert some sixteen ofhis lines quietly into the court performance: that is his _verbal_account of it; but _his_ action, too, speaks louder and moreeloquently than his words. 

The principle of identity and the true self is wanting in thisso-called _self_-ishness. For the true principle of self is the peaceprinciple, the principle of _state_ within and without. 

 '_To thine own self be true, And it must follow as_ the night the day, _Thou canst not then be false to any man_'

That is the doctrine, the scientific doctrine. But it is not thepassionate, but thoughtful Hamlet, shrinking from blood, with hisresolution sicklied o'er with the pale cast of _conscientious_thought; it is not the humane, conscience-fettered Hamlet, but the manwho aspires to make his single humours the law of the universal world, in whom the poet will show now this want of state and sovereignty. 

He steels himself against Cominius; he steels himself againstMenenius. 'He sits in gold, ' Cominius reports, '_his eye red_ as'twould burn Rome'--a small flambeau the poet thinks for so large acity. 'He no more remembers his mother than an eight year old horse, 'is the poor old Menenius querulous account of him, when with a crackedheart he returns and reports how the conditions of a man are alteredin him: but while he is making that already-quoted report of thissuperhuman growth and assumption of a divine authority and honour inthe Military Chieftain, the Poet is quietly starting a little piece ofphilosophical machinery that will shake out that imperial pageant, andshow the slave that is hidden under it, for it is no _man_ at all, but, in very deed, a slave, as Hamlet calls it, '_passion's slave_, ''a pipe for fortune's finger _to sound what stop she please_. ' Forthat _state_, --that command--depends on that which '_changes_, '--fortuities, impressions, nay, it has the principle of revolutionwithin it. It is its nature to change. The single passion cannotengross the large, many-passioned, complex nature, so rich and variousin motivity, so large and comprehensive in its surveys--the singlepassion seeks in vain to subdue it to its single end. That reigningpassion must give way when it is spent, or sooner if its master come. You cannot make it look to-day as it looked yesterday; you cannot makeit look when its rival affection enters as it looked when it reignedalone. An hour ago, the hue of resolution on its cheek glowed immortalred. It was strong enough to defy God and all his creatures; it wouldannul all worlds but that one which it was god of. 

This is the speech of it on the lips of the actor who comes in tointerpret to us _the thinker's_ inaction, the thinker's irresolution, for 'it is _conscience_ that makes cowards of us all. ' Here is a manwho is resolute enough. _His will_ is not 'puzzled. ' _His_ thoughts, _his_ scruples will not divide and destroy his purpose. _Here_ is THEUNITY which precedes ACTION. This man is going to be revenged for hisfather. 'What would you undertake to do?' 'To cut his throat i' thechurch. '

 'To hell allegiance, vows to the blackest devil. Conscience and grace to the profoundest pit. I _dare_ damnation. To this point I stand That both the worlds _I_ give to negligence, Let come what comes, _only_ I'll be revenged Most thoroughly for _my_ father. ' [_Only_. ]

That is your passionate speech, your speech of fire. That was what theprinciple of vindictiveness said when it was _you_, when it masteredyou, and called _itself_ by your name. Ay, it has many names, and manylips; but it is always _one_. That was what it said an hour ago; andnow it is shrunk away you know not where, you cannot rally it, and youare there confounded, self-abandoned, self-annulled, a forgery, belying the identity which your visible form--which your _human_ form, was made to promise, --a slave, --a pipe for _fortune's_ finger. This isthe kind of action which is criticised in the scientific drama, and'rejected'; and the conclusion after these reviews and rejections, 'after every species of rejection, '--the _affirmation_ is, that thereis but one principle that is _human_, and that is GOOD yesterday, to-day, and for ever; and whose is true to that is true, in the humanform, to the self which was, and will be. He cannot then be false tohis yesterday, or tomorrow; he cannot then be false to himself; hecannot then be false to any man; for that is the self that is one inus all--that is the self of _reason_ and conscience, not passion. 

But as for this affection that is tried here now, that the diagram ofthis scene exhibits so tangibly, 'as it were, to the eye, '--this poorand private passion, that sits here, with its imperial crown on itshead, in the place of God, but lacking His 'mercy, '--this passion ofthe petty man, that has made itself so hugely visible with itsmonstrous outstretching, that lies stretched out and glittering onthese hills, with its dragon coils unwound, with its deadlyfangs--those little fangs, that crush our private hearts, and tortureand rend our daily lives--exposed in this great solar microscope, striking the _common-weal_, --as for this petty, usurping passion, there is a spectacle approaching that will undo it. 

Out of that great city there comes a little group of forms, whichyesterday this hero 'could not stay to pick out of that pile which hadoffended him, ' that was his word, --which yesterday he would have burntin it without a scruple. Towards the great Volscian army thatbeleaguers Rome it comes--towards the pavilion where the Volsciancaptain sits in gold, with his wings outspread, it shapes its course. To other eyes, it is but a group of Roman ladies, two or three, cladin mourning, with their attendants, and a prattling child with them;but, with the first glance at it from afar, the great chieftaintrembles, and begins to clasp his armour. He could think of them anddoom them, in his over-mastering passion of revenge, with its heroicinfinity of mastery triumphant in him, --he could _think_ of them anddoom them; but the impressions of _the senses_ are more vivid, and thepassions wait on them. As that group draws nearer, one sees, by thelight of this Poet's painting, a fair young matron, with subdued mienand modest graces, and an elder one, leading a wilful boy, with a'confirmed countenance, ' pattering by her side; just such a group asone might see anywhere in the lordly streets of Palatinus, --much sucha one as one might find anywhere under those thousand-doomed plebeianroofs. 

But to this usurping 'private, ' to this man of passion and affection, and not reason--this man of private and particular motives only, andblind partial aims, it is more potent than Rome and all her claims; itoutweighs Rome and all her weal--'it is worth of senators andpatricians a city full, of tribunes and plebeians a sea and landfull'--it outweighs all the Volscians, and their trust in him. 

His reasons of state begin to falter, and change their aspects, asthat little party draws nearer; and he finds himself within itsmagnetic sphere. 

For this is the pattern-man, for the man of mere impression andinstinct. He is full of feeling within his sphere, though it is asphere which does not embrace plebeians, --which crushes Volscians withclarions, and drums, and trumpets, and poets' voices to utter itsexultations. Within that private sphere, his sensibilities areexquisite and poetic in their depth and delicacy. He is not wanting inthe finer impulses, in the nobler affections of the particular andprivate nature. He is not a base, brutal man. Even in his martialconquests, he will not take 'leaden spoons. ' His soul is with a divineambition fired to have _all_. It is instinct, but it is the instinctof the human; it is 'conservation with _advancement_' that he isblindly pursuing, for this is a generous nature. He knows the heightsthat reason lends to instinct in the human kind, and the infinitiesthat affection borrows from it. 

And the Poet himself has large and gentle views of 'this particular, 'scientific views of it, scientific recognitions of its laws, such asno philosophic school was ever before able to pronounce. Even here, onthis sad and tragic ground of a subdued and debased common-weal, hewill not cramp its utterance--he will give it leave to speak, in allits tenderness and beauty, in its own sweet native dialect, all itspoetic wildness, its mad verities, its sober impossibilities, even atthe moment in which he asks in statesmanship for the rational motive, undrenched in humours and affections--for the motive of the weal thatis common, and not for the motive of that which is private andexclusive. 

In vain the hero struggles with his yielding passion, and seeks toretain it. In vain he struggles with a sentiment which he himselfdescribes as 'a gosling's instinct, ' and seeks to subdue it. In vainhe rallies his pride, and says, 'Let it be _virtuous_ to be_obstinate_'; and determines to stand 'as if a man were author ofhimself, and knew no other kin. ' His mother kneels. It is but a frail, aged woman kneeling to the victorious chieftain of the Volscian hosts;but to him it is 'as if _Olympus_ to _a mole-hill_ stooped insupplication. ' His boy looks at him with an eye in which great Naturespeaks, and says, 'Deny not'; he sees the tears in the dove's eyes ofthe beloved, he hears her dewy voice; we hear it, too, through thePoet's art, in the words she speaks; and he forgets his part. We reachthe 'grub' once more. The dragon wings of armies melt from him. He ishis young boy's father--he is his fair young wife's beloved. 

 'O a kiss, long _as_ my exile, sweet _as_ my revenge. '

There's no decision yet. The scales are even now. But there is anotherthere, waiting to be saluted, and he himself is but a boy--his ownmother's boy again, at her feet. It is she that schools and lessonshim; it is she that conquers him. It _was_ 'her boy, ' after all--itwas her boy still, that was 'coming home. '

Well might Menenius say--

 '_This Volumnia_ is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, A city full; of tribunes _such as you_, A sea and land full. '

But let us take the philosophic report of this experiment as we findit; for on the carefullest study, when once it is put in itsconnections, when once we 'have heard the argument, ' we shall not findanything in it to spare. But we must not forget that this is still'the election, ' the ignorant election of the common-weal which isunder criticism, and though this election has been revoked in the playalready, and this is a banished man we are trying here, there was aplay in progress when this play was played, in which that revocationwas yet to come off; and this Poet was anxious that the subject shouldbe considered first from the most comprehensive grounds, so that _theprinciple of 'the election_' need never again be called in question, so that the revolution should end in the state, and not in theprinciple of revolution. 

 'My wife comes foremost; then the honoured mould Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand The grand-child to her blood. But, out, _affection_! All bond and privilege of nature, break! _Let it be virtuous to be obstinate_. -- What is that curtsey worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can _make gods forsworn_?

['He speaks of the people as if he were a god to punish, and not a manof infirmity. ']

 'I melt, _and am not_ Of STRONGER EARTH than others. --My mother bows; As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod: and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession, which Great Nature cries, 'Deny not!'--Let the Volsces Plough Rome, and harrow Italy; I'll never Be such a GOSLING to obey INSTINCT; but stand, As if a MAN were author of himself, And knew no other kin. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. 

 _Vir_. The sorrow that delivers us thus changed, Makes you think so. 

[The objects are altered, not the eyes. We are changed. But it is withsorrow. She bids him note that alteration, and puts upon it the blameof his loss of love. But that is just the kind of battery he is notprovided for. His resolution wavers. That unrelenting warrior, thatfierce revengeful man is gone already, and forgot to leave hispart--the words he was to speak are wanting. ]

 _Cor_. Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, _and I am out_, _Even to a full disgrace_. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, For that, Forgive our Romans. --O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip Hath virgin'd it e'er since. --You gods! I prate, And the _most noble mother of the world_ Leave unsaluted: Sink, my knee, t'the earth; [_Kneels_. ] Of _the deep duty_ more _impression_ show _Than that of common sons_. 

 _Vol_. O, stand up bless'd! Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint, I kneel before thee; and unproperly _Show duty, as mistaken_--

[Note it--'as mistaken, ' for this is the kind of learning describedelsewhere, which differs from received opinions, and must, therefore, pray in aid of similes. ]

 --and improperly Show DUTY, as mistaken all the while Between the child and parent. 

[And the prostrate form of that which should command, is representedin the kneeling mother. The Poet himself points us to thishieroglyphic. It is the common-weal that kneels in her person, and therebel interprets for us. It is the violated law that stoops forpardon. ]

 _Cor_. What is this? Your knees to me? to _your corrected son_? _Then_ let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; _then_ let the _mutinous_ winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun; _Murdering impossibility, to make What cannot be, slight work_. 

 _Vol_. Thou _art my warrior; I holp to frame thee_. 

[But it is not of the little Marcius only, the hero--the Roman hero ingerm--that she speaks--there is more than her Roman part _here_, whenshe adds--]

 _Vol_. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which _by the interpretation_ of _full time_ May show, _like all, yourself_. 

[And hear now what benediction the true hero can dare to utter, whatprayer the true hero can dare to pray, through this faltering, fluctuating, martial hero's lips, when, 'that whatsoever god who ledhim' is failing him, and the flaws of impulse are swaying him to andfro, and darkening him for ever. ]

 _Cor. _ 'The god of soldiers _With the consent of_ SUPREME JOVE, '--[the Capitolian, the god of state]--'inform _Thy thoughts_ with NOBLENESS;'--[_inform thy thoughts. _] 'that thou may'st prove _The shame_ unvulnerable, and stick i'the wars Like a great sea-mark, _standing every flaw_, And saving those that eye thee. '

[But _this_ hero's conclusion for himself, and his impulsive natureis--]

 'Not of a woman's tenderness to be, Requires nor child, nor woman's face to see. I have sat too long. '

But the mother will not let him go, and her stormy eloquence completesthe conquest which that dumb rhetoric had before well nigh achieved. 

Yes, Menenius was right in his induction. His abstraction and briefsumming up of 'this Volumnia' and her history, is the true one. She isvery potent in the business of the state, whether you take her in herfirst literal acceptation, as the representative mother, or whetheryou take her in that symbolical and allusive comprehension, to whichthe emphasis on the name is not unfrequently made to point, as 'thenurse and mother of all humanities, ' the instructor of the state, theformer of its nobility, who _in_-forms their thoughts with nobleness, such nobleness, and such notions of it as they have, and who fits themfor the place they are to occupy in the body of the common-weal. 

Menenius has not exaggerated in his exposition the relative importanceof _this_ figure among those which the dumb-show of this playexhibits. Among the 'transient hieroglyphics' which the diseasedcommon-weal produces on the scientific stage, when the question of itsCURE is the question of the Play--in that great crowd of forms, inthat moving, portentous, stormy pageant of senators, and consuls, andtribunes, and plebeians, whose great acts fill the scene--there arenone more significant than these two, whom we saw at first 'seated ontwo low stools, sewing'; these two of the wife and mother--thecommanding mother, and the 'gracious silence. '

'This Volumnia'--yes, let her school him, for it is from her schoolthat he has come: let her conquer him, for she is the conserver ofthis harm. It is she who makes of it a tradition. To its utmost boundof consequences, she is the mother of it, and accountable to God andman for its growth and continuance. Consuls, and senators, andpatricians, and tribunes, such as we have, are powerless without her, are powerless against her. The state begins with her; but, instead ofit, she has bred and nursed the destroyer of the state. Let herconquer him, though her life-blood must flow for it now. This play isthe Cure of the Common-weal, the convulsed and dying Common-weal; andwhether the assault be from within or without, this woman must undoher work. The tribunes have sent for her now: she must go forthwithout shrinking, and slay her son. She was the true mother; shetrained him for the common-weal, she would have made a patrician ofhim, but that craved a noble cunning; she was not instructed in it;she must pay the penalty of her ignorance--the penalty of hertraditions--and slay him now. There is no help for it, for she hasmade with her traditions a thing that no common-weal can bear. 

Woe for this Volumnia! Woe for the common-weal whose chiefs she hasreared, whose great men and 'GOOD CITIZENS' she has made! Woe for her!Woe for the _common_-weal, for _her_ boy approaches! The land isgroaning and shaken; the faces of men gather blackness; the clashingof arms is heard in the streets, blood is flowing, the towns areblazing. Great Rome will soon be sacked with Romans, for her boy iscoming home; the child of her instinct, the son of her ignorance, theson of her RELIGION, is _coming home_. 

 'O mother, mother! What hast thou done?. .. . O my mother, mother! O, You have won _a happy victory to Rome_, -- But for your son--'

Alas for him, and his gentle blood, and noble breeding, and hispatrician greatness! Woe for the unlearned mother's son, who has madehim great with such a training, that Rome's weal and his, Rome'sgreatness and his, must needs contend together--that 'Rome's happyvictory' must needs be the blaze that shall darken him for ever!

Yet he storms again, with something like his old patrician fierceness;and yet not that, the tone is altered; he is humbler and tamer than hewas, and he says himself, 'It is the first time that ever I havelearned to scold'; but he is stung, even to boasting of his old heroicdeeds, when Aufidius taunts him with his un-martial, un-_divine_infirmity, and brings home to him in very words, at last, the Poet'ssuppressed verdict, the Poet's deferred sentence, GUILTY!--of what? Heis but A BOY, his nurse's boy, and he undertook _the state_! He is butA SLAVE, and he was caught climbing to the imperial chair, and puttingon the purple. He is but 'a _dog_ to the commonalty, ' and he wassitting in the place of God. 

Aufidius owns, indeed, to his own susceptibility to these particularand private affections. When Coriolanus turns to him after that appealfrom Volumnia has had its effect, and asks:--

 'Now, good Aufidius, Were _you in my stead_, say, would _you_ have heard A mother _less_, or granted _less_, Aufidius?'

He answers, guardedly, 'I was moved _withal_. ' But the philosopher hashis word there, too, as well as the Poet, slipped in under the Poet's, covertly, 'I was _moved_ with-_all_. ' [It is the Play of theCommon-weal. ] And what should the single private man, the man ofexclusive affections and changeful humours, do with the weal of thewhole? In his noblest conditions, what business has he in the state?and who shall vote to give him the out-stretched wings and claws ofVolscian armies, that he may say of Rome, _all's mine_, and give it tohis wife or mother? Who shall follow in _his_ train, to plough Romeand harrow Italy, who lays himself and all his forces at his mother'sfeet, and turns back at her word?

 _Aufidius_. You lords and HEADS of the STATE, perfidiously Has he betrayed _your business_, and given up For certain drops of salt, _your city_ Rome-- I say, _your city_--to _his wife and mother: Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk; never admitting Counsel of the war_, but _at his nurse's tears_ He whined and roar'd away your victory, That pages blushed at him, and men of heart _Looked wondering at each other_. 

 [There is a look which has come down to us. That is Elizabethan. That is the suppressed Elizabethan. ]

 _Cor_. Hear'st thou, _Mars_?

 _Auf_. Name not _the god_ thou _Boy_ of tears. 

 _Cor_. _Ha_!

 _Auf_. No MORE. [You are no more. ]

 _Cor_. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. _Boy? O Slave_! . .. . Boy? False _hound_!

[These are the names that are flying about here, now that the martialchiefs are criticising each other: it is no matter which side theygo. ]

 '_Boy? O slave_! . .. Boy? False hound! ['He is a very dog to the commonalty. '] Alone I did it. BOY?

But it is Volumnia herself who searches to the quick the principle ofthis boyish sovereignty, in her satire on the undivine passion shewishes to unseat. It is thus that she upbraids the hero with hisun_manly_, ungracious, ignoble purpose:--

 'Speak to me, son. 

 Thou hast affected the fine strains of HONOUR, To imitate the graces of the gods; To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a NOBLE MAN Still to remember wrongs?

For that is the height of the scientific affirmation also; the otherwas, in scientific language, its 'anticipation. ' He wants nothing of agod but an eternity, and a heaven to throne in (slight deficiences ina god already). 'Yes, mercy, if you paint him truly. ' 'I paint him incharacter. '

NOBILITY, HONOUR, MANLINESS, HEROISM, GOOD CITIZENSHIP, FREEDOM, DIVINITY, PATRIOTISM. We are getting a number of definitions here, vague popular terms, scientifically fixed, scientifically cleared, destined to waver, and be confused and mixed with other and fatallydifferent things in the popular apprehension no more--when once thisscience is unfolded for that whole people for whom it wasdelivered--no more for ever. 

There is no open dramatic embodiment in this play of the true idealnobility, and manliness, and honour, and divinity. This is the falseaffirmation which is put upon the stage here, to be tried, andexamined, and rejected. For it is to this Poet's purpose to show--andvery much to his purpose to show, sometimes--what is not the trueaffirmation. His method is critical, but his rejection contains thetrue definition. The whole play is contrived to shape it here; allhands combine to frame it. Volscians and Romans conspire to pronounceit; the world is against this 'one man' and his part-liness, though hebe indeed 'every man. ' He himself has been compelled to pronounce it;for the speaker for the whole is the speaker in each of us, andpronounces his sentences on ourselves with our own lips. 'Being gentlewounded craves a noble cunning, ' is the word of the noble, who comesback with a Volscian army to exhibit upon the stage this grandhieroglyphic, this grand dramatic negative of that nobility. 

But it is from the lips of the mother, brought into this deadlyantagonism with the manliness she has trained, compelled now to echothat popular rejection, that the Poet can venture to speak out, atlast, from the depths of his true heroism. It is this Volumnia whostrikes now to the heart of the play with her satire on thisaffectation of the graces of the gods, --this assumption of nobility, and manliness, and the fine strains of _honour_, --in one who is ledonly by the blind demon gods, 'that keep this dreadful pother o'er ourheads, '--in one who is bounded and shut in after all to the range ofhis own poor petty private passions, shut up to a poverty of soulwhich forbids those assumptions, limited to a nature in which those_strictly_ human terms can be only affectations, one who concentratesall his glorious _special_ human gifts on the pursuit of ends forwhich the lower natures are also furnished. Honour, forsooth! the finestrains of honour, and the graces of the gods. Look at that Volscianarmy there. 

 'To tear with thunder _the wide cheeks o' the air, And yet_ to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. _Why dost not speak_?'

He can not. There is no speech for that. It does not bear _review_. 

 'Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man _Still_ to remember wrongs?'

'Let it be _virtuous_ to be _obstinate_, ' let there be no betterprinciple of that identity which we insist on in men, that firmnesswhich we call manliness, and the cherished _wrong_ is honour. 

It is but an interrogative point, but the height of our affirmation istaken with it. It is a figure of speech and _intensifies_ theaffirmative with its irony. 

 'This a consul? No. '

 'No more, but e'en a woman, and COMMANDED By such _poor_ passion as the maid that milks, And does the meanest chares. ' [QUEEN. ]

 'Give me that _man_ that is not _passion's slave_. 

 Since my dear soul _was mistress of her choice, And could of men distinguish her election_, She hath seal'd thee for herself: _for_ thou hast been As one, in suffering _all_, that _suffers_ nothing. 

But the man who rates so highly 'this single mould of Marcius, ' andthe wounded name of it, that he will _forge_ another for it 'i' thefire of burning Rome, ' who will hurt the world to ease the rankling ofhis single wrong, who will plough Rome and harrow Italy to cool thefever of his thirst for vengeance; this is not the man, this is notthe hero, this is not THE GOD, that the scientific review accepts. Whoso has put him in the chair of state on earth, or in heaven, must'revoke that ignorant election. ' Whatever our 'perfect example incivil life' may be, and we are, perhaps, not likely to get it openlyin the form of an historic '_composition_' on this author's stage, whatever name and shape it may take when it comes, this evidently isnot it. This Caius Marcius is dismissed for the present from thisPoet's boards. This curule chair that stands here empty yet, for aughtthat we can see, and this crown of 'olives of endless age, ' is not forhim. 

 'Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius? Against him first. 

 'We proceed first by negatives, and conclude after every species of rejection. '

On the surface of this play, lies everywhere the question of theCommon-Weal, in its relation to the good that is private andparticular, scientifically reviewed, as a question in proportion, --asthe question of the whole against the part, --of the greater againstthe less, --nay, as the question of that which is against that which isnot. For it is a treatment which throws in passing, the shadow of theold metaphysical suspicion and scepticism on that chaoticunaxiomatical condition of things which the scientific eye discovershere, for the new philosophy with all its new comprehension of theactual, with all its new convergency on practice, is careful to informus that it observes, notwithstanding the old distinction between'being and becoming. ' This is an IDEAL philosophy also, though thenotions of nature are more respected in it, than the spontaneousunconsidered notions of men. 

It is the largeness of the objective whole, the historic whole and thefaculty in man of comprehending it, and the sense of relation andobligation to it, as the highest historic law, --the _formal_, the_essential law_ of _kind_ in him, it is the breadth of reason, it isthe circumference of conscience, it is the _grandeur_ of duty whichthis author arrays here scientifically against that oblivion andignoring of the _whole_, that forgetfulness of the world, and theuniversal tie which the ignorance of the unaided sense and thenarrowness of passion and private affection create, whether in theone, or the few, or the many. It is the Weal of the whole against thewill of the part, no matter where the limit of that partiality, or'partliness, ' as the '_poor_ citizen' calls it, is fixed whether it bethe selfishness of the single self, or whether the household tieenlarges its range, whether it be the partiality of class or faction, or the partiality of kindred or race, or the partiality of geographiclimits, the question of the play, the question of the whole, of theworthier whole, is still pursued with scientific exaction. It is theconflict with axioms which is represented here, and not with wordyaxioms only, not with abstractions good for the human mind only, inits abstract self-sustained speculations, but with historical axioms, axioms which the universal nature knows, laws which have had theconsent of things since this nature began, laws which passed long agothe universal commons. 

It is the false unscientific state which is at war, not with abstractspeculation merely, but with the nature of things and the receivedlogic of the universe, which this man of a practical science wishes tocall attention to. It is the crowning and enthroning of that which isprivate and particular, it is the anointing of passion and instinct, it is the arming of the absolute--the demon--will; it is the puttinginto the hands of the ignorant part the sceptre of the whole, whichstrikes the scientific Reviewer as the thing to be noted here. And byway of proceeding by negatives first, he undertakes to convey toothers the impression which this state of things makes upon his ownmind, as pointedly as may be, consistently with those generalintentions which determine his proceedings and the conditions whichlimit them, and he is by no means timid in availing himself of thecapabilities of his story to that end. The true spectacle of theplay, --the principal hieroglyphic of it, --the one in which thishieroglyphic criticism approaches the metaphysical intention mostnearly, is one that requires interpretation. It does not report itselfto the eye at once. The showman stops to tell us before he producesit, that it _is_ a symbol, --that this is one of the places where he'prays in aid of similes, '--that this is a specimen of what he callselsewhere 'allusive' writing. The true spectacle of the play, --thegrand hieroglyphic of it, --is that view of the city, and the woman inthe foreground kneeling _for it_, 'to her _son_, her _corrected_ son, 'begging for pardon of her corrected rebel--hanging for life on thechance of his changeful moods and passions. It is _Rome_ that liesstretched out there upon her hills, in all her visible greatness andclaims to reverence; it is Rome with her Capitolian crown, forth fromwhich the Roman matron steps, and with no softer cushion than theflint, in the dust at the rebel's feet, kneels '_to show_'--as shetells us--to show as clearly as the conditions of the exhibition allowit to be exhibited, DUTY as mistaken, --'_as_ mistaken, '--_all thewhile_ between _the child_ and _parent_. 

It is Jupiter that stoops; it is Olympus doing obeisance to themole-hill; it is the divineness of the universal law--the _formal_ lawin man--that is prostrate and suppliant in her person; and the Poetexhausts even his own powers of expression, and grows inarticulate atlast, in seeking to convey his sense of this ineffable, impossible, historical pretension. It is as 'if Olympus to a mole-hill should _insupplication nod_; it is as if _the pebbles_ on the hungry beachshould _fillip the stars_; as if _the mutinous winds_ should strikethe proud cedars against the fiery sun, _murdering impossibility_, tomake what _can not be_, slight work, '--what can not _be_. 

That was the spectacle of the play, and that was the world's spectaclewhen the play was written. Nay, worse; a thousandfold more wild andpitiful, and confounding to the intellect, and revolting to itssensibilities, was the spectacle that the State offered then to thephilosophic eye. The Poet has all understated his great case. He hastaken the pattern-man in the private affections, the noble man of mereinstinct and passion, and put _him_ in the chair of state;--the manwhom nature herself had chosen and anointed, and crowned with kinglygraces. 

 'As waves before a vessel under sail So men obeyed him, and fell below his stern, '

 'If he would but incline to the people, there never was a worthier man. '

Not to the natural private affections and instincts, touched with thenobility of human sense, --not to the loyalty of the husband, --not tothe filial reverence and duty of the son, true to that private andpersonal relationship at least; not to the gentleness of thepatrician, true to that private patricianship also, must England oweher _weal_--such weal as she could beg and wheedle from her lord andruler then. Not from the conquering hero with his fresh oakleaf on hisbrow, and the command of the god who led him in his speech andaction, --and not from his lineal successor merely, must England begher welfare then. It was not the venerable mother, or the gentle wife, with her dove's eyes able to make gods of earth forsworn, who couldsay then, 'The laws of England are at my commandment. '

Crimes that the historic pen can only point to, --not record, --low, illiterate, brutish stupidities, mad-cap folly, and wantonextravagancies and caprices, in their ideal impersonations--_these_were the gods that England, in the majesty of her State, in thesovereignty of her chartered weal, must abase herself to then. To thevices of tyranny, to low companions and their companions, and _their_kindred, the State must cringe and kneel then. To _these_, --men whomeddled with affairs of State, --who took, even at such a time, theState to be _their_ business, --must address themselves; for these werethe councils in which England's peace and war were settled then, andthe Tribune could enter them only in disguise. His _veto_ could notget spoken outright, it could only be pronounced in under-tones andcircumlocutions. Not with noble, eloquent, human appeals, could thesoul of power be reached and conquered then--the soul of him 'withinwhose eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, ' the man of the thirty legions, to whom this _argument_ must be dedicated. 'Ducking observances, 'basest flatteries, sycophancies past the power of man to utter, personal humiliations, and prostrations that seemed to teach 'the minda most inherent baseness, ' _these_ were the weapons, --the requiredweapons of the statesman's warfare then. From these 'dogs of thecommonalty' men who were indeed 'noble, ' whose 'fame' did indeed 'foldin the orb o' the world, ' must take then, as a purchase or a gift, deliverance from physical restraint, and life itself. These were thedays when _England's_ victories were 'blubbered and whined away, ' insuch a sort, that 'pages blushed at it, and men of heart lookedwondering at each other. '

And, when science began first to turn her eye on history, and proposeto herself the relief of the human estate, as her end, and thescientific arts as her means, this was the spectacle she found herselfexpected to endure; this was the state of things she found herselfcalled upon to sanction and conserve. She could not immediately reformit--she must produce first her doctrine of '_true_ forms, ' herscientific definitions and precepts based on them, and her doctrine ofconstructions. She could not openly condemn it; but she couldcriticise and reject it by means of that method which is 'sometimesnecessary in the sciences, ' and to which 'those who would let in newlight upon the human mind must have recourse. ' She could seize thegrand hieroglyphic of the heroic past, and make it 'point with itsfinger' that which was unspeakable, --her scorn of it. She could borrowthe freedom of the old Roman lips, to repronounce, in her own newdialect, --not their anticipation of her _veto_ only, but her eternalaffirmation, --the word of her consulship, the rule of hernobility, --the nobility of being, --being in the human, --the nobilityof manliness, --_the divinity of State_, the _true_ doctrine ofit;--and, to speak _truly, 'Antiquitas seculi, juventus mundi. _'

CHAPTER VIII. 

METAPHYSICAL AID. 

 'I do not like the fashion of your garments. You will say they are _Persian_ attire; but let them be changed. '-- _The King to Tom o' Bedlam. _

 'Would you proceed especially against _Caius Marcius_? Against him _first_. '

It is the cure of the Common-weal which this author has undertaken, for he found himself pre-elected to the care of the people and to theworld's tribuneship. But he handles his subject in the natural, historical order, in the chronological order, --and not here only, butin that play of which this is a part, --of which this is the playwithin the Play, --in that grand, historical proceeding on the world'stheatre, which it was given to the author of this play to institute. 

He begins with the physical wants of men. The hunger, and cold, andweariness, and all the physical suffering and destitution of thathuman condition which is the condition of the many, has arrested hishuman eye, with its dumb, patient eloquence, and it is _that_ whichmakes the starting point of his revolution. He translates its mutelanguage, he anticipates its word. He is setting in movementoperations that are intended to make 'coals cheap'; he proposes tohave corn at his own price. He has so much confidence in what histongue can do in the way of flattery, that he expects to come backbeloved of all the trades in Rome. He will 'cog their hearts fromthem, ' and get elected _consul_ yet, with all their voices. 

'Scribbling seems to be the sign of a disordered age, ' says thephilosopher, who finds so much occasion for the use of that art aboutthese days. 'It seems as if it were the season for vain things whenthe hurtful oppress us; in a time when doing ill is common, to donothing but what signifies nothing is a kind of commendation. 'Tis mycomfort that I shall be one of the last that are called in question;and, whilst the greater offenders are calling to account, I shall haveleisure to amend; for it would be unreasonable to punish _the lesstroublesome_, whilst we are infested with _the greater_. As thephysician said to one who presented him his finger to dress, and who, he perceived, had an ulcer in his lungs, "Friend, " said he, "it is notnow time to concern yourself about your fingers-ends". And_yet_--[_and yet_]--I saw, some years ago, a person whose name andmemory I have in very great esteem, in the very height of our greatdisorders, when there was neither law nor justice put in execution, _nor magistrate_ that performed _his office--no more than there isnow_--publish, I know not what pitiful _reformations_, about _clothes, cookery, and law chicanery_. These are amusements wherewith to feed apeople that are ill-used, _to show that they are not totallyforgotten_. '

That is the account of it. That is the history of this innovation, beginning with books, proposing pitiful reformations in clothes, andcookery, and law chicanery. That would serve to show an ill-usedpeople that there was some care for them stirring, some tribuneship atwork already. '_What I say of physic generally_, may serve AS ANEXAMPLE OF ALL OTHER SCIENCES, ' says _this same_ scribbler, under hisscribbling cognomen. 'We certainly _intend_ to comprehend them _all_, 'says the graver authority, 'such as Ethics, Politics, and Logic. '

That is, where we are exactly in this so entertaining performance, which was also designed for the benefit of an ill-used people; forthis candidate for the chief magistracy is the _Aedile_ also, andwhile he stands for his place these spectacles will continue. 

It is that physical suffering of 'the poor citizens' that he beginswith here. It is the question of the price of corn with which he openshis argument. The dumb and patient people are on his stage already;dumb and patient no longer, but clamoring against the surfeiting andwild wanton waste of the few; clamoring for their share in God'scommon gifts to men, and refusing to take any longer the portion whicha diseased state puts down for them. But he tells us from the outset, that _this_ claim will be prosecuted in such a manner as to 'throwforth greater themes for insurrection's arguing. '

Though all the wretched poor were clothed and fed with imperialtreasure, with imperial luxury and splendour--though all the artswhich are based on the knowledge of physical causes should be put inrequisition to relieve their need--though the scientific discoveriesand inventions which are pouring in upon human life from that field ofscientific inquiry which our men of science have already cultivatedtheir golden harvests, should reach at last poor Tom himself--thoughthat scientific movement now in progress should proceed till it hasreached the humblest of our human kin, and surrounded him with all thegoods of the private and particular nature, with the sensuous luxuriesand artistic elegancies and refinements of the lordliest home--thatgood which is the distinctive human good, that good which is theconstitutional human _end_, that good, that formal and essential good, which it is the end of this philosophy to bring to man, would notnecessarily be realised. 

For _that_, and nothing short of that, the '_advancement_' of thespecies to that which it is blindly reaching for, painfully gropingfor--its form in nature, its ideal perfection--the advancement of itto something more noble than the nobility of a nobler kind ofvermin--a state which involves another kind of individual growth andgreatness, one which involves a different, a distinctively 'humanprinciple' and tie of congregation, is that which makes the ultimateintention of this philosophy. 

The organization of that large, complex, difficult form in nature, inwhich the many are united in 'the greater congregation'; that moreextensive whole, of which the units are each, not simple forms, butthe complicated, most highly complex, and not yet subdued complexity, which the individual form of man in itself constitutes; this sodifficult result of nature's combinations and her laws of combination, labouring, struggling towards its consummation, but disordered, threatened, convulsed, asking aid of _art_, is the subject; the cureof it, the cure and healthful regimen of it, the problem. 

And it is a born doctor who has taken it in hand this time; one ofyour natural geniuses, with an inward vocation for the art of_healing_, instructed of nature beforehand in that mystery andprofession, and appointed of her to that ministry. Wherever you findhim, under whatever disguise, you will find that his mind is runningon the structure of _bodies_, the means of their conservation andgrowth, and the remedies for their disorders, and decays, andantagonisms, without and within. He has a most extraordinary andincurable natural bent and determination towards medicine and cures ingeneral; he is always inquiring into the anatomy of things and thequalities of drugs, analysing them and mixing them, finding the art oftheir compounds, and modifying them to suit his purposes, or inventingnew ones; for, like Aristotle, to whom he refers for a precedent, hewishes 'to have a hand in everything. '

But he is not a quack. He has no respect for the old authoritativeprescriptions, if they fail in practice, whether they come in Galen'sname, or another's; but he is just as severe upon 'the empiricutics, 'on the other hand, and he objects to 'a horse-drench' for the humanconstitution in the greater congregation, as much as he does in thatdistinctively complex delicate structure which the single individualhuman frame in itself constitutes. 

Menenius [speaking of the letter which Volumnia has told him of, andputting in a word on this Doctor's behalf, for it is not very much tothe purpose on his own] says, 'It gives me an estate of _seven years'_health, _during which time I will make a lip at the physician_. ' Alip--_a lip_--and 'what a deal of scorn looks beautiful on it, ' whenonce you get to see it. But this is the play of 'conservation withadvancement. ' It is the cure and preservation of the common-weal, towhich all lines are tending, to which all points and parentheses arepointing; and thus he continues: 'The _most sovereign prescription_ in_Galen_ is but empiricutic, and to _this_ preservative of no betterreport than a horse-drench. ' So we shall find, when we come to tryit--_this_ preservative, --this conservation. 

This Doctor has a great opinion of nature. He thinks that 'thephysician must rely on her powers for his cures in the last resort, and be able to make prescriptions of _them_, instead of making themout of his own pre-conceits, if he would not have of his cure a_conceit_ also. ' His opinion is, that 'nature is made better by nomean, but she herself hath made that mean;'--

 'So o'er that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. .. . .. This is an art Which does _mend nature_, _change_ it rather: but _The art itself_ is nature. '

That is the Poet's view, but the Philosopher is of the same opinion. 'Man while _operating_ can only _apply or withdraw_ natural bodies, nature internally _performs_ the rest. ' Those who become _practically_versed in nature are the mechanic, the mathematician, the alchemist, and _the magician_, but _all_, as matters now stand with faint effortsand meagre success. '. .. 'The syllogism forces _assent_ and not_things_. '

'_The subtlety of nature is far beyond that of sense or of theunderstanding. _ The syllogism consists of propositions, these ofwords, words are the signs of notions, notions represent things. Ifour notions are fantastical, the whole structure falls to the ground;but they are for the most part improperly abstracted and deduced from_things_. '

There is the whole of it; there it is in a nut-shell. As we are veryapt to find it in this method of delivery by aphorisms; there is theshell of it at least. And considering 'the torture and press of themethod, ' and the instruments of torture then in use for correcting thepress, on these precise questions, there is as much of the kernel, perhaps, as could reasonably be looked for, in those particularaphorisms; and 'aphorisms representing a _knowledge broken_, do_invite_ men to inquire further;' so _this_ writer of them tells us. 

With all his reliance on nature then, and with all his scorn of theimpracticable and arrogant conceits of learning as he finds it, and ofthe quackeries that are practised in its name, this is no empiric. Hewill not approach that large, complex, elaborate combination ofnature, that laboured fruit of time, --her most subtle and efficaciousagent, so prolific in results that amaze and confound our art, --he will not approach this great structure with all its unperceivedinterior adaptations, --with so much of nature's own work in it, --hehas too much respect for her own 'cunning hand, ' to approach itwithout learning, --to undertake its cure with blind ignorantexperiments. He will not go to work in the dark on this structure, with drug or surgery. This is going to be a scientific cure. 'Beforewe proceed any further, _hear me speak_. ' He will inquire beforehandthe nature of this particular structure that he proposes to meddlewith, and get its normal state defined at the outset. But that willtake him into the question of structures in general, as they appear innature, and the intention of nature in them. He will have acomparative anatomy to help him. This analysis will not stop with thesocial unit, he will analyze him. It will not stop with him. It willcomprehend the principles of all combinations. He will not stop in hisanalysis of _this_ complexity till he comes to that which precedes allcombination, and survives it--the original simplicity of nature. Hewill come to this cure armed with the universal 'simples;' he willhave all the original powers of nature, 'which are not many, ' in hishands, to begin with; and he will have more than that. He will havethe doctrine of their combinations, not in man only, but _in all thekinds_;--those despised kinds, that claim such close relationship--such wondrous relationship with man; and he will not go to theprimitive instinctive nature only for his knowledge on this point. Hewill inquire of art, --the empiric art, --and rude accident, what latentefficacies they have detected in her, what churlish secrets of hersthey have wrung from her. You will find the gardener's and thefarmer's reports, and not the physician's and the surgeon's only, inserted in his books of policy and ethics. The 'nettles' theory ofthe rights of private life, and his policy of foreign relationships, appears to this learned politician to strengthen his case a little, and the pertinacious refusal of the 'old crab trees' to lend theirorganizations, such as they are, to the fructification of a bud ofnobler kind, is quoted with respect as a decision of nature in anothercourt, on this same question, which is one of the questions here. Forthe principle of conservation as well as the other principles of thehuman conduct, appears to this philosopher to require a largertreatment than our men of learning have given it hitherto. 

And this is the man of science who takes so much pains to acknowledgehis preference for 'good _compositions_'--who thinks so much of good_natural _compositions and their virtues, who is always expressing orbetraying his respect for the happy combinations, the sound results, the luxuriant and beautiful varieties with which nature herselfillustrates the secret of her fertility, and publishes her own greatvolume of examples in the Arts. 

First it is the knowledge of the simple forms into which all thevariety of nature is convertible, the definitions which account forall--that which is always the same in all the difference, that whichis always permanent in all the change; first it is the doctrine of'those simple original forms, or differences of things, which like thealphabet are not many, _the degrees and co-ordinations_ whereof makeall this variety, ' and then it is the doctrine of _theircombinations_, --the combinations which nature has herselfaccomplished, those which the arts have accomplished, and those whichare possible, which have _not_ been accomplished, --those which theuniversal nature working in the human, working in each, from theplatform of the human, from that height in her ascending scale ofspecies, dictates now, demands, --divinely orders, --divinely instructsus in. 

This, and nothing short of this, --this so radical knowledge, reachingfrom the summit of the human complexity, to the primaeval depths ofnature, --to the simplicity of the nature that is one in all, --to theindissoluble laws of being, --the laws of being in the species, --thelaw with which the specific law is convertible, --the law which cannotbe broken in the species, which involves loss of species, --loss ofbeing in the species, --this so large and rich and various knowledge, comprehending all the varieties of nature in its fields, putting allnature under contribution for its results, this--this is the knowledgewith which the man of science approaches now, this grand particular. 

The reader who begins to examine for himself, for the first time, inthe original books of it, this great system of the Modern Science, impressed with the received notions in regard to its scope andintentions, will be, perhaps, not a little surprised and puzzled, tofind that the thing which is, of all others, most strenuously insistedon by this author, in his own person, next to the worthlessness of theconceits which have no correspondence with things, is the fact thatthe knowledge of the physical causes is altogether inadequate to thatrelief of the condition of man, which he finds to be the immediate endof science; and that it is a system of metaphysics, a new metaphysics, which he is everywhere propounding to that end, --openly, and with allthe latent force of his new rhetoric. 

It is 'metaphysical aid' that he offers us; it is magic, but, 'magiclawful as eating'; it is a priestly aid that he offers us, the aid ofone who has penetrated to the inner sanctuary of the law, --the priestof nature, newly instructed in her mind and will, who comes forth fromhis long communing with her, with her own 'great seal' in hishands--with the rod of her enchantments, that old magicians desired topluck from her, and did not--with the gift of the new and noblermiracles of science as the witness of his anointing--with the readingof 'God's book of power'--with the alphabet of its mystery, as theproof of his ordaining--with the key of it, hid from the foundation ofthe world until now. 

The first difference between this metaphysics, and all the metaphysicsthat ever went before it or came after it, is, that it is practical. It carries in its hand, gathered into the simplicity of the causesthat are not many, the secret of all motivity, the secret of allpractice. It tells you so; over and over again, in so many words, itdares to tell you so. It opens that closed palm a little, and showsyou what is there; it bids you look on while it stirs those lines buta little, and new ages have begun. 

It is a practical metaphysics, and the first word of its speech is toforbid abstractions--your abstractions. It sets out from that which is'constant, eternal, and universal'; but from that which is 'constant, eternal, and universal in nature. ' It sets out from that which isfixed; but it is from the fixed and constant causes: '_forms_' not'_ideas_. ' The simplicity which it seeks is the simplicity into whichthe historical phenomena are resolvable; the terms which it seeks arethe terms which do not come within the range of the unscientificexperience; they are the unknown terms of the unlearned; they are thecauses 'which, like the alphabet, are not many'; they are the termswhich the understanding knows, which the reason grasps, andcomprehends in its unity; but they are the convertible terms of allthe multiplicity and variety of the senses, they are the convertibleterms--the _practically_ convertible terms of the known--practically--that is the difference. 

In that pyramid of knowledges which the science of things constitutes;in that converging ascent to the original simplicity and identity ofnature, beginning at that broad science which makes its base--thescience of Natural History--beginning with the basis of the historicalcomplexity and difference; in that pyramid of science, that new andsolid pyramid, which the Inductive science--which the inquiry intocauses that are operant in nature builds, this author will not stop, either on that broad field of the universal history of nature, whichis the base of it, or on that first stage of the ascent which theplatform of 'the physical causes' makes. The causes which lie next toour experience--the causes, which are variable and many, do notsatisfy him. He gains that platform, and looks about him. He findsthat even a diligent inquiry and observation _there_ would result inmany new inventions beneficial to men; but the knowledge of thesecauses 'takes men in narrow and restrained paths'; he wants for thefounding of his rule of art the cause which, under all conditions, secures the result, which gives the widest possible command of means. He refuses to accept of the physical causes as the bourne of hisphilosophy, in theory or practice. He looks with a great human scornon all the possible arts and solutions which lie on _that_ platform, when the proposal is to stop his philosophy of speculation andpractice _there_. It is not for the scientific arts, which that fieldof observation yields, that he begs leave to revive and _re-integrate_the misapplied and abused name of _natural magic_, which, in the truesense, is but natural wisdom, or 'PRUDENCE. '

He can hardly stop to indicate the results which the culture of thatfield _does_ yield for the relief of the human estate. His eye isuplifted to that new platform of a solid metaphysics, an historicalmetaphysics, which the inductive method builds. His eye is intentalways on that higher stage of knowledge where that which is common tothe sciences is found. He takes the other in passing only. Beginningwith the basis of a new observation and history of nature, he willfound a new metaphysics--an _objective_ metaphysics--the metaphysicsof induction. His logic is but a preparation for _that_. He is goingto collect, by his inductive method, from all nature, from allspecies, the principles that are in _all things_; and he is going tobuild, on the basis of those _inducted_ principles, --on the sure basisof that which is constant, and eternal, and universal in nature, thesure foundations of his universal practice; for, like common logic, the inductive method comprehends '_all_. ' That same simplicity, whichthe abstract speculations of men aspire to, and create, _it_ aspiresto and _attains_, by the rough roads, by the laboured stages ofobservation and experiment. 

He is, indeed, compelled to involve his phraseology here in a moststudious haze of scholasticism. Perspicuity is by no means the qualityof style most in request, when we come to these higher stages ofsciences. Impenetrable mists, clouds, and darkness, impenetrable toany but the eye that seeks also the whole, involve the heaven-piercingpeak of this new height of learning, this new summit of a scientificdivinity, frowning off--warding off, as with the sword of thecherubim, the unbidden invaders of this new Olympus, where sit thegods, restored again, --the simple powers of nature, recovered from theGreek abstractions, --not 'the idols'--not the impersonatedabstractions, the false images of the mind of man--not the logicalforms of those spontaneous abstractions, emptied of their poeticcontent--but the strong gods that make our history, that compose ourepics, that conspire for our tragedies, whether we own them and buildaltars to them or not. This is that summit of the _prima philosophia_where the axioms that command all are found--where the observationsthat are common to the sciences, and the precepts that are based onthese, grow. This is that height where the _same_ footsteps of nature, treading in different substances or matters, lost in the differencebelow, are all cleared and identified. This is the height of the formsof the understanding, of the unity of the reason; not as it is in manonly, but as it is in all matters or substances. 

He does not care to tell us, --he _could not_ well tell us, in_popular_ language, what the true name of that height of learning is:he could not well name without circumlocution, that height which ascientific abstraction makes, --an abstraction that attains simplicitywithout destroying the concrete reality, an abstraction that attainsas its result only a higher history, --a new and more intelligiblereading of it, --a solution of it--that which is fixed and constant andaccounts for it, --an abstraction whose apex of unity is the highest, the universal history, that which accounts for all, --theequivalent, --the scientific equivalent of it. 

But whatever it be, it is something that is going to take the place ofthe unscientific abstractions, both in theory and practice; it issomething that is going to supplant ultimately the vain indolentspeculation, the inert because unscientific speculation, that seeks tobind the human life in the misery of an enforced and sanctionedignorance, sealing up with its dogmas to an eternal collision with theuniversal laws of God and nature, --laws that no dogma or conceit canalter, --all the unreckoned generations of the life of man. Whatever itbe, it is going to strike with its primeval rock, through all the airpalace of the vain conceits of men;--it is going straight up, throughthat old conglomeration of dogmas, that the ages of the humanignorance have built and left to us. The unity to which all things innature, inspired with her universal instinct tend, --the unity of whichthe mind and heart of man in its sympathy with the universal whole isbut an expression, that unity of its own which the mind is alwaysseeking to impart to the diversities which the unreconciled experienceoffers it, which it must have in its objective reality, which it willmake for itself if it cannot find it, which it _does_ make in ignorantages, by falling back upon its own form and ignoring the historicreality, --which it builds up without any solid objective basis, byignoring the nature of things, or founds on one-sided partial views oftheir nature, that unity is going to have its place in the newlearning also--but it is going to be henceforth the unity ofknowledge--not of dogmas, not of belief merely, for knowledge, and notbelief merely, --knowledge, and not opinion, is _power_. 

That man is not the only creature in nature, was the discovery of thisphilosophy. The founders of it observed that there were a number ofspecies, which appeared to be maintaining a certain sort of existenceof their own, without being dependent for it on the movements withinthe human brain. To abate the arrogance of the species, --to show theabsurdity and ignorance of the attempt to constitute the universebeforehand within that little sphere, the human skull, ignoring thereports of the intelligencers from the universal whole, with whichgreat nature has herself supplied us, --to correct the arrogance andspecific bias of the human learning, --was the first attempt of the newlogic. It is the house of the Universal Father that we dwell in, andit has 'many mansions, ' and 'man is not the best lodged in it. ' Noble, indeed, is his form in nature, inspired with the spirit of theuniversal whole, able in his littleness to comprehend and embrace thewhole, made in the image of the universal Primal Cause, whose voicefor us is _human_; but there are other dialects of the divinealso, --there are nobler creatures lodged with us, placed above us;with larger gifts, with their ten talents ruling over our cities. There is no speech or language where _their_ voice is not heard. Theirline is gone out through all the earth also, and their words unto theend of the world; and the poor beetle that we tread on, and the daisyand the lily in all its glory, and the sparrows that are going 'twofor a farthing, ' come in for their place also in this philosophy--thephilosophy of science--the philosophy of the kinds, the philosophy ofthe nature that is one in them, --the metaphysics of history. 

'Although there exists nothing IN NATURE except individual bodies, exhibiting distinct individual _effects, according to individual_LAWS, yet in each branch of LEARNING that very LAW, --_itsinvestigation, discovery and development_--are the foundation _both oftheory and practice_; this law, therefore, and its _parallel_ in each_science_, is what we understand by the term, FORM. '

That is a sentence to crack the heads of the old abstractionists. Before that can be read, the new logic will have to be put inrequisition; the idols of the tribe will have to be dismissed first. The inveterate and 'pernicious habit of abstraction, '--that sopernicious habit of the men of learning must be overawed first. 

'There exists nothing in nature except _individual_ bodies, exhibitingdistinct _individual_ effects, according to _individual laws_. ' Theconcrete is very carefully guarded there against that 'pernicioushabit'; it is saved at the expense of the human species, at theexpense of its arrogance. Nobody need undertake to abstract _those_laws, whatever they may be, for this master has turned his key onthem. They are in their proper place; they are in the thingsthemselves, and cannot be taken out of them. The utmost that you cando is to attain to a scientific knowledge of them, one that exactlycorresponds with them. That _correspondence_ is the point in the newmetaphysics, and in the new logic;--_that_ was what was wanting in theold. 'The investigation, discovery, and development of this law, in_every branch of learning_, are the foundation both of theory andpractice. This law, therefore, and its _parallel_ in each science, iswhat _we_ understand by the term FORM. ' The distinction is verycarefully made between the 'cause in nature, ' and that which_corresponds_ to it, in the human mind, the _parallel_ to it in thesciences; for the notions of men and the notions of nature areextremely apt to differ when the mind is left to form its notionswithout any scientific rule or instrument; and these ill-madeabstractions, which do not correspond with the cause in nature, are ofno efficacy in the arts, for nature takes no notice of them whatever. 

There is one term in use here which represents at the same time thecause in nature, and that which corresponds to it in the mind ofman--the parallel to it in the sciences. When these _exactlycorrespond_, one term suffices. The term 'FORM' is preferred for thatpurpose in this school. The term which was applied to the abstractionsof the old philosophy, with a little modification, is made tosignalise the difference between the old and the new. The 'IDEAS' ofthe old philosophy, the hasty abstractions of it, are '_the idols_' ofthe new--the false deceiving images--which must be destroyed ere thatwhich is fixed and constant _in nature_ can establish its ownparallels in our learning. 'Too untimely a departure, and too remote arecess from particulars, ' is the cause briefly assigned in thiscriticism for this want of correspondence hitherto. 'But it ismanifest that Plato, in his opinion of _ideas_, as one that had a witof elevation situate as upon a cliff, did descry that forms were thetrue object of knowledge, but lost the real fruit of that opinion byconsidering of forms as absolutely abstracted from matter, and not_confined_ and _determined_ by matter. ' 'Lost the fruit of thatopinion'--this is the author who talks so 'pressly. ' Two thousandyears of human history are summed up in that so brief chronicle. Twothousand years of barren science, of wordy speculation, of vaintheory; two thousand years of blind, empirical, _unsuccessful_ gropingin all the fields of human practice. 'And so, ' he continues, concluding that summary criticism with a little further development ofthe subject, 'and _so_, turning _his opinion_ upon theology, wherewithall his natural philosophy is infected. ' Natural philosophy infectedwith 'opinion, '--no matter whose opinion it is, or under what name itcomes to us, whatever else it is good for, is not good for practice. And this is the philosophy which includes both theory and practice. 'That which in speculative philosophy corresponds to the cause, inpractical philosophy becomes the rule. '

But that which distinguishes this from all others is, that it is thephilosophy of 'HOPE'; and that is the name for it in both its fields, in speculation _and_ practice. The black intolerable wall, which thosewho stopped us on the lower platform of this pyramid of true knowledgebrought us up with so soon--that blank wall with which the inquiry forthe physical causes in nature limits and insults our speculation--hasno place here, no place at all on this higher ground of science, whichthe knowledge of true forms creates--this true ground of _theunderstanding_, the understanding of nature, and the universal reasonof things. 'He who is acquainted with forms, comprehends the unity ofnature in substances apparently most distinct from each other. 'Neither is that base and sordid limit, with which the philosophy ofphysical causes shuts in the scientific arts and their power for humanrelief, found here. For this is the _prima philosophia_, where theuniversal axioms, the axioms that command all, are found: and theprecepts of the universal practice are formed on them. 'Even thephilosopher himself--openly speaking from this summit--will venture tointimate briefly to men of understanding' the comprehension of itsbase, and the field of practice which it commands. 'Is not theground, ' he inquires, modestly, 'is not the ground which Machiavelwisely and largely discourseth concerning governments, that the way toestablish and _preserve_ them is to reduce them _ad principia_, a rulein _religion_ and _nature, as well as in civil administration_?' Thereis the 'administrative reform' that will not need reforming, thatwaits for the science of _forms_ and constructions. But he proceeds:'Was not the _Persian_ magic' [and that is the term which he proposesto restore for '_the part operative_' of this knowledge of forms], 'was not the Persian magic a _reduction_ or correspondence of _theprinciples_ and _architecture_ of _nature_ to the _rules_ and _policy_of _governments_?' There is no harm, of course, in that timid inquiry;but the student of the _Zenda-vesta_ will be able to get, perhaps, some intimation of the designs that are lurking here, and willunderstand the revived and reintegrated sense with which the term_magic_ is employed to indicate the part operative of this new groundof _science_. 'Neither are these only similitudes, ' he adds, afterextending these significant inquiries into other departments ofpractice, and demonstrating that this is the universality from whichall other professions are nourished: 'Neither are these only_similitudes_, as men of narrow observation may conceive them to be, but _the same_ footsteps of nature, treading or printing upon severalsubjects or matters. '

'It must, however, be observed, that this method of operating' [whichconsiders nature as SIMPLE, though in a concrete body] ['I the firstof any, by my _universal being_. ' _Michael de Montaigne_. ] 'sets outfrom what is constant, eternal, and universal _in nature_; and openssuch _broad_ paths to human _power_, as the thought of man can in thepresent state of things scarcely comprehend or figure to itself, '

Yes, it is the Philosophy of Hope. The perfection of the human form, the limit of the human want, is the limit of its practice; the limitof the human inquiry and demand is the limit of its speculation. 

The control of effects which this higher knowledge of nature offersus--this knowledge of what she is beforehand--the practical certaintywhich this _interior_ acquaintance with her, this acquaintance thatidentifies her under all the variety of her manifestations, is able tocommand--that _comprehensive_ command of results which the knowledgeof _the true causes_ involves--the causes which are always present inall effects, which are constant under all fluctuations, the same underall the difference--the '_power_' of _this knowledge_, its power torelieve human suffering, is that which the discoverer of it insists onmost in propounding it to men; but the mind in which that'wonder'--that is, 'the seed of knowledge'--brought forth _this_plant, was _not_ one to overlook or make light of that want in thehuman soul, which only knowledge can appease--that love which leads itto the truth, not for the sake of a secondary good, but because it isher life. 

'Although there is a most intimate connection, and almost an identitybetween the ways of human power and human knowledge, yet on account ofthe pernicious and inveterate habit of _dwelling_ upon abstractions, it is by far _the safest_ method to commence and build up sciencesfrom those foundations which bear a relation to the practicaldivision, _and to let them mark out and limit the theoretical_. 'Something like that the Poet must have been thinking of, when he spokeof making 'the art and practic part of life, _the mistress_ to itstheoric;'--'let _that_ mark out and limit the theoretical. '

That inveterate and pernicious habit, which makes this course thesafest one, is one that he speaks of in the Advancement of Learning, as that which has been of 'such ill desert towards learning, ' as 'toreduce it to certain _empty_ and barren generalities, the mere husksand shells of sciences, ' good for nothing at the very best, unlessthey serve to guide us to the kernels that have been forced out ofthem, by the torture and _press_ of the method, --the mere outlines andskeletons of knowledges, 'that do but offer knowledge to scorn ofpractical men, and are no more aiding to practice, ' as the author ofthis universal skeleton confesses, 'than an Ortelius's universal mapis, to direct the way between London and York. '

The way to steer clear of those empty and barren generalities, whichdo but offer learning to the scorn of the men of practice is, he says, to begin on the practical side, and that is just what we are doinghere now in this question of the consulship, --that so practical andimmediately urgent question which was, threatening then to drive outevery other from the human consideration. If learning _had_ anythingto offer on that subject, which would _not_ excite the scorn ofpractical men, then certainly was the time to produce it. 

We begin on the practical side here, and as to theory, we are rigidlylimited to that which the question of the play requires, --thepractical question marks it out, --we have just as much as is requiredfor the solution of that, and not so much as a 'jot' more. But markthe expression:--'it is by far the safest method to commence and buildup sciences'--the particular sciences, --the branches of science--from_those foundations which bear a relation_ to the practical division. We begin with a great practical question, and though the treatise isin a form which seems to offer it for amusement, rather thaninstruction, it has at least this advantage, that it does not offer itin the suspicious form of a theory, or in the distasteful form of alearned treatise, --a tissue of barren and empty generalities. Thescorn of practical men is avoided, if it were only by its want ofpretension; and the fact that it does not offer itself as a guide topractice, but rather insinuates itself into that position. We beginwith the practical question, with its most sharply practical details, we begin with particulars, but that which is to be noted is, 'thefoundations' of the universal philosophy are under our feet to beginwith. At the first step we are on the platform of the primaphilosophia; the last conclusions of the inductive science, theknowledge of the nature of things, is the ground, --the solidcontinuity--that we proceed on. That is the ground on which we buildthis practice. That is the trunk from which this branch of sciences iscontinued:--that trunk of universality which we are forbiddenhenceforth to _scorn_, because all the professions are nourished fromit. That universality which the men of practice scorn no more, sincethey have tasted of its proofs, since they have reached that singlebough of it, which stooped so low, to bring its magic clusters withintheir reach. Fed with their own chosen delights, with the proof of thedivinity of science, on their sensuous lips, they cry, 'Thou hast keptthe good wine until now. ' Clasping on the _magic_ robes for which theyhave not toiled or spun, sitting down by companies, --not offifties, --not of hundreds, --not of thousands--sitting down by myriads, to this great feast, that the man of science spreads for them, inwhose eye, the eye of a divine pity looked forth again, and saw themfaint and weary still, and without a shepherd, --sitting down to thisfeast, for which there is no sweat or blood on their brows, revived, rejoicing, gazing on the bewildering basketfuls that are pouring in, they cry, answering after so long a time, for their part Pilate'squestion: _This_, so far as it goes at least, this is _truth_. And therod of that enchantment was _plucked_ here. It is but a branch fromthis same trunk--this trunk of 'universality, ' which the men ofpractice _will_ scorn no more, when once they reach the multitudinousboughs of this great tree of miracles, where the nobler fruits, themore chosen fruits of the new science, are hidden still. 

Continued from that 'trunk, ' heavy with its juices, stoops now _this_branch; its golden 'hangings' mellowed, --time mellowed, --ready to fallunshaken. Built on _that_ 'foundation, ' rises now this fair structure, the doctrine of _the state_. That knowledge of nature in general, that_interior_ knowledge of her, that loving insight, which is not baffledwith her most foreign aspects; but detects her, and speaks her word, as from within, in all, is that which meets us here, that which meetsus at the threshold. Our guide is veiled, but his raiment is priestly. It is great nature's stole that he wears; he will alterour--_Persian_. We are walking on the pavements of Art; but it isNature's temple still; it is her 'pyramid, ' and we are _within_, andthe light from the apex is kindling all; and the dust 'that the rudewind blows in our face, ' and 'the poor beetle that we tread on, ' andthe poor 'madman and beggar too, ' are glorious in it, and of our'kin. ' Those universal forms which the book of science in the abstracthas laid bare already, are running through all; the cord of them isvisible in all the detail. Their foot-prints, which have been trackedto the height where nature is one, are seen for the first timecleared, uncovered here, in all the difference. This many-voicedspeech, that sounds so deep from every point, deep as from the heartof nature, is _not_ the ventriloquist's artifice, is _not_ a poorshowman's trick. It is great nature's voice--her own; and the magicianwho has untied her spell, who knows the cipher of 'the one in all' thepriest who has unlocked her inmost shrine, and plucked out the heartof her mystery--is 'the Interpreter. '

CHAPTER IX. 

THE CURE--PLAN OF INNOVATION--NEW DEFINITIONS. 

 'Swear by thy double self And that's an oath of credit. '

 'Having thus far proceeded . .. Is it not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions?'

It is the trunk of the _prima philosophia_ then which puts forth thesenew and wondrous boughs, into all the fields of human speculation andpractice, filling all our outdoor, penetrating all our indoor life, with their beauty and fragrance; overhanging every roof, stooping toevery door, with their rich curtains and clusters of ornament anddelight, with their ripe underhanging clusters of axioms ofpractice--brought down to particulars, ready for use--with theirdispersed directions overhanging every path, --with their aphorismsmade out of the pith and heart of sciences, 'representing a brokenknowledge, and, _therefore_, inviting the men of speculation toinquire farther. '

It is from this trunk of a _scientific_ universality, of a useful, practical, always-at-hand, all-inclusive, historical universality, towhich the tracking of the principles, operant in history, to theirsimple forms and '_causes in nature_, ' conducts the scientificexperimenter, --it is from this primal living trunk and heart ofsciences, to which the new method of learning conducts us, that thisgreat branch of scientific practice comes, which this drama with its'transitory shows' has brought safely down to us;--this two-foldbranch of ethics and politics, which come to us--conjoined--as ethicsand politics came in other systems then not scientific, --making intheir junction, and through all their divergencies, 'the forbiddenquestions' of science. 

The _science_ of this essentially conjoined doctrine is that whichmakes, in this case, the novelty. 'The nature _which is formed_ ineverything, ' and not in man only, and the faculty, in man, ofcomprehending that wider nature, is that which makes the higherground, from which a _science_ of his own specific nature, and theexplanation of its phenomenon, is possible to man. Except from thisheight of a _common nature_, there is no such thing as a scientificexplanation of these phenomena possible. And this explanation is whatthe specific nature in man, with its _speculative_ grasp of a largerwhole--with its speculative grasp of a universal whole, --with itsinstinctive _moral_ reach and comprehension corresponding tothat, --constitutionally demands and 'anticipates. '

And the knowledge of this nature which is formed in everything, andnot in man only, is the beginning, not of a speculative science of thehuman nature merely, --it is the beginning, --it is the indispensablefoundation of the arts in which a successful artistic advancement ofthat nature, or an artistic cure or culture of it is propounded. Thefact that the 'human nature' is, indeed, what it is called, a'_nature_, ' the fact that the human species is _a species_, --the factthat the human kind is but a _kind_, neighboured with many others fromwhich it is isolated by its native walls of ignorance, --neighbouredwith many others, more or less known, known and unknown, more or less_kind_-ly, more or less hostile, --species, kinds, whose dialects ofthe universal laws, man has not found, --the fact that the universal, historic principles are operant in all the specific modifications ofhuman nature, and control and determine them, the fact that the humanlife admits of a scientific analysis, and that its phenomena requireto be traced to their true forms, --this is the fact which is the keyto the new philosophy, --the key which unlocks it, --the key to the partspeculative, and the part operative of it. 

And this is the secret of the difference between this philosophy andall other systems and theories of man's life on earth that had beenbefore it, or that have come after it. For this new and so solidheight of natural philosophy, --solid, --historical, --from its base inthe divergency of natural history, to its utmost peak of unity, --thisscientific height of a common nature, whose summit is 'primaphilosophia, ' with its new universal terms and axioms, --this heightfrom which man, as a species, is also overlooked, and his spontaneousnotions and theories criticised, subjected to that same criticism withwhich history itself is always flying in the face of them, --from whichthe specific bias in them is everywhere detected, --this new 'pyramid'of knowledge is the one on whose rock-hewn terraces the conflict of_views_, the clash of man's _opinions_ shall not sound: this is thesystem which has had, and shall have, no rival. 

And this is the key to this philosophy, not where it touches humannature only, but everywhere where it substitutes for abstract humannotions--specific human notions that are powerless in the arts, ornarrow observations that are restrained and uncertain in the rules ofpractice they produce, --powers, true forms, original agencies innature, universal powers, sure as nature herself, and her universalform. 

To abase the specific human arrogance, to overthrow 'the idols of thetribe, ' is the ultimate condition of this learning. Man _as man_, isnot a primal, if he be an ultimate, fact in nature. Nature is elderand greater than he, and requires him to learn of her, and makeslittle of his mere conceits and dogmas. 

From the height of that new simplicity which this philosophy hasgained--not as the elder philosophies had gained theirs, by purecontemplation, by hasty abstraction and retreat to the _à priori_sources of knowledge and belief in man, --which it has gained, too, bya wider induction than the facts of the human nature can supply--withthe torch of these universal principles cleared of their historiccomplexities, with the torch of the nature that is formed ineverything, it enters here this great, unenclosed field of human lifeand practice, this Spenserian wilderness, where those old, gnarledtrunks, and tangled boughs, and wretched undergrowths of centuries, stop the way, where those old monsters, which the action of this playexposes, which this philosophy is bound to drag out to the day, arehid. 

The radical universal fact--the radical universal distinction of the_double_ nature of GOOD which is formed in everything, and not in manonly, and the two universal motions which correspond to that, the one, as everything, is a total or substantive in itself, with itscorresponding motion; for this is the principle of selfishness and warin nature--the principle which struggles everywhere towards decay andthe dissolution of the larger wholes, and not in man only, though thefoolish, unscientific man, who does not know how to track thephenomena of his own nature to their _causes_, --who has no bridge fromthe natural internal phenomena of his own consciousness into thecontinent of nature, may think that it is, and reason of it as if itwere;--this double nature of good, 'the one, as a thing, is a total orsubstantive in itself, the other as it is, _a part_ or _member_ of agreater body, whereof the latter is in degree _the greater_ and _theworthier_, as it tends to the conservation of a more generalform'--this distinction, which the philosopher of this school has laiddown in his work on the scientific advancement of the human species, with a recommendation that it should be _strongly planted_, which hehas planted there, openly, as the root of a new science of ethics andpolicy, will be found at the heart of all this new history of thehuman nature; but in this play of the true nobility, and thescientific cure of the commonweal, it is tracked openly to its mostimmediate, obvious, practical application. In all these great'illustrated' scientific works, which this new school of learning, with the genius of science for its master, contrived to issue, all theuniversally actual and active principles are tracked to their _proper_specific modifications in man, and not to their development in hisactual history merely; and the distinctive essential law of the humankind--the law whereby man is man, as distinguished from the baserkinds, is brought up, and worked out, and unfolded in all its detail, from the bosom of the universal law--is brought down from its barrenheight of isolation, and planted in the universal rule of being, inthe universal law of kinds and essence. This double nature of good, asit is specifically developed in man, not as humanity only, for man isnot limited to his kind in his intelligence, or in his will, or in hisaffections, --this double nature of good, as it is developed in man, with his contemplative, and moral, and religious grasp of a largerwhole than his particular and private nature can comprehend--with hislarge discourse looking before and after, on the one hand, and hisblind instincts, and his narrow isolating senses on the other--withthat distinctive human nature on the one hand, whereby he does, insome sort, comprehend the world, and not intellectually only--thatnature whereby 'the world is set in his heart, ' and not in his mindonly--that nature which by the law of advancement to the perfection ofhis form, he struggles to ascend to--that, on the one hand, and thatwhereby he is kindred with the lower natures on the other, swayed by agosling's instinct, held down to the level of the pettiest, basestkinds, forbidden to ascend to his own distinctive excellence, alliedwith species who have no such intelligent outgoing from particulars, who cannot grasp the common, whose sphere nature herself has narrowedand walled in, --these two universal natures of good, and all thepassion and affection which lie on that tempestuous border line wherethey blend in the human, and fill the earth with the tragedy of theirconfusion, --this two-fold nature, and its tragic blending, and itstrue specific human development, whereby man is man, and notdegenerate, lies discriminated in all these plays, tracked through alltheir wealth of observation, through all their characterization, through all their mirth, through all their tempests of passion, with aline so firm, that only the instrument of the New Science could havegraven it. 

Of all the sciences, Policy is the most immersed in matter, and thehardliest reduced to axiom'; but setting out from that which isconstant and universal in nature, this philosopher is not afraid toundertake it; and, indeed, that is what he is bent on; for unlessthose universal, historical principles, which he has taken so muchpains to exhibit to us clearly in their abstract form, 'terminate in_matter_ and _construction according_ to _the true_ definitions, theyare speculative and of little use. ' The termination of them in matter, and the new construction according to true definitions, is thebusiness here. This, which is the hardliest reduced to axiom of any, is that which lies collected on the Inductive Tables here, cleared ofall that interferes with the result; and the axiom of practice, whichis the 'second vintage' of the New Machine, is expressed before oureyes. 'For that which in speculative philosophy corresponds to thecause, in practical philosophy becomes the rule. '

He starts here, with this grand advantage which no other politicalphilosopher or reformer had ever had before; he has _the truedefinition_ in his hands to begin with; not the specific and futilenotions with which the human mind, shut up within itself, seeks tocomprehend and predict and order all, but the solid actual universalsthat the mind of man, by the combination and scientific balance of itsfaculties, is able to ascend to. He has in his hands, to begin with, the causes that are universal and constant in nature, with which allthe historical phenomena are convertible, --the motives from which allmovement proceeds, the true original simple powers, --the unknown, intowhich all the variety of the known is resolvable, or rather the knowninto which all the variety of the unknown is resolvable; the forms'which are always present _when the particular nature_ is present, anduniversally attest that presence; which are always absent when theparticular nature is absent, and universally attest that absence;which always increase as the particular nature increases; which alwaysdecrease as the particular nature decreases;' that is the kind ofdefinitions which this philosopher will undertake his moral reformwith; that is the kind of idea which the English philosopher lays downfor the basis of his politics. Nothing less solid than that will suitthe turn of his genius, either in speculation or practice. He doesfull justice to the discoveries of the old Greek philosophers, whosespeculation had controlled, not the speculation only, but all thepractical doctrine of the world, from their time to his. He saw fromwhat height of _genius_ they achieved their command; but that was twothousand years before, and that was in the south east corner ofEurope; and when the Modern Europe began to think for itself, it wasfound that the Greeks could not give the law any longer. It was foundthat the _English_ notions at least, and the _Greek_ notions of thingsin general differed very materially--essentially--when they came to beput on paper. When the 'representative men' of those two corners ofEurope, and of those two so widely separated ages of the humanadvancement, came to discourse together from their 'cliffs' andcompare notes, across that sea of lesser minds, the most remarkabledifferences, indeed, began to be _perceptible_ at once, though theworld has not yet begun to _appreciate_ them. It was a difference thatwas expected to tell on the common mind, for a time, principally inits '_effects_. ' Everybody, the learned and the unlearned, understandsnow, that after the modern survey was taken, new practical directionswere issued at once. Orders came down for an immediate suspension ofthose former rules of philosophy, and the ship was laid on a newcourse. 'Plato, ' says the new philosopher, 'as one that had a wit ofelevation _situate upon a cliff_, did descry that _forms_ are the trueobject of knowledge, ' that was his discovery, --'_but_ lost the fruitof that opinion by'--shutting himself up, in short, in his ownabstract contemplations, in his little world of man, and getting outhis theory of the universe, before hand, from these; instead ofapplying himself practically and modestly to the observation of thatuniverse, in which man's part is _so_ humble. 'Vain man, ' says ouroldest Poet, 'vain man would be wise, who is born like a wild ass'scolt. '

But let us take a specimen of the manner in which the propounder ofthe New Ideal Philosophy 'comes to particulars, ' with this quite newkind of IDEAS, and we shall find that they were designed to take insome of those things in heaven and earth that were omitted, or notdreampt of in the others, --which were not included in the 'idols. ' Hetells us plainly that these are the ideas with which he is going tounravel the most delicate questions; but he is willing to entertainhis immediate audience, and propitiate the world generally, by tryingthem, or rather giving orders to have them tried, on other thingsfirst. He does not pride himself very much on anything which he hasdone, or is able to do in these departments of inquiry from which hisinstances are here taken, and he says, in this connection:--'We donot, however, deny that other instances _can perhaps be added_. ' Inorder to arrive at his doctrine of practice in general, he beginsafter the scientific method, not with the study of any one kind ofactions only, he begins by collecting the rules of action in general. By observation of species he seeks to ascend to the principles commonto them. And he comes to us with a carefully prepared scheme of the'elementary motions, '--outlined, and enriched with such observationsas he and his school have been able to make under the disadvantages ofthat beginning. 'The motions of bodies, ' he observes, 'are compounded, decomposed and combined, no less than the bodies themselves, ' and hedirects the attention of the student, who has his eye on practice, with great emphasis, to those instances which he calls 'instances ofpredominance, '--'instances which point out the predominance andsubmission of powers, compared' [not in abstract contemplation but inaction, ] 'compared with each other, and which, ' [not in books but inaction, ]--'which is the more _energetic_ and _superior_, or more weakand inferior. '

'These "elementary notions" direct and are directed by each other, according to their strength, --quantity, _excitement, concussion_, orthe assistance, or impediments they meet with. For instance, _somemagnets_ support iron sixty times their own weight; _so far_ does themotion of _lesser congregation_ predominate over _the greater_, but ifthe weight be increased _it yields_. '

[We must observe, that he is speaking here of 'the motions, tendencies, and active powers which are most universal in nature, ' forthe purpose of suggesting rules of practice which apply _as widely_;though he keeps, with the intimation above quoted, principally to thisclass of instances. ] 'A lever of a certain strength will raise a givenweight, and _so far_ the notion of _liberty_ predominates over that of_the greater congregation_; but if the weight be _greater_, the formermotion _yields_. A piece of leather, stretched _to a certain point_, does not break, and _so far_ the motion of continuity _predominates_'[for it is the question of predominance, and dominance, anddomineering, and lordships, and liberties, of one kind and another, that he is handling]--'_so far_ the motion of continuity_predominates_ over that of tension; but if the tension be _greater_, the leather breaks, and the motion of continuity _yields_. _A certainquantity_ of water flows through a chink, and _so far_ the motion ofgreater congregation _predominates_ over that of continuity; but ifthe chink be _smaller, it yields_. If a musket be charged with balland powdered sulphur only, and the fire be applied, the ball is notdischarged, in which case the motion of greater congregation overcomesthat of matter; but when gunpowder is used, the motion of matter inthe sulphur _predominates_, being _assisted_ by that motion, and themotion of avoidance in the nitre; and _so of the rest_. '

Our more recent chemists would, of course, be inclined to criticisethat explanation; but, in some respects, it is better than theirs; andit answers well enough the purpose for which it was introduced there, and for which it is introduced here also. For this is the initiativeof the great inquiry into 'the WRESTLING INSTANCES, ' and the'instances of PREDOMINANCE' in general, 'such as point out thepredominance of _powers, compared with each other_, and which of themis _the more energetic and_ SUPERIOR, or more _weak_ and INFERIOR';and though this class of instances is valued chiefly for itsillustration of another in this system of learning, where things arevalued in proportion to their usefulness, they are not sought for assimilitudes merely; they are produced by one who regards them as 'thesame footsteps of nature, treading in different substances, ' andleaving the foot-print of universal axioms; and this is a _class_ ofinstances which he particularly recommends to inquiry. 'For wrestlinginstances, which show _the predominance of powers_, and in _whatmanner_ and _proportion_ they predominate and yield, must be searchedfor with active and industrious diligence. '

'The _method and nature_ of this yielding' [of _thisyielding_--SUBJECTION is the question] 'must also be diligentlyexamined; as, _for instance_, whether the motions' ['of liberty']'completely cease, or exert themselves, but are constrained; for inall bodies with which we are acquainted, _there is no real, but anapparent rest, either in the whole, or in the parts_. This apparentrest is occasioned either by equilibrium' [as in the case of Hamlet, as well as in that of some others whose acts were suspended, and whosewills were arrested then, by considerations not less comprehensivethan his]--'either by equilibrium, _or by the absolute predominance_of motions. By equilibrium, as in the scales of the balance, which_rest if the weight be equal_. By predominance, as in perforated jars, in which the water rests, and is prevented from falling by thepredominance of the motion of CONNECTION. '

'It is, however, to be observed (as we have said before), _how far theyielding motions exert themselves_. _For_, if _a man_ be heldstretched out on the ground _against his_ WILL, with arms and legsbound down, _or_ otherwise confined'--[as the Duke of Kent's were, forinstance]--'and yet strive with all his power to get up, the struggleis not the less, though ineffectual. The _real state of the case_'[namely, whether the yielding motion be, as it were, annihilated _bythe predominance_, or there be rather a continued, though an invisibleeffort] '_will perhaps appear_ in the CONCURRENCE of MOTIONS, althoughit escape our notice in _their conflict_. ' So delicately mustphilosophy needs be conveyed in a certain stage of a certain class ofwrestling instances, where _a combination_ of powers hostile toscience produces an '_absolute predominance_' of powers, and it isnecessary that the yielding motion should at least appear to be 'as itwere, annihilated'; though, of course, that need not hinder theinvisible effort at all. 'For on account of the rawness andunskilfulness of the hands through which they pass, ' there is nodifficulty in inserting such intimations as to the latitude of theaxioms which these particular instances adduced here, and 'otherswhich might perhaps be added, ' are expected to yield. This is aninstance of the freedom with which philosophical views on certainsubjects are continually addressed in these times, to that immediateaudience of the few 'who will perhaps see farther into them than thecommon reader, ' and to those who shall hereafter apply to thephilosophy issued under such conditions--the conditions abovedescribed, that key of 'Times, ' which the author of it has taken painsto leave for that purpose. But the question of 'predominance, whichmakes our present subject, ' is not yet sufficiently indicated. Thereare more and less powerful motives concerned in _this_ wrestlinginstance, as he goes on to demonstrate. 

'THE RULES of _such instances_ of _predominance as occur_ should be_collected, such as_ the following'--and the rule which he gives, byway of a specimen of these _rules_, is a very important one for astatesman to have, and it is one which the philosopher has himself'_collected_' from _such_ instances as occurred--'The more _general_the desired advantage is, the _stronger_ will be _the motive_. Themotion of _connection_, for instance, which relates to _theintercourse of the parts of the universe_, is more powerful than thatof _gravity_, which relates to the intercourse of _dense_ bodies. Again; the desire of a private good does not, _in general_, prevailagainst that of a public one, except where the _quantities are small_'[it is the general _law_ he is propounding here; and the exception, the anomaly, is that which he has to note]; 'would that such were thecase in civil matters. '

But that application to 'civil matters, ' which the statesman, propounding in his own person this newly-collected knowledge of theactual historic forces, as a new and immeasurable source of relief tothe human estate, --that application, which he could only make here inthese side-long glances, is made in the Play without any difficulty atall. These instances, which he produces here in his professed work ofscience, are produced as illustrations of the kind of inquiry which heis going to bring to bear, with all the force and subtlety of hisgenius, on the powers of nature, as manifested in the individual humannature, and in those unions and aggregations to which it tends--thoselarger wholes and greater congregations, which parliaments, andpulpits, and play-houses, and books, were forbidden then, on pain ofdeath and torture and ignominy, to meddle with. _Here_, he tells us, he finds it to the purpose to select '_suggestive_ instances, such as_point out_ that which is advantageous to mankind'; 'and it is a partof science to make _judicious_ inquiries and wishes. '

These instances, which he produces here, are searching; but they arenone too searching for his purpose. They do not come any nearer tonature than those others which he is prepared to add to them. Thetreatment is not any more radical and subtle here than it is in thoseinstances in which 'he comes to particulars, ' under the pretence ofplay and pastime, in other departments, --those in which the judiciousinquiry into the laws of the actual forces promises to yield rules'the most generally useful to mankind. '

This is the philosophy precisely which underlies all this Play, --thisPlay, in which the great question, not yet ready for the handling ofthe unlearned, but ripe already for scientific treatment, --thequestion of the wrestling forces, --the question of the subjection andpredominance of powers, --the question of the combination andopposition of forces in those _arrested motions_ which make _states_, is so boldly handled. Those arrested motions, where the rest is onlyapparent, not real--where the 'yielding' forces are only, _as itwere_, annihilated, whether by equilibrium of forces, or an absolutepredominance, but biding their time, ready to burst their bonds andrenew their wrestling, ready to show themselves, not as 'subjects, 'but predominators--not as states, but revolutions. The science 'thatends in matter and new constructions'--new construction, 'according totrue definitions, ' is what these citizens, whom this Poet has calledup from their horizontal position by way of anticipation, are already, under his instructions, boldly clamouring for. Constructions in whichthese very rules and axioms, these scientific certainties, are takeninto the account, are what these men, whom this Magician has set upontheir feet here, whose lips he has opened and whose arms he hasunbound with the magic of his art, are going to have before they liedown again, or, at least, before they make a comfortable state for anyone to trample on, though they _may_, perhaps, for a time seem, 'as itwere, annihilated. '

These true _forms_, these _real_ definitions, this new kind of_ideas_, these new motions, new in philosophy, new in _human_ speech, old in natures, --written in her book ere man was, --these universal, elementary, original motions, which he is exhibiting here in thephilosophic treatise, under cover of a certain class of instances, arethe very ones which he is tracking _here_ in the Play, into all thebusiness of the state. This is that same new thread which we saw therein the grave philosophic warp, with here and there a little spacefilled in, not with the most brilliant filling; enough, however, toshow that it was meant to be filled, and, to the careful eye, --how. But here it is the more chosen substance; and every point of thisillustrious web is made of its involutions, --is a point of'illustration. '

Yes, here he is again. Here he is at last, in that promised field ofhis labours, --that field of 'noblest subjects, ' for the culture ofwhich he will have all nature put under contribution; here he is atlarge, 'making what work he pleases. ' He who is content to talk fromhis chair of professional learning of 'pieces of leather, ' and _their_unions, and bid his pupil note and 'consider well' that mysterious, unknown, unexplored power in nature, which holds their particlestogether, in its wrestling with its opposite; and where it _ceases_, or _seems to cease_; where that obstinate freedom and predominance isvanquished, and by what rules and means; he who finds in 'water, 'arrested 'in perforated jars, ' or 'flowing through a chink, ' orresisting gravity, _if_ the chink be smaller, or in the balanced'scales, ' with their apparent rest, the wrestling forces of allnature, --the weaker enslaved, but _there_, --_not_ annihilated; he whosaw in the little magnet, beckoning and holding those dense palpablemasses, or in the lever, assisted by human hands, vanquishing itsmighty opposite, things that old philosophies had not dreamtof, --reports of mysteries, --revelations for those who have thekey, --words from that book of creative power, words from that livingWord, which _he_ must study who would have his vision of Godfulfilled, who would make of his 'good news' something more than aPoet's prophecy. He who found in the peaceful nitre, in the harmlesssulphur, in the saltpetre, 'villanous' not yet, in the impotence offire and sulphur, combining in vain against the motion of theresisting ball, --not less real to his eye, because not apparent, --orin the _villanous_ compound itself, while yet the spark iswanting, --'rules' for other 'wrestling instances, ' for _other_combinations, where the motion of inertia was also to be overcome;requiring organized movements, analyses, and combinations of forces, not less but _more_ scientifically artistic, --rules for theenlargement of forces, waiting but _their_ spark, then, todemonstrate, with more fearful explosions, _their_ expansibility, threatening 'to lay all flat. '

For here, too, the mystic, unknown, occult powers, the unreportedactualities, are working still, in obedience to their orders, whichthey had not from man, and taking no note of his. 'For man, as the_interpreter_ of nature, _does_, and _understands_ as much as hisobservations ON THE ORDER OF THINGS, _or_ THE MIND, _permits_ him, andneither _knows_ nor _is capable_ of more. ' 'Man, while _operating_, can only apply or withdraw natural bodies. NATURE INTERNALLY PERFORMSTHE REST'; and 'the syllogism forces _assent_, but _not_ things. '

Great things this Interpreter promises to man from these observationsand interpretations, which he and his company are ordering; greatthings he promises from the application of this new method of learningto _this_ department of man's want; because those vague popularnotions--those spontaneous but deep-rooted beliefs in man--thoseconfused, perplexed terms, with which he seeks to articulate them, andnot those acts which make up his life only--are out of nature, and allresolvable into higher terms, and require to be returned into _these_before man can work with them to purpose. 

Great _news_ for man he brings; the powers which are working in thehuman life, and _not_ those which are working without it only, areworking in obedience _to laws_. Great things he promises, because thefacts of human life are determined by forces which admit of scientificdefinition, and are capable of being reduced to axioms. Great thingshe promises, for these distinctive phenomena of human life, to theirmost artificial complication, are all out of the universal nature, andstruggling already of themselves instinctively towards the scientificsolution, already 'anticipating' science, and invoking her, andwaiting and watching for her coming. 

Good news the scientific reporter, in his turn, brings in also; goodnews for the state, good news for man; confirmations of reportsindited beforehand; confirmations, from the universal scriptures, ofthe revelation of the divine in the human. Good news, because that lawof the greater whole, which is the worthier--that law of thecommon-weal, which is the human law--that law which in man is reasonand conscience, is in the nature of things, and not in man only--nay, _not_ in man as yet, but prefigured only--his ideal; his trueform--not in man, who 'IS' not, but '_becoming_. '

But in tracking these universal laws of being, this constitution ofthings in general into the human constitution--in tracing theseuniversal definitions into the specific terms of human life--theclearing up of the spontaneous notions and beliefs which the mind ofman shut up to itself yields--the criticism on the terms whichpre-occupy this ground is of course inevitable, whether expressed ornot, and is indeed no unimportant part of the result. For this is aphilosophy in which even 'the most vulgar and casual opinions aresomething more than nothing in nature. '

This Play of the Common-weal and its scientific cure, in which thequestion of the true NOBILITY is so deeply inwrought throughout, isindeed but the filling up of that sketch of the constitution of manwhich we find on another page--that constitution whereby man, as man, is part and member of a common-weal--that constitution whereby hisrelation to the common-weal is essential to the perfection of hisindividual nature, and that highest good of it which is conservationwith advancement--that constitution whereby the highest good of theparticular and private nature, that which bids defiance to the blowsof fortune, comprehends necessarily the good of the whole in itsintention. ('For neither can a man understand VIRTUE without relationto society, nor DUTY without an inward disposition. ') And that is thereason that the question of 'the government of every man overhimself, ' and the predominance of powers, and the wrestling of them in'the little state of man'--the question as to which is 'nobler'--comesto be connected with the question of civil government so closely. Thatis the reason that this doctrine of virtue and state comes to usconjoined; that is the reason that we find this question of theconsulship, and the question of heroism and personal greatness, thequestion of the true nobility, forming so prominent a feature in thePlay of the Common-weal, inwoven throughout with the question of itscure. 

'Constructions according to true definitions' make the end here. Thedefinition is, of course, the necessary preliminary to suchconstructions: it does not in itself suffice. Mere science does notavail here. Scientific ARTS, scientific INSTITUTIONS of regimen andculture and cure, make the essential conditions of success in thisenterprise. But we want the light of 'the true definitions' to beginwith. There is no use in revolutions till we have it; and as forempirical institutions, mankind has seen the best of them;--we areperishing in their decay, dying piecemeal, going off into a race ofostriches, or something of that nature--or threatened with becomingmere petrifactions, mineral specimens of what we have been, preserved, perhaps, to adorn the museums of some future species, gifted withbetter faculties for maintaining itself. It is time for a change ofsome sort, for the worse or the better, when we get habitually, and bya social rule, water for milk, brickdust for chocolate, silex forbutter, and minerals of one kind and another for bread; when our drugsgive the lie to science; when mustard refuses to 'counter-irritate, 'and sugar has ceased to be sweet, and pepper, to say nothing of'ginger' is no longer 'hot in the mouth. ' The question in speculativephilosophy at present is--

 'Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and _pre_-formed faculties, To monstrous quality. '

 --'There's something in this _more_ than _natural_, --if _philosophy could find it out_!

And what we want in practical philosophy when it comes to this, is anew kind of enchantments, with capacities large enough to swallow upthese, as the rod of Moses swallowed up the rods of the Egyptians. That was a good test of authority; and nothing short of that willanswer our present purpose; when not that which makes life desirableonly, but life itself is assailed, and in so comprehensive a manner, the revolutionary point of sufferance and stolidity is reached. Wecannot stay to reason it thus and thus with 'the garotte' about ourthroats: the scientific enchantments will have to be tried now, triedhere also. Now that we have 'found out' oxygen and hydrogen, and donot expect to alter their ways of proceeding by any epithets that wemay apply to them, or any kind of hocus-pocus that we may practise onthem, it is time to see what _gen_, or _genus_ it is, that proceeds inthese departments in so successful a manner, and with so little regardto our exorcisms; and the mere calling of names, which indicate in ageneral way the unquestionable fact of a degeneracy, is of no use, forthat has been thoroughly tried already. 

The experiment in the 'common logic, ' as Lord Bacon calls it, has beena very long and patient one; the historical result is, that it forcesassent, and _not_ things. 

The question here is _not_ of divinity, as some might suppose. Thereis no question about that. Nobody need be troubled about that. It doesnot depend on this, or that man's arguments, happily. The truedivinity, the true inspiration, is of that which was and shall be. Itsfoundations are laid, --its perennial source is found, not in the soulof man, not in the constitution of the mind of man only, but in thenature of things, and in the universal laws of being. The truedivinity strikes its foundations to the universal granite; it is builton 'that rock where philosophy and divinity join close;' and heavenand earth may pass, but not that. 

The question here is of logic. The question is between Lord Bacon andAristotle, and which of these two thrones and dominions in speculationand practice the moderns are disposed on the whole to give theirsuffrages to, in this most vital department of human practice, in thismost vital common human concern and interest. The question is of thesedemoniacal agencies that are at large now upon this planet--on bothsides of it--going about with 'tickets of _leave_, ' of one kind andanother; for the logic that we employ in this department still, thoughit has been driven, with hooting, out of every other, and the rudesystems of metaphysics which it sustains, do not take hold of thesethings. They pay no attention to our present method of reasoning aboutthem. There is no objection to syllogisms, as Lord Baconconcedes;--they are very useful in their proper place. The difficultyis, that the subtlety of nature in general, as exhibited in thatresult which we call fact, far surpasses the subtlety of nature, whendeveloped within that limited sphere, which the mind of man makes; andnature is much more than a match for him, when he throws himself uponhis own internal gifts of ratiocination, and undertakes to dictate tothe universe. The difficulty is just this;--here we have it in anut-shell, as we are apt to get it in Lord Bacon's aphorisms. 

'The syllogism consists of propositions; these of words. Words are thesigns of notions: notions represent things:' [If these last then]--'if_our notions_ are _fantastical_, the whole structure falls to theground. But [they _are_] they are, for the most part, _improperlyabstracted_, and deduced from things, ' and that is the difficultywhich this new method of learning, propounded in connection with thisso radical criticism of the old one, undertakes to remedy. For thereare just _two_ methods of learning, as he goes on to tell us, withincreasing, but cautious, amplifications. The false method lays downfrom the very outset some abstract and _useless_ generalities, --_theother_, gradually rises to those principles which are really the mostcommon in nature. 'Axioms determined on in argument, can never assistin the discovery of _new effects_, for the subtlety of nature isvastly superior to that of argument. But axioms properly and regularlyabstracted from particulars, easily _point out and define_ NEWPARTICULARS, and _impart activity to the sciences_. '

'We are wont to call _that human reasoning_ which we apply to nature, THE ANTICIPATION OF NATURE (as being rash and premature), and thatwhich is properly _deduced from_ THINGS, THE INTERPRETATION OFNATURE. '--(A radical distinction, which it is the first business ofthe new machine of the mind to establish). '_Anticipations_ aresufficiently powerful in producing _unanimity_; for if men were all tobecome even _uniformly mad_, they might agree tolerably well _witheach other_, ' (but not with nature; there's the trouble; that is _theassent_ that is wanting). 

'In sciences founded upon opinions and dogmas, it is right to make useof anticipations and logic, if you wish to force assent, and _not_things. '

The difference, then, between the first hasty conceptions and rudetheories of the nature of things, --the difference between thepreconceptions which make the first steps of the human mind towardsthe attainment of truth, and those conceptions and axioms which areproperly abstracted from things, and which correspond to theirnatures, is the difference in which science begins. 

And we shall find that the truths of science in this department of it, which makes our present subject are quite as new, quite as far out ofthe road of common opinion, and quite as unattainable by the oldmethod of learning, as those truths with which science has alreadyoverpowered the popular notions and theories in those departments inwhich its powers have been already tested. 

These rude natural products of the human understanding, while it isyet undisciplined by the knowledge of nature in general, which intheir broadest range proceed from the human speciality, and aretherefore liable to an exterior criticism; these first words andnatural beliefs of men, through all their range, from the _a priori_conceptions of the schools, down to the most narrow and vulgar_preconceptions_ and _prejudices_ of the unlearned, the author of the'Novum Organum, ' and of the 'Advancement of Learning, ' by a bold anddexterous sweep, puts quietly into one category, under the seeminglyfanciful, --but, considering the time, none too fanciful, --designationof 'the Idols';--(he knew, indeed, that the original of the term wouldsuggest to the scholar a more literal reading), --'the Idols of theTribe, of the Den, of the Market, and of the Theatre, ' as he seesreason--scientific, as well as rhetorical reason, --for dividing anddistinguishing them. But under that common designation of _images_, and false ones too, he subjects them to a common criticism, in behalfof that mighty hitherto unknown, unsought, universality, which is allparticulars--which is more universal than the notions of men, andtranscends the grasp of their beliefs and pre-judgments;--thatuniversal fact which men are brought in contact with, in all theirdoing, and in all their suffering, whether pleasurable or painful. That _universal_, actual fact, whose science philosophy has hithertoset aside, in favour of its own pre-notions, as a thing not worthtaking into the account, --that mystic, occult, unfathomed fact, thatis able to assert itself in the face of our most authoritativepre-notions, whose science, under the vulgar name of experience, allthe learning of the world had till then made over with a scornineffable to the cultivation of the unlearned. Under that despisedname which the old philosophy had omitted in its chart, the newperceived that the ground lay, and made all sail thither. 

We cannot expect to find then any of those old terms and definitionsincluded in the trunk of the new system, which is science. None ofthose airy fruits that grow on the branches which those old roots of afalse metaphysics must needs nurture, --none of those apples of Sodomwhich these have mocked us with so long, shall the true seeker find onthese boughs. The man of science does not, indeed, care to displacethose terms in the popular dialect _here_, any more than the chemistor the botanist will insist on reforming the ordinary speech of menwith _their_ truer language in the fields they occupy. The newLogician and Metaphysician will himself, indeed, make use of thesesame terms, with a hint to 'men of understanding, ' perhaps, as to thesense in which he uses them. 

Incorporated into a system of learning on which much human labour hasbeen bestowed, they may even serve some good practical purposes undercertain conditions of social advancement. And besides, they are usefulfor adorning discourse, and furnish abundance of rhetorical material. Above all, they are invaluable to the scholastic controversialists, and the new philosopher will not undertake to displace them in thesefields. He steadfastly refuses to come into any collision with them. He leaves them to take their way without. He makes them over to thevulgar, and to those old-fashioned schools of logic and metaphysics, whose endless web is spun out of them. But when the question is ofpractice, that is another thing. It is the scientific word that iswanting here. That is the word which in his school he will undertaketo teach. 

When it comes to practice, professional practice, like the botanistand the chemist, he will make his own terms. He has a machineexpressly for that purpose, by which new terms are framed and turnedout in exact accordance with the nature of things. He does not wish toquarrel with any one, but in the way of his profession, he will havenone of those old confused terms thrust upon him. He will examinethem, and analyze them; and all, --_all_ that is in them, --all, andmore, will be in his; _but_ scientifically cleared, 'divided with themind, that divine fire, ' and clothed with power. 

And it is just as impossible that those changes for the human reliefwhich the propounder of the New Logic propounded as its chief end, should ever be effected by means of the popular terms which ourmetaphysicians are still allowed to retain in the highest fields ofprofessional practice, as it would have been to effect those lesserreforms which this logic has already achieved, if those old elementaryterms, earth, fire, air, water, --terms which antiquity thought fineenough; which passed the muster of the ancient schools withoutsuspicion, had never to this hour been analyzed. 

It is just as easy to suppose that we could have had our magnetictelegraphs, and daguerreotypes, and our new Materia Medica, and allthe new inventions of modern science for man's relief, if the termswhich were simple terms in the vocabulary of Aristotle and Pliny, hadnever been tested with the edge of the New Machine, and divided withits divine fire, if they had not ceased to be in the schools at leastelementary; it is just as easy to suppose this, as it is to supposethat the true and nobler ends of science can ever be attained, so longas the powers that are _actual_ in our human life, which are still atlarge in all their blind instinctive demoniacal strength _there_, which still go abroad free-footed, unfettered of science _there_, while we chain the lightning, and send it on our errands, --so long asthese still slip through the ring of our airy 'words, ' still riot inthe freedom of our large generalizations, our sublime abstractions, --so long as a mere _human_ word-ology is suffered to remain here, clogging all with its deadly impotence, --keeping out the truegeneralizations with their grappling-hooks on the particulars, --the creative word of art which man learns from the creating wisdom, --the word to which rude nature bows anew, --the word which is Power. 

But while the world is resounding with those new relations to thepowers of nature which the science of nature has established in otherfields, in that department of it, which its Founder tells us is 'theend and term of Natural Science in the intention of man, ' in thatdepartment of it to which his labor was directed; we are still givenover to the inventions of Aristotle, applied to those rude conceptionsand theories of the nature of things which the unscientific ages haveleft to us. Here we have still the loose generalization, the untestedaffirmation, the arrogant pre-conception, the dogmatic assumption. Here we have the mere phenomena of the human speciality put forward asscience, without any attempt to find their genera, --to trace them tothat which is more known to nature, so as to connect them practicallywith the diversity and opposition, which the actual conditions ofpractice present. 

We have not, in short, the scientific language here yet. The vices andthe virtues do not understand the names by which we call them, andundertake to command them. Those are not the names in that 'infinitebook of secrecy' which they were taught in. They find a more potentorder there. 

And thus it is, that the demons of human life go abroad here still, impervious alike to our banning and our blessing. The powers of naturewhich are included in the human nature, --the powers which in this_specific_ form of them we are undertaking to manage with these vulgargeneralizations, tacked together with the Aristotelian logic--thesepowers are no more amenable to any such treatment in this form, thanthey are in those other forms, in which we are learning to approachthem with another vocabulary. 

The forces which are developed in the human life will not answer tothe names by which we call them _here_, any more than the lightningwould answer to the old Magician's incantation, --any more than itwould have come if the old Logician had called it by _his_name, --which was just as good as the name--and no better, than thename, which the priest of Baal gave it, --any more than it would havecome, if the old Logician had undertaken to fetch it, with the harnessof his syllogism. 

But when the new Logician, who was the new Magician, came, with 'thepart operative' of his speculation; with his 'New Machine, ' with therod of his new definition, with the staff of _his_ genera andspecies, --when the right name was found for it, it heard, it heardafar, it heard in its heaven and _came_. It came fast enough then. Itwas 'asleep, ' but it awaked. It was 'taking a journey' but it came. There was no affectation of the graces of the gods when the newinterpreter and prophet of nature, who belonged to the new order ofInterpreters, sent up his little messenger, without any pomp orceremony, or 'windy suspiration of forced breath, ' and fetched it. 

But that was an Occidental philosopher, one of the race who like tosee effects of some kind, when there is nothing in the field to forbidit. That was one of the Doctors who are called in this system'Interpreters of nature, ' to distinguish them from those who 'rashlyanticipate' it. He did not make faces, and cut himself with knives andlances, after a prescribed manner, and prophesy until evening, thoughthere was no voice, nor any to answer, nor any that regarded. He knewthat that god at least would not stop on his journey; or if, peradventure, he slept, would not be wakened by any such process. 

And the farther the world proceeds on that 'new road' it is travellingat present, the more the demand will be heard in this quarter, for anadaptation of instrumentalities to the advanced, and advancing ages ofmodern learning and civilization, and to that more severe and exactinggenius of the occidental races, that keener and more subtle, andpractical genius, from whose larger requisitions and powers thisadvancement proceeds. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE CURE--PLAN OF INNOVATION--NEW CONSTRUCTIONS. 

'Unless these end in matter, and constructions according to truedefinitions, they are speculative, and of little use. '--_NovumOrganum_. 

Difficult, then, as the problem of Civil Government appeared to theeye of the scientific philosopher, and threatening and appalling aswere those immediate aspects of it which it presented at that moment, he does not despair of the State. Even on the verge of that momentouspolitical and social crisis, 'though he does not need to go to heavento predict great revolutions and imminent changes, ' 'he thinks he seesways to save us, ' and he finds in his new science of Man the ultimatesolution of that problem. 

That particular and private nature which is in all men, let themre-name themselves by what names they will, that particular andprivate nature which intends always the individual and private good, has in itself 'an incident towards the good of society, ' which it mayuse as means, --which it must use, if highly successful, --as means toits end. Even in this, when science has enlightened it, and it isimpelled by blind and unsuccessful instinct no longer, the man ofscience finds a place where a pillar of the true state can be planted;even here the scientific light lays bare, in the actualities of thehuman constitution, a foundation-stone, --a stone that does notcrumble--a stone that does not roll, which the state that shall standmust rest on. 

Even that 'active good, ' which impels 'the troublers of the world, such as was Lucius Sylla, and infinite others in smaller model, '--thatprinciple which impels the particular nature to leave its signature onother things, --on the state, on the world, if it can, --though it isits own end, and though it is apt, when armed with those singularpowers for 'effecting its _good_ will, ' which are represented in thehero of this action, to lead to results of the kind which this piecerepresents, --this is the principle in man which seeks an individualimmortality, and works of immortal worth for man are its natural andselectest means. 

But that is not all. The bettering of _itself_, the perfection of itsown form, is, by the constitution of things, a force, a _motive_, an_actual_ 'power in everything that moves. ' This is one of the primal, universal, natural motions. It is in the universal creative stamp ofthings; and strong as that is, the rock on which here, too, the hopeof science rests--strong as that is, the pillar of the state, whichhere, too, it will rear. For to man the highest '_passive_ good, ' andthis, too, is of the good which is 'private and particular, ' is, constitutionally, that whereby 'the conscience of good intentions, however succeeding, is a more continual joy to his nature than all theprovision--the most luxurious provision--which can be made forsecurity and repose, --whereby the mere empirical experimenter in goodwill count it a higher felicity to fail in good and virtuous endstowards the public, than to attain the most envied success limited tohis particular. 

Thus, even in these decried '_private_' motives, which actuate allmen--these universal natural instincts, which impel men yet moreintensely, by the concentration of the larger sensibility, and thefaculty of the nobler nature of their species, to seek their ownprivate good, --even in these forces, which, unenlightened anduncounterbalanced, tend in man to war and social dissolution, or'monstrous' social combination, --even in these, the scientific eyeperceives the basis of new structures, 'constructions according totrue definitions, ' in which _all_ the ends that nature in man graspsand aspires to, shall be artistically comprehended and attained. 

But this is only the beginning of the scientific politician's 'hope. 'This is but a collateral aid, an incidental assistance. This is theplace on his ground-plan for the buttresses of the pile he will rear. There is an unborrowed foundation, there is an internal support forthe state in man. For along with that particular and private nature ofgood, there is another in all men;--there is another motive, whichrespects and beholds the good of society, not mediately, but directlyas _its_ end, --which embraces in its intention 'the form of humannature, whereof we are members and portions, and _not_--not--our ownproper, individual form'; and this is the good 'which is in degree thegreater and the worthier, because it tends to the conservation andadvancement of a more general form. ' And this, also, is an _actual_force in man, proceeding from the universal nature of things andoriginal in that, not in him. This, also, is in the primeval creativestamp of things; and here, also, the science of the interpretation ofnature finds in the constitution of man, and in the nature of things, the foundations of the true state ready to its hand; and hewn, allhewn and cut, and joined with nature's own true and cunning hand ereman was, the everlasting pillars of the common-weal. 

But in man _this_ law, also, --this law chiefly, --has its _special_, essentially special, development. 'It is much _more_ impressed on man, if he de-_generate_ not. ' Great buildings have been reared on thisfoundation already; great buildings, old and time-honoured, stand onit. The history of human nature is glorious, even in its degeneracy, with the exhibition of this larger, nobler form of humanity assertingitself, triumphing over the intensities of the narrower motivity. Itis a species in which the organic law transcends the individual, andembraces the kind; it is a constitution of nature, in which those whoseek the good of the kind, and subordinate the private nature to that, are noble, and chief. It is a species in which the law of thecommon-weal is for ever present to the private nature, as the law ofits own being, requiring, under the pains and penalties of theuniversal laws of being, subjection. 

Science cannot originate new forces in nature. 'Man, while operating, can only apply or withdraw natural forces. Nature, internally, performs the rest. ' But here are the very forces that we want. If manwere, indeed, naturally and constitutionally, that mere species of'vermin' which, under certain modes of culture, with great facility hebecomes, there would be no use in spending words upon this subject. Science could not undertake the common-weal in that case. If nature'sword had been here dissolution, isolation, single intention in theparts and members of that body that science sought to frame, what wordof creative art could she pronounce, what bonds of life could shefind, what breath of God could she boast, that she should think toframe of such material the body politic, the organic whole, theliving, free, harmonious, triumphant common-weal. 

But here are the very forces that we want, blindly moving, moving inthe dark, left to intuition and instinct, where nature had providedreason, and required science and scientific art. That has not beentried. And that is why this question of the state, dark as it is, portentous, hopeless as its aspects are, if we limit the survey to ourpresent aids and instrumentalities, is already, to the eye of science, kindling with the aurora of unimagined change, advancements to theheights of man's felicity, that shall dim the airy portraiture ofpoets' visions, that shall outgo here, too, the world's young dreamswith its scientific reality. 

There has been no help from science in this field hitherto. Theproceeding of the world has been instinctive and empirical thus far, in the attainment of the ends which the complex nature of man requireshim to seek. Men have been driven, and swayed hither and thither, bythese different and apparently contradictory aims, without any_science_ of the forces that actuated them. Those ends these forceswill seek, --'it is their nature to, '--whether in man, or in any otherform in which they are incorporated. There's no amount of declamationthat is ever going to stop them. The power that is in everything thatmoves, the forces of universal nature are concerned in the acts thatwe deprecate and cry out upon. It is the original constitution ofthings, as it was settled in that House of Commons, to whose acts thememory of Man runneth not, that is concerned in these demonstrations;and philosophy requires that whatever else we do, we should avoid, byall means, coming into any collision with those statutes. 'We must soorder it, ' says Michael of the Mountain, quoting in this case fromantiquity--'we must so order it, as by no means to contend withuniversal nature. ' 'To attempt to kick against natural necessity, ' hesays in his own name, and in his own peculiar and more impressivemethod of philosophic instruction--'to attempt to kick against naturalnecessity, is to represent the folly of Ctesiphon, who undertook tooutkick his mule. ' We must begin by distinguishing 'what is in ourpower, and what not, ' says the author of the Advancement of Learning, applying that universal rule of practice to our present subject. 

Here, then, carefully reduced to their most comprehensive form, tracedto the height of universal nature, and brought down to the specificnature in man--here, as they lie on the ground of the common nature inman, for the first time scientifically abstracted--are the powerswhich science has to begin with in this field. The varieties in thespecies, and the individual differences so remarkable in this kind, are not in this place under consideration. But here is the _common_nature in this kind, which must make the basis of any permanentuniversal social constitution for it. Different races will requirethat their own constitutional differences shall be respected in theirsocial constitutions; and if they be not, for the worse or for thebetter, look for change. But this is the universal platform thatscience is clearing here. This is the WORLD that she is concerningherself with here, in the person of that High Priest of hers, who, also, took that to be his business. 

Here are these powers in man, then, to begin with. Here is thisuniversal natural predisposition in him, not to subsist, merely, andmaintain his form--which is nature's first law, they tell us--but to'better himself' in some way. As Hamlet expresses it, 'he lacksadvancement'; and advancement he will have, or strive to have, if not'_formal_ and _essential_, ' then 'local. ' He is instinctively impelledto it; and in his ignorant attempt to compass that end which naturehas prescribed to him, the 'tempest of human life' arises. 

The scientific plan will be, not to quarrel with these universalforces, and undertake to found society on their annihilation. Sciencewill count that structure unsafe which is founded on the supposedannihilation of these forces in anything that moves. The man ofscience knows, that though by the predominance of powers, or by theequilibrium of them, they may be for a time, '_as it were_, annihilated, ' they are in every creature; and nature in the instincts, though blind, is cunning, and finds ways and means of overcomingbarriers, and evading restrictions, and inclines to indemnify herselfwhen once she finds her way again. Instead of quarrelling with theseforces, the scientific plan, having respect to the Creating Wisdom inthe constitution of man, overlooking them from that height, willthankfully accept them, and make much of them. These are just themotive powers that science has need of; she could not compose herstructure without them, which is only the perfecting of the structurewhich the great Creating Wisdom had already outlined andpre-ordered--not a machine, but a living organic whole. 

Science takes this 'piece of work' as she finds him, ready, waitingfor the hand of art--imperfect, unfinished, but with the proceeding ofnature incorporated in him--with the creative, advancing, perfectingmotion, incorporated in him as his essence and law;--imperfect, butwith nature working within him for the rest, urging him toself-perfection. She takes him as she finds him, a creature ofinstinct, but with his large, rich, undeveloped, yet already activenature of reason, and conscience, and religion, already struggling forthe mastery, counterbalancing his narrower motivity, holding in check, with nobler intuitions, the error of an instinct which errs in man, because eyes were included in nature's definition of him, as it waswritten beforehand in her book, her universal book of types andorders--eyes, and not instinct only--'that what he cannot smell out, he may spy into. ' 'O'er that art, which you say adds to nature, is anart that nature makes. ' The want of this pre-ordered art is the wanthere still. The war of the unenlightened instincts is raging herestill. That is where the difficulty lies. That same patience ofinvestigation with which science has pursued and found out natureelsewhere--that same intense, indefatigable concentration ofendeavour, which has been rewarded with such 'magnitude of effects' inother fields--that same, in a higher degree, in more powerfulcombinations, proportioned to the magnitude and common desirablenessof the object, is what is wanting here. It is the instincts that areat fault here, --'the blind instincts, that seeing reason' should'guide. '

That is where all the jar and confusion of this great storm begins, that 'continues still, ' and blasts our lives, in spite of all thespells that we mumble over it, and in spite of all the magic that allour magicians can bring to bear on it. 'Meagre success, ' at least, isstill the word here. No wonder that the storm continues, under suchconditions. No wonder that the world is full of the uproar of thisarrested work, this violated intent of nature. She will storm on tillwe hear her. Woe to those who put themselves in opposition to her, whothink to violate her intent and prosper! 'The storm continues, ' and itwill continue, pronounce on it what incantations we may, so long asthe elemental forces of all nature are meeting in our lives, anddashing in blind elemental strength against each other, and thebrooding spirit of the social life, the composing spirit of the largerwhole, cannot reconcile them, because the voices that are filling theair with the discord of their controversy, and out-toning the noise ofthis battle with theirs, are crying in one key, 'Let there be darknesshere'; because the darkness of the ages of instinct and intuition isheld back here, cowering, ashamed, but forbidden to flee away; becausethe night of human ignorance still covers all this battle-ground, andhides the combatants. 

Science is the word here. The Man of the Modern Ages has spoken it, 'and now the times give it proof'; the times in which the methods ofearlier ages, in the rapid advancement of learning in other fields, are losing their vitalities, and leaving us without those means ofsocial combination, without those social bonds which the rudest agesof instinct and intuition, which the most barbaric peoples have beenable to command. The times give it proof, fearful proof, terrificproof, when the noblest institutions of earlier ages are losing theirpower to conserve the larger whole; when the conserving faith ofearlier ages, with its infinities of forces, is fainting in itsstruggles, and is not supported; and men set at nought its divinerealities, because they have not been translated into their speech andlanguage, and think there _is_ no such thing; and under all theexterior splendours of a material civilization advanced by science, society tends to internal decay, and the primal war of atoms. 

To meet the exigencies of a crisis like this, it is _not_ enough tocall these powers that are actual in the human nature, but which arenot yet reconciled and reduced to their true and natural order--it isnot enough at this age of the world, at this stage of humanadvancement in other fields--to call these forces by some generalnames which include their oppositions, and to require for want ofskill that a part of them shall be annihilated; it is not enough toexpress a strong disapprobation of the result as it is, and torequire, in never-so-authoritative manner, that it shall be otherwise. No matter what names we may use to make that requisition in, no matterunder _what_ pains and penalties we require it, the result--whateverwe may say to the contrary--the result does not follow. That is notthe way. Those who try it, and who continue to try it in the face ofno matter what failures, may think it is; but there is a voicemightier than theirs, drowning all their speech, telling us inthunder-tones, that it is not; with arguments that brutes mightunderstand, telling us that it is not!

It is, indeed, no small gain in the rude ages of warring instincts andintuitions, when there is as yet no science to define them, andcompare them, and pronounce from its calm height its eternal axiomshere--when the world is a camp, and hostilities are deified, andmankind is in arms when all the moral terms are still wrapped in theconfusion of the first outgoing of the perplexed, unanalysed humanmotivity--it _is_ no small gain to get the word of the noblerintuitions outspoken, to get the word of the divine law of man'snature, his _essential_ law pronounced--even in rudest ages overawing, commanding with its awful divinity the intenser motivity of the lessernature--able to summon, in rudest ages, to its ideal heights, thosecolossal heroic forms, that cast their long shadows over the tracts oftime, to tell us what type it is that humanity aspires to. It is nosmall gain to get these nobler intuitions outspoken in some voice thatcommands with its authority the world's ear, or illustrated in someexemplar that arrests the world's eye, and draws the human heart untoit. 

It is no small advance in human history, to get the divine authorityof those nobler intuitions, which, in man, anticipate speculation, andtheir right to command the particular motives, recognised in thecommon speech of men, incorporated in their speculative belief, incorporated in their books of learning, and embalmed in institutionsthat keep the divine exemplar of the human form for ever in our eyes. It _is_ something. The warring nations war on. The world is in armsstill. The rude instincts are not stayed in their intent. They pause, it may be; 'but a roused passion sets them _new_ a-work. ' The speckleddemons, that the degenerate _angelic _nature breeds, put on the newlivery, and go abroad in it rejoicing. New rivers of blood, new seasof carnage, are opened in the new name of peace; new engines oftorture, of fiendish wrong, are invented in the new name of love. Butit _is_ some gain. There is a new rallying-place on the earth forthose who seek truly the higher good; at the foot of the new symbolthey recognise each other, they join hand in hand, and the bands ofthose who wait and watch amid the earth's darkness for the promise, cheer us with their songs. Truths out of the Eternal Book, truths thatall hearts lean on in their need, are spoken. Words that shall neverpass away, sweet with the immortal hope and perennial joy of life, arealways in our ears. 

The nations that have contributed to this result in any degree, whether primarily or secondarily, whether they be Syrians orAssyrians, Arabs or Egyptians, wandering or settled, wild or tame;whether they belong to the inferior unanalysing Semitic races, orwhether they come of the more richly endowed, but yet youthful, Indo-European stock; whether they be Hebrews or Persians, Greeks orRomans, will always have the world's gratitude. Those to whoseintenser conceptions and bolder affirmations, in the rude ages ofinstinct and spontaneous allegation, it was given to pronounce and puton everlasting record, these primal truths of inspiration, --truthswhose divinity all true hearts respond to, may be indeed by theirnatural intellectual characteristics, --if _Semitic_ must be--totallydisqualified by ethnological laws, --hopelessly disqualified--sohopelessly that it is to lose all to put it on them--for the task ofcommanding, in detail, our modern civilization;--a civilization whichhas made, already, the rude ethics of these youthful races, when itcomes to details, so palpably and grossly inapplicable, that it is anoffence to modern sensibility to name--to so much as name--decisionswhich stand unreversed, without comment, in our books of learning. Butthat is no reason why we should not take, and thankfully appropriateas the gift of God, all that it was their part to contribute to thegreat plot of human advancement. We cannot afford to dispense with anysuch gain. The movement which respects the larger whole, the divineintent incorporates it all. 

'Japhet shall dwell in the tents of Shem, ' for they are world wide;but woe to him if, in his day, he refuse to build the temple which, inhis day, his God will also require of him. Woe to him, if he think toput upon another age and race the tasks which his Task-Master willrequire of him, --which, with his many gifts, with his chief gifts, with his ten talents, will surely be required of him. More than hisfathers' woe upon him--more than that old-world woe, which he, too, remembers, if he think to lean on Asia, the youthful Asia, when hisown great world noon-day has come. 

'There was violence on the earth in those days, and it repented theLord that he had made man on the earth. ' 'Twill come, ' says our ownpoet, prefacing his proposal for a scientific art in the attainment ofthe chief human ends, and giving his illustrated reasons for it, --

 'Twill come [at this rate] Humanity must, perforce, prey on itself, Like _monsters_ of the _deep_. 

But what are _these_?--these new orders, --these new species of nature, defying nature, that we are generating with our arts here now? Whatare these new varieties to which our kind is tending now? Look at thiskind for instance. What are these? Define them. Destroyers, not oftheir own image in their fellow-man only, not of the image of theirkind only, --sacred by natural universal laws, --but of the chosen imageof it, the ideal of it, the one in whom the natural love of their kindwas by the law of nature concentred, --the wife and the mother, --destroyed not as the wolf destroys its prey, but with ferocity, orwith prolonged and studious harm, that it required the human brain toplan and perpetrate. Look at this pale lengthening widening train oftheir victims. We must look at it. It will never go by till we do. Weshall have to look at it, and consider it well; it will lengthen, itwill _widen_ till we do:--ghastly, bruised, bleeding, trampled, --trampled it may be, with nailed, booted heel, mother and childtogether into one grave. But _these_ are common drunkard's wives;--weare inured to this catastrophe, and do not think much of it. But whoare _these_, whom the grave cannot hold; that by God's edict break itsbonds and come back, making day hideous, to tell us what the earthcould not, would not keep, --to tell us of that other band who died andmade no sign? But this is nothing. Here are more. Here are others. What are these? These are not spectres. _Their_ cheeks are red enough. What loathsome thing is this, that we are bringing forth here now withthe human face upon it, in whom the heart of the universal nature hasexpired. These are murderers, --count them--they are all murderers, wholesale murderers, perhaps, --but of what? Of their own helpless, tender, loving, trusting little ones. The wretched children of _ourtime_, --alone in wretchedness, --alone in the universe of nature, --whofound, where nature promised them a mother's love, the knife, or themore cruel agonizing drug of death. Was there any cause in nature forit? Yes. They did it for the 'burial fee, ' perhaps, or for some othercause as good. They had a reason for it. Let our naturalists throwtheir learning 'to the dogs, ' and come this way, and tell us what thismeans. Nay, let them bring their books with them, and example us withits meaning if they can. Let them tell us what 'depth' in which naturehides her failures, or yet unperfected hideous germinations, --whatformation in which she buries the kinds she repents that she has madeupon the earth, or what 'deep'--what ocean cave of 'monsters' we shalldrag to find our kindred in _these_ species. Let our wise men tell uswhether there be, or whether there ever was, any such thing as this innature before. If 'such things are, ' or have been in any other kind, let them produce the instances, and keep us in countenance and consoleus for our own. 

Let them look at that murderer too, and interpret _him_ for us. For hetoo is waiting to be interpreted, and he will wait till we understandhis signs. He is speaking mute nature's language to us; we must gether key. Look at him as he stands there in the dark, subordinatingthat faculty which comprehends the whole, which recognises thedivinity of his neighbour's right, to his fiendish end: preparing withthe judgment of a man his little piece of machinery, with which hewill take, as he would take a salmon, or a rat, his fellow-man. Lookat him as he stands there now, listening patiently for your steps, waiting to strangle you as you go by him unarmed to-night, confidingin your fellow-man; waiting to drag you down from all the hopes andjoys of life, for the sake of the loose coin, gold or silver, which hethinks he may find about you, --_perhaps_. 'How to KILL _vermin_ andhow to PREVENT the _fiend_, ' was Tom's study. How to dispatch in themost agreeable and successful manner, creatures whose notions of_good_ are constitutionally and diametrically opposed to the good ofthe larger whole, who have no sensibility to that, and no facultywhereby they perceive it to be the worthier; that is no doubt one partof the problem. The scientific question is, whether this creature bereally what it seems, a new and more horrid kind of beast--ademoralization and deterioration of the human species into that. If itbe, let our naturalists come to our aid here also, and teach us how tohunt him down and despatch him, with as much respect to the naturaldecencies which the fact of the external human form would seem stillto exact from us, as the circumstances will admit of. Is it the beast, or is it 'the fiend?'--that is the question. The fiend which tells usthat the angelic or divine nature is there--there still--overborne, trampled on, '_as it were_, annihilated, ' but lighting that gleam of'wickedness, '--making of it, not instinct, but crime. Ah! we need notask which it is. This one has told his own story, if we could but readit. He has left--he is leaving all the time, contributions, richestcontributions to our natural history of man, --that history which mustmake the basis of our arts of cure. He was a wolf when you took him;but in his cell you found something else in him--did younot?--something that troubled and appalled you, with its kindred andlikeness, and its exaction on your sympathy. When you hung him as youwould _not_ hang a dog;--when you put him to a death which you wouldthink it indecent and inhuman to award to a creature of anotherspecies, you did not find him _that_. The law of the nobler nature layin him as it were annihilated; _he_ thought there was no such thing;but when nature's great voice was heard without also, and those'bloody instructions he had taught returned to him'; when that voiceof the people, which was the voice of God to him, echoed with its doomthe voice within, and 'sweet religion, ' with its divine appeals--'arhapsody of words' no longer, came, to second that greatargument, --the blind instincts were overpowered in him, the lesserusurping nature was dethroned, --the angelic nature arose, and had_her_ hour, and shed parting gleams of glory on those fleeting daysand nights; and he came forth, to die at last, not dragged like abeast--with a manly step--with heroic grandeur, vindicating the heroictype in nature, of that form he wore, --vindicating the violated law, accepting his doom, bowing to its ignominy, a man, a member ofsociety, --a reconciled and accepted member of the commonweal. 

How to _prevent_ the fiend? _is_ the question. Ah! what unletteredforces are these, unlearned still, with all our learning, that thedark, unaided wrestling hour 'in the little state of man, ' leaves atthe head of affairs there, seated in its chair of state, crowned, 'predominant, ' to speak the word of doom for us all. 'He poisons himin the garden for his estate. ' 'Lights, lights, lights!' is the wordhere. There _is_ a cause in nature for these hard hearts, but it isnot in the constitution of man. There _is_ a cause; it is natureherself, crying out upon our learning, asking to be--interpreted. 

Woe for the age whose universal learning is in forms that move andcommand no longer; that move and bind no longer with _fear_, or_hope_, or _love_, 'the common people. ' Woe for the people who thinkthat the everlasting truths of being--the eternal laws of science--arethings for saints, and schoolmasters, and preachers only, --the peoplewho carry about with them in secret, for week-day purposes, Edmund'screed, to whom nature is already 'their goddess, and their law, ' erethey know her or her law--ere the appointed teacher has instructedthem in it, --ere they know what divinity she, too, holds to, --ere theinterpreter has translated into her speech, and evolved from herbooks, the old truths which shall not--though their old '_garments_'should '_be changed_'--which _shall not_ pass away. Woe for thenations in whom that greater part that carries it, are godless, orwhose vows are paid in secret to Edmund's goddess, --whose true faithis in appetite, --who have no secret laws imposed on that. 'Woe to thepeople who are in such a case, ' no matter on which side of the oceanthey may dwell, in the old world, or a new one; no matter under whatpolitical constitutions. No matter under what favourable externalconditions, the national development that has that hollow in it, mayproceed; no matter under what glorious and before unimaginedconditions of a healthful, noble human development that developmentmay proceed. Alas! for such a people. The rulers may cry 'Peace!' butthere is none. And, alas! for the world in which such a power isgrowing up under new conditions, and waxing strong, and preparing forits leaps. 

As a principle of social or political organisation, there is noreligion, --there never has been any, --so fatal as none. That is atruth of which all history is an illustration. It is one which hasbeen illustrated in the history of modern states, not less vividlythan in the history of antiquity. And it will continue to beillustrated, on the same grand scale, in those terrific evils whichthe dissolution, or the dissoluteness of the larger whole creates, whenever the appointed teachers of a nation, the inductors of it intoits highest learning, lag behind the common mind in theirinterpretations, and leave it to the people to construct their ownrude 'tables of rejections'; whenever the practical axioms, which arethe inevitable vintage of these undiscriminating and fatally falserejections, are suffered to become history. 

'Woe to the land when its _king_ is a child'; but thrice woe to it, when its teacher is a child. Alas! for the world, when the pabulum ofher youthful visions and anticipations of learning have become meatfor men, the prescribed provision for that nature in which man mustlive, or 'cease to be, ' amid the sober realities of western science. 

 'Thou shouldst not have been OLD _before thy time_. '

 'The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, And 'gins to pale his _ineffectual_ fire. '

CHAPTER XI. 

THE CURE--NEW CONSTRUCTIONS--THE INITIATIVE. 

_Pyramus_. --'Write me a prologue, and let the prologue _seem to say, we will do no harm_ with our _swords_ [spears]. .. And for the morebetter assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, butBottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. '--_Shake-spear_. 

'Truth and reason are common to every one, and are no more his whospoke them first, than his who spoke them after. Who follows anotherfollows nothing, finds nothing, seeks nothing. '

'Authors have hitherto communicated themselves to the people by some_particular_ and _foreign_ mark. _I_, the first of any, by my_universal being. Every man_ carries with him _the entire form_ ofhuman condition. '

'And besides, though I had a _particular_ distinction _by myself_, what can it distinguish when I am no more? Can it point out and favor_inanity_?'

 '_But_ will thy manes such a gift bestow _As to make violets from thy ashes grow_?' _Michael de Montaigne_. 

 _Hamlet_. --'To thine own self be true, And it doth follow as the night the day Thou canst not then be false to any man. ' 'To know a man well, were to know him-self. '

The complaint of the practical men against the philosophers who makesuch an outcry upon the uses and customs of the world as they find it, that they do not undertake to give us anything better in the place ofthem; or if they do, with their terrible experiments they leave usworse than they find us, does not apply in this case. Because this isscience, and not philosophy in the sense which that word stillconveys, when applied to subjects of this nature. We all know that thescientific man is a safe and brilliant practitioner. The mostunspeculative men of practice have learned to prefer him and his artsto the best empiricism. It is the philosophers we have had in thisfield, with their rash anticipations, --with their unscientificpre-conceptions, --with a _pre-conception_, instead of a fore-knowledgeof the power they deal with, commanding results which do not, --thereis the point, --which do not follow. 

Let no one say that this reformer is one of those who expose ourmiserable condition, without offering to improve it; or that he is oneof those who take away our gold and jewels with their tests, and leaveus no equivalent. This is no destroyer. He will help us to save allthat we have. He is guarding us from the error of those who would letit alone till the masses have taken the work in hand for themselves, without science. '_That_ is the way to lay all flat. '

He is not one of those, 'who to _make clean, efface_, and who curediseases by death. ' To found so great a thing as the state anew; todissolve that so old and solid structure, and undertake to recomposeit as a whole on the spot, is a piece of work which this chemist, after a survey of his apparatus, declines to take in; though he fairlyadmits, that if the question were of 'a new world, ' and not 'a worldalready formed to certain customs, ' science might have, perhaps, someimportant suggestions to make as to the original structure. And yetfor all that, it is a scientific practice that is propounded here. Itis a scientific innovation and renovation, that is propounded; thegreatest that was ever propounded, --total, absolute, but not sudden. It is a remedy for the world as it is, that this reformer ispropounding. 

New constructions according to true definitions, scientificinstitutions, --institutions of culture and regimen and cure, based onthe recognition of the actual human constitution and laws, --based onan observation as diligent and subtle, and precepts as severe as thosewhich we apply to the culture of any other form in nature, --that isthe proposition. 'It were a strange _speech_ which, spoken or spokenoft, should reclaim a man from a vice to which he is by naturesubject. ' 'Folly is not to be cured by bare admonition. ' This plan ofculture and cure involves not the knowledge of that nature which is inall men only, but a science, enriched with most careful collections ofall the specific varieties of that nature. The fullest natural historyof those forces that are operant in the hourly life of man, the mostprofound and subtle observation of the facts of this history, the mostthoroughly scientific collection of them, make the beginning of thisenterprise. The propounder of this cure will have to begin with thesecret disposition of every man laid open, and the possibilities ofhuman character exhausted, by means of a dissection of the entire formof that human nature, which every man carries with him, and asolar-microscopic exhibition of the several dispositions and tempersof men, in grand ideal portraits, conspicuous instances of them, wherethe particular disposition and temper is 'predominant, ' as in thecharacterisation of Hamlet, where it takes all the persons of thedrama to exhibit characteristics which are more or less developed inall men. Those natural peculiarities of disposition that work soincessantly and potently in this human business, those 'points ofnature, ' those predetermining forces of the human life, must comeunder observation here, and the whole nature of the passions also, anda science of 'the will, ' very different from that philosophy of itwhich our metaphysicians have entertained us with so long. He willhave all the light of science, all the power of the new method broughtto bear on this study. And he will have a similar collection, not lessscientific, of the history of the human fortunes and their necessaryeffects on character; for these are the points that we must deal with'by way of application, and to these all our labour is limited andtied; for we cannot fit a garment except we take a measure of the formwe would fit it to. ' Nothing short of this can serve as the basis of ascientific system of human education. 

But this is not all. It is the human nobility and greatness that isthe end, and that 'craves, ' as the noble who is found wanting in ittells us, 'a noble cunning. ' It is no single instrumentality thatmakes the apparatus of this culture and cure. Skilful combinations ofappliances based on the history of those forces which _are_ within ourpower, which 'we _can_ deal with by way of alteration, ' forces 'fromwhich the _mind suffereth_, ' which have operation on it, so potentthat 'they can almost change the stamp of nature, '--that they can makeindeed, 'another nature, '--these are the engines, --this is themachinery which the scientific state will employ for its ends. Theseare the engines, this is the machinery that is going to take the placeof that apparatus which the state, as it is, finds such need of. Thisis the machinery to 'prevent the fiend, ' which the scientificstatesman is propounding. 

'I would we were all of ONE MIND, and one mind _good_' says our Poet. 'O _there_ were desolation of gallowses and gaolers. I speak againstmy present profit, ' [he adds, --he was speaking not as a judge or alawyer, but as a _gaoler_, ] 'I speak against my present profit, but mywish hath a _preferment_ in it. '

(A _preferment_?)--That is the solution propounded by science, of theproblem that is pressing on us, and urging on us with such violentappeals, its solution. 'I would we were all of one _mind_, and onemind _good_. My wish hath a _preferment_ in it. '

'Folly is not to be cured by bare admonition. ' 'It were a strangespeech which, spoken, or spoken oft, should cure a man of _a vice_ towhich he is _by nature subject_, '--_subject_--by _nature_. --That isthe _Philosopher_. 'What _he cannot help in his nature_ you account _avice_ in him, ' says the poor citizen, putting in a word on the_Poet's_ behalf for Coriolanus whose education, whatever Volumnia maythink about it, was not scientific, or calculated to reduce that'partliness, ' that disorganizing social principle, whose subsequentdemonstrations gave her so much offence. Not admonition, not preachingand scolding, and not books only, but institutions, laws, customs, habit, education in its more limited sense, 'association, emulation, praise, blame, ' all the agencies 'from which the mind suffereth, '--which have power to change it, in skilfully compounded recipes andregimen scientifically adapted to cases, and not prescribed only, butenforced, --_these_ make the state machinery--these are the enginesthat are going to 'prevent the fiend, ' and educate the 'one mind, '--_the one mind good_, which is the sovereign of the common-WEAL, --'mywish hath a preferment in it, '--the one only man who will make when heis crowned, not Rome, but _room_ enough for us all, --who will makewhen he is crowned such desolation of gallowses and gaolers. These arethe remedies for the diseases of the state, when the scientificpractitioner is called in at last, and permitted to undertake hiscure. But he will not wait for that. He will not wait to be asked. Hehas no delicacy about pushing himself forward in this business. Theconcentration of genius and science on it, henceforth, --the _gradual_adaptation of all these grand remedial agencies to this common end, --this end which all truly enlightened minds will conspire for, --find tobe _their own_, --this is the plan;--this is the sober day-dream ofthe Elizabethan Reformer; this is the plot of the ElizabethanRevolutionist. This is the radicalism that he is setting on foot. This is the cure of the state which he is undertaking. 

We want to command effects, and the way to do that is to find causes;and we must find them according to the new method, and not byreasoning it thus and thus, for the result is just the same, thisphilosopher observes, as if we had not reasoned it thus and thus, butsome other way. That is the difficulty with that method, which is inuse here at present, which this philosopher calls 'common logic. ' Lifegoes on, life as it is and was, in the face of our reasonings; but itgoes on in the dark; the phenomena are on the surface in the form ofEFFECTS, and all our weal and woe is in them; but the CAUSES arebeneath unexplored. They are able to give us certain impressions oftheir _natures_; they strike us, and blast us, it may be, by way ofteaching us _something_ of their powers; but _we do not know them_;they are within our own souls and lives, and we do not _know_ them;not because they lie without the range of a scientific enquiry, but_because_ we will not apply to them _the scientific method_; becausethe old method of 'preconception' here is still considered the trueone. 

The plan of this great scientific enterprise was one which embraced, from the first, the whole body of the common-weal. It concerned itselfimmediately and directly with all the parts and members of the socialstate, from the king on his throne to the beggar in his straw. Its aimwas to disclose ultimately, and educate in every member of societythat entire and noble form of human nature which 'each man carrieswith him, ' and whereby the individual man is naturally andconstitutionally a member of the common-weal. Its proposition was todevelop ultimately and educate--successfully educate--in each integerof the state, the integral principle--the principle whereby in man thetrue conservation and integrity of the part--the virtue, and felicity, and perfection, of the part, tend to the weal of the whole--tend toperfect and advance the whole. 

 'To thine own self be true, And it doth follow as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any MAN. ' 'Know thy-SELF. Know thy-self. '

This enterprise was not the product of a single individual mind, andit is important that this fact should be fully and unmistakeablyenunciated here; because the illustrious statesman, and man ofletters, who assumed, in his own name and person, that part of itwhich could then be openly exhibited, the one on whom the great taskof perfecting and openly propounding the new method of learning wasdevolved, is the one whose relation to this enterprise has beenprincipally insisted on in this volume. 

The history of this great philanthropic association--an association ofgenius, a combination of chief minds, from which the leadership anddirection of the modern ages proceeds, the history of this'_society_, ' as it was called, when the term was still fresh in thatspecial application; at least, when it was not yet qualified by itsapplication to those very different kinds of voluntary individualcombinations--'bodies of neighbourhood' within the larger whole, towhich that movement has given rise; the history of _this_society, --this first 'Shake-spear Society'--much as it is to ourpurpose, and much as it is to the particular purpose of this volume, can only be incidentally treated here. But as this work was originallyprepared for publication in the HISTORICAL KEY to the ElizabethanTradition which formed the FIRST BOOK of it, it was the part of thatgreat Political and Military Chief, and not less illustrious Man ofLetters, who was recognised, in his own time, as the beginner of thismovement and the founder of English philosophy, which was chieflydeveloped. 

And it is the history of that 'great unknown'--that great Elizabethanunknown, for whose designs there was needed then a veil of a closertexture--of a more cunning pattern than any which the exigencies ofmodern authorship tend to fabricate, which must make the key to thistradition;--it is the history of that great unknown, whose incognitowas a closed vizor, --that it was death to open, --a vizor that _did_open once, and--the sequel is in our history, and will leave 'a brand'upon the page which that age makes in it, --'the age that _did_ it, and_suffered_ it, _to the end of the world_. ' So says _the Poet_ of thatage, ('Age, thou are shamed. ' 'And peep about to find ourselves_dishonourable graves_'). It is the history of the Tacitus who couldnot wait for a better Caesar. It is the history of the man who wassent to the block, _they_ tell us, who are able to give us thoselittle secret historic motives that do not get woven always into thelarger story; it is the history of the man who (if his familyunderstood it) was sent to the block for the repetition, in his ownname, of the words--the very words which he had written with his'goose-pen, ' as he calls it, years before--which he had written undercover of the 'spear' that was 'shaken' in sport, or that shook withfear, --under cover of 'the well turned and true filled lines in eachof which he seems to _shake a lance as brandished_ in the eyes of_Ignorance_, ' without suspicion--without challenge, from the crownedIgnorance, or the Monster that crowned it. It is the history of thisunknown, obscure, unhonoured Father of the Modern Age that _unlocks_this tradition. 

It is the secret friend and 'brother' of the author of the NovumOrganum, whose history unlocks this tradition. And when shall thefriendship of such 'a twain' gladden our earth again, and build its'eternal summer' in our common things? When shall a 'marriage of trueminds' so even be celebrated on the lips and in the lives of menagain? It is the friend and literary partner of our great recognisedphilosopher--his partner in his 'private and retired arts, ' and in hiscultivation of 'the principal and supreme sciences, ' in whose historythe key to this locked up learning is hidden. 

It was an enterprise which originated in the Court of Queen Elizabeth, in that little company of wits, and poets, and philosophers, which wasthe first-fruit of the new development of the national genius, thatfollowed the revival of the learning of antiquity in this island--thefruit which that old stock began manifestly to bud and blossom with, about the beginning of the latter half of that Queen's reign. For itwas the old northern genius, under the influence, not of the revivalof the learning of antiquity only, but of that accumulated influencewhich its previous revival on the Continent brought with it here;under the influence, too, of that insular nurture, which began so soonto colour and insulate English history;--'Britain is a world byitself, ' says Prince Cloten, 'and we will nothing pay, ' etc. --it wasthe old northern genius nurtured in the cradle of that 'bravery' whichhad written its page of fire in the Roman Caesar's story--which hadarrested the old classic historian's pen, and fired it with a poet'sprophecy, and taught _him_ too how to pronounce from the old _British_hero's lip the burning speech of _English_ freedom;--it was that whichbegan to show itself here, then, in that new tongue, which we call the'_Elizabethan_. ' It was that which could not fit its words to itsmouth as it had a mind to do under those conditions, and was glad toknow that 'the audience was deferred. ' That was the thing which founditself so much embarrassed by the presence of 'a man of prodigiousfortune at the table, ' who had leave 'to change its arguments with amagisterial authority. ' It was that which was expected to produce itsspeech to 'serve as the base matter to illuminate'--not the_Caesar_--but the Tudor--the Tudor and the Stuart: the last of theTudors and the first of the Stuarts. 'AGE, _thou_ art shamed. ' It wasthe true indigenous product of the English nationality under thatgreat stimulus, which made that age; and the practical determinationof the English mind, and the spirit of the ancient English liberties, the recognition of the common dignity of that form of human naturewhich each man carries entire with him--the sentiment of a commonhuman family and brotherhood, which this race had brought with it fromthe forests of the North, and which it had conserved through ages ofoppression, went at once into the new speculation, and determined itspractical bent, and shaped this enterprise. 

It was an enterprise which included in its plan of operations animmediate influence upon the popular mind--the most direct, immediate, and radically reforming influences which could be brought to bear, under those conditions, upon the habits and sentiments of theignorant, custom-bound masses of men;--those masses which are, in alltheir ignorance and unfitness for rule, as the philosopher of this ageperceived, 'that greater part which carries it'--those wretchedstatesmen, under whose rule we are all groaning. 'Questions aboutclothes, and cookery, and law chicanery, ' are the questions with whichthe new movement begins to attract attention--a universally favourableattention--towards its beneficent purposes, and to that new command of'effects' which arms them. But this is only 'to show an abused peoplethat they are not wholly forgotten. ' To improve the external conditionof men, to 'accommodate' man to those exterior natural forces, ofwhich he had been, till then, the 'slave, '--to minister to the needand add to the comforts of the king in his palace, and 'Tom' in hishovel, --this was the first scientific move. This was a movement whichrequired no concealment. Its far-reaching consequences, its elevatingpower on the masses, its educational power, its revolutionary power, did not lie within the range of any observation which the impersonatedstate was able to bring to bear at that time upon the New Organum andits reaches. 

But this was not the only scientifically educational agency which thisgreat Educational Association was able to include, even then, in itsscheme for the culture and instruction of the masses--for the cultureand instruction of that common social unit, which makes the masses anddetermines political predominance. Quite the most powerfulinstrumentality which it is possible to conceive of, for purposes ofdirect effect in the way of intellectual and moral stimulus, in thatstage of a popular development, was then already in process ofpreparation here; the 'plant' of a wondrous and inestimable machineryof popular influence stood offering itself, at that very moment, tothe politicians with whom this movement originated, urging itself ontheir notice, begging to be purchased, soliciting their monopoly, proposing itself to their designs. 

A medium of direct communication between the philosophic mind, in itsmore chosen and noblest field of research, and the minds of those towhom the conventional signs of learning are not yet intelligible, --onein which the language of action and dumb show was, by the condition ofthe representation, predominant, --that language which is, as thisphilosophy observed, so much more powerful in its impression thanwords, --not on brutes only, but on those 'whose eyes are more learnedthan their ears, '--a medium of communication which was one tissue ofthat 'mute' language, whereby the direction, 'how to _sustain_ atyranny _newly usurped_, ' was conveyed once, stood prepared to theirhands, waiting the dictation of the message of these new Chiefs andTeachers, who had taken their cue from Machiavel in exhibiting thearts of government, and who thought it well enough that the people_should_ know how to _preserve_ tyrannies _newly usurped_. 

Those 'amusements, ' with which governments that are founded andsustained, 'by cutting off and _keeping low_ the grandees andnobility' of a nation, naturally seek to propitiate and divert thepopular mind, --those amusements which the peoples who sustaintyrannies are apt to be fond of--'he loves no plays as _thou_ dost, _Antony_, '--that 'pulpit, ' from which the orator of Caesar stole andswayed the hearts of the people with his sugared words; and his dumbshow of the stabs in Caesar's mantle became, in the hands of these newconspirators, an engine which those old experimenters lacked, --anengine which the lean and wrinkled Cassius, with his much reading and'observation strange' and dangerous, looking through of the thoughtsof men; and the grave, high-toned Brutus, with his logic and hisstilted oratory, could not, on second thoughts, afford to lack. It wasthis which supplied the means of that 'volubility of application'which those 'Sir Oracles, ' those 'grave sirs of note, ' 'in observingtheir well-graced forms of speech, ' it is intimated, 'might easilywant. '

By means of that 'first use of the parable, ' whereby (while for thepresent we drop 'the argument') it serves to illustrate, and bringfirst under the notice of the senses, the abstruser truths of a newlearning, --truths which are as yet too far out of the road of commonopinion to be conveyed in other forms, --these amusements became, inthe hands of the new Teachers and Wise Men, with whom the Wisdom ofthe Moderns had its beginning, the means of an insidious, but most'grave and exceedingly useful, ' popular instruction. 

But the immediate influence on the common mind was not the influenceto which this association trusted for the fulfilment of its great planof social renovation and advancement. That so aspiring _social_position, and that not less commanding position in the world ofletters, built up with so much labour, with such persistent purpose, with a pertinacity which accepted of no defeat, --built up _expressly_to this end, --that position from which a new method of learning couldbe openly propounded, in the face of the schools, in the face of theUniversities, in the face and eyes of all the Doctors of Learningthen, was, in itself, no unimportant part of the machinery which thispolitical association was compelled to include in the plot of itsfar-reaching enterprise. 

That trumpet-call which rang through Europe, which summoned thescholasticism and genius of the modern ages, from the endless battlesof the human dogmas and conceits, into the field of trueknowledge, --that summons which recalled, and disciplined, and gave theword of command to the genius of the modern ages, that was alreadytumultuously rushing thither, --that call which was _able_ to commandthe modern learning, and impose on it, for immediate use, the NewMachine of Learning, --that Machine which, even in its employment inthe humblest departments of observation, has already formed, ere weknow it, the new mind, which has disciplined and trained the modernintelligence, and created insidiously new habits of judgment and_belief_, --created, too, a new stock of truths, which are accepted asa part of the world's creed, and from which the whole must needs beevolved in time, --this, in itself, was no small step towards securingthe great ends of this enterprise. It was a step which we are hardlyin a position, as yet, to estimate. We cannot see what it was till thenobler applications of this Method begin to be made. It has cost ussomething while we have waited for these. The letter to Sir HenrySavile, on 'the Helps to the Intellectual Powers, ' which is referredto with so much more iteration and emphasis than anything which thesurface of the letter exhibits would seem to bear, in its brief hints, points also this way, though the effect of mental exercises, by meansof other instrumentalities, on the habits of a larger class, is alsocomprehended in it. But the formation of new intellectual habits inmen liberally educated, appeared to promise, ultimately, those largerfruits in the advancement and culture of learning which, in 'thehour-glass' of that first movement, could be, as yet, only prophecyand anticipation. The perfection of the Human Science, then firstpropounded, the filling up of 'the Anticipations' of Learning, whichthe Philosophy of _Science_ also included in its system, --not rash andpremature, however, and not claiming _the place_ of _knowledge_, butkept apart in a place by themselves, --put down as anticipations, _notinterpretations_, --the filling up of this outline was what wasexpected as the ultimate result of this proceeding, in the departmentof speculative philosophy. 

But in that great practical enterprise of a social and politicalrenovation--that enterprise of 'constructions' according to truedefinitions, which this science fastens its eye on, and never ceasesto contemplate--it was not the immediate effect on the popular mind, neither was it the gradual effect on the speculative habits of men oflearning and men of intelligence in general, that was chiefly reliedon. It was the secret tradition, the living tradition of thatintention; it was the tradition whereby that association undertook tocontinue itself across whatever gulfs and chasms in social history'the fortunes of our state' might make. It was that _second_ use ofthe fable, which is 'to wrap up and conceal'; it was that 'enigmatic'method, which reserves the secrets of learning for those 'who by theaid of an instructor, or by their own research, are able to pierce theveil, ' which was relied on for this result. It was the _power_ of thattradition, its generative power, its power to reproduce 'in a betterhour' the mind and will of that 'company'--it was its power to developand frame that _identity_ which was the secret of this association, and its new principle of UNION--that identity of the 'one mind, andone mind good, ' which is the human principle of union--that identitywhich made a common name, a common personality, for those who workedtogether for that end, and whose WILL in it was '_one_. ' A name, apersonality, a philosophic unity, in whose great radiance we havebasked so long--a name, a personality whose secret lies heavy on allour learning--whose secret of power, whose secret of inclusiveness andinexhaustible wealth of knowledge, has paralysed all our criticism, 'made marble'--as Milton himself confesses--'made marble with _toomuch conceiving_. ' 'Write me a prologue, and let the prologue _seem_to say [in dumb action], we will do no harm with our swords. ' 'Theyall flourish their swords. ' 'There is but _one mind_ in all these men, and that is bent against Caesar'--Julius Caesar. 

 'Even so the race Of SHAKE-SPEAR's mind and _manners brightly shines_, In his _well turned_ and _true filed_--lines; In each of which he seems to SHAKE a LANCE, As _brandished_ at the eyes of--Ignorance, '

[We will do _no harm_, with our--WORDS [it _seems_ tosay. ]--_Prologue_. ]

It was the power of the Elizabethan Art of Tradition that was reliedon here, that 'living Art'; it was its power to reproduce thisInstitution, through whatever fatal eventualities the movement whichthese men were seeking then to anticipate, and organize, and control, might involve; and though the Parent Union _should be_ overborne inthose disastrous, not unforeseen, results--overborne andforgotten--and though other means employed for securing that endshould fail. 

It is to that posthumous effect that all the hope points here. It isthe _Leonatus Posthumus_ who must fulfil this oracle. 

 'Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes; Since, spite of him, I'LL live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes; And _thou_ in this shall find thy monument, When _tyrants' crests and tombs of brass_ are spent. '

 'Not marble, nor the gilded monuments [_Elizabethan_ AGE. ] Of _Princes_ shall outlive this _power_-ful rhyme. '

[This is our unconscious Poet, who does not know that his poems areworth printing, or that they are going to get printed--who does notknow or care whether they are or not. ]

 'But you shall shine more bright in these contents, Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war _shall statues_ overturn [iconoclasm], And _broils_ [civil war] root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn The _living record_ of _your memory_. '

[What is it, then, that this prophet is relying on? Is it amanuscript? Is it the recent invention of goose-quills which he iscelebrating here with so much lyrical pomp, in so many, many lyrics?Here, for instance:--]

 'His _beauty_ shall in _these black lines_ be seen, And _they_ shall live, and he in them still green. '

And here--

 'O where, alack! Shall _time's best jewel_ from _time's chest_ lie hid? Or what _strong hand_ can hold his swift foot back? Or _who_ his spoil of beauty can forbid? O none, unless _this_ miracle [this _miracle_] have might, that in _black ink_--'

Is this printer's ink? Or is it the ink of the prompter's book? or thefading ink of those loose papers, so soon to be 'yellowed with age, 'scattered about no one knew where, that some busy-body, who hadnothing else to do, might perhaps take it into his head to save?

'_O none_, unless this miracle'--THIS MIRACLE, the rejoicing scholarand man of letters, who was not for an age, but for all time, cries--defying tyranny, laughing at princes' edicts, reaching into hisown great assured futurity across the gulfs of civil war, planting hisfeet upon that sure ground, and singing songs of triumph over thespent tombs of brass and tyrants' crests; like that orator who was tomake an oration _in public_, and found himself a little straitened in_time_ to fit his words to his mouth _as he had a mind to do_, when_Eros_, one of his _slaves_, brought him word that the audience wasdeferred till the next day; at which he was so _ravished with joy_, that he _enfranchised him_. '_This miracle_. ' He knows what miraclesare, for he has told us; but none other knew _what_ miracle this wasthat he is celebrating here with all this wealth of symphonies. 

 'O _none_, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink _my_ love may still _shine bright_. '

['My love, '--wait till you know what it is, and do not think to knowwith the first or second reading of poems, that are on the surface ofthem scholastic, academic, mystical, obtrusively enigmatical. Perhaps, after all, it is _that_ Eros who was _enfranchised_, emancipated. ]

 'But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that _fair_ thou _owest_ [thou _owes_!], Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in _eternal lines_ to time thou growest. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So _long_ lives _this_, and this _gives life_ to--thee!

But here is our prophecy, which we have undertaken to read with theaid of this collation:--

 'When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry; Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn The _living_ record of your memory. 'Gainst death, _and_ all _oblivious enmity_, _Shall_ YOU _pace forth_. _Your_ praise shall still find room, Even _in the eyes_ [collateral sounds] _of all posterity_, That wear this world out to the ending doom. _So_, till _the_ JUDGMENT that YOURSELF _arise_ [_till_ then], You live in _this_, and dwell in _lovers_' eyes. '

See the passages at the commencement of this chapter, if there be anydoubt as to this reading. 

 'In lover's _eyes_. '

 _Leonatus Posthumus_. Shall's have a Play of _this_? Thou scornful Page, There lie _thy part_. [To _Imogen_ disguised as _Fidele_. ]

The consideration which qualified, in the mind of the Author of theAdvancement of Learning, the great difficulty which the question ofcivil government presented at that time, is the key to this 'plot. 'For men, and not 'Romans' only, 'are like sheep;' and if you can butget some _few_ to go right, the _rest will follow_. That was the plan. To create a better leadership of men, --to form a new order and unionof men, --a new nobility of men, acquainted with the doctrine of theirown nature, and in league for its advancement, to seize _the'thoughts_' of those whose law is the law of the larger activity, and'_inform_ them with nobleness, '--was the plan. 

For these the inner school was opened; for these its ascendingplatforms were erected. For these that 'closet' and 'cabinet, ' wherethe 'simples' of the Shake-spear philosophy are all locked andlabelled, was built. For these that secret 'cabinet of the Muses, 'where the Delphic motto is cut anew, throws out its secret lures, --itsgay, many-coloured, deceiving lures, --its secret labyrinthineclues, --for all lines in this building meet in that centre. All clueshere unwind to that. For these--for the minds on whom the continuationof this enterprise was by will devolved, the key to that cabinet--thehistorical key to its inmost compartment of philosophic mysteries, wascarefully laboured and left, --pointed to--pointed to with immortalgesticulations, and left ('What I cannot speak, I point out with myfinger'); the key to that '_Verulamian_ cabinet, ' which we shall hearof when the _fictitious_ correspondence in which the more secrethistory of this time was written, comes to be opened. That cabinetwhere the subtle argument that was inserted in the Poem or the Play, but buried there in its gorgeous drapery, is laid bare in prose assubtle ('I here scatter it up and down indifferently for verse');where the new truth that was spoken in jest, as well as in parables, to those who were without, is unfolded, --that truth which moved unseenamid the gambols of the masque, --preferring to raise questions ratherthan _objections_, --which stalked in, without suspicion, in 'thehobby-horse' of the clown, --which the laugh of the groundlings was sooften in requisition to cover, --that 'to _beguile_ the time looked_like the time_, '--that 'looked like _the flower_, and _was_ theserpent under it. '

For these that secret place of confidential communication wasprovided, where 'the argument' of all these Plays is opened withoutrespect to the 'offence in it, '--to its utmost reach of abstrusenessand subtlety--in its utmost reach of departure from 'the road ofcommon opinion, '--where the Elizabethan secrets of Morality, andPolicy and Religion, which made the Parables of the New Doctrine, areunrolled, at last, in all the new, artistic glories of that 'wrappedup' intention. This is the second use of the Fable in which we resumethat dropped argument, --dropped for that time, while Caesar stillcommanded his thirty legions; and when the question, 'How long tophilosophise?' being started in the schools again, the answer returnedstill was, 'Until our armies cease to be commanded by fools. ' This isthat second use of the Fable where we find the moral of it atlast, --that moral which our moralists have missed in it, --that moralwhich is not 'vulgar and common-place, ' but abstruse, and out of theroad of common opinion, --that moral in which the Moral Science, whichis _the Wisdom of the Moderns_, lurks. 

It is to these that the Wise Man of our ages speaks (for we havehim, --we do not wait for him), in the act of displaying a little, andfolding up for the future, his plan of a Scientific Human Culture; itis to these that he speaks when he says, with a little of thatobscurity which 'he mortally hates, and would avoid if he could': 'AsPhilocrates sported with Demosthenes, ' you may not marvel, Athenians, that Demosthenes and I do differ, for _he_ drinketh water, and _I_drink wine; and like as we read of an ancient parable of the two gatesof sleep '. .. So if we put on _sobriety_ and _attention_, we shallfind it _a sure maxim in knowledge_, that the pleasant liquor of wineis the more vaporous, and the braver gate of ivory sendeth forth thefalser dreams. ' ['_I_, ' says 'Michael, ' who is also in favour of'sobriety, ' and critical upon excesses of all kinds, '_I_ have everobserved, that _super_-celestial theories and _sub_-terranean_manners_ are in singular accordance. ']

And in his general proposal to lay open 'those parts of learning whichlie fresh and waste, and not improved and converted by the industry ofman, to the end that such _a plot_, made and committed to memory, mayboth minister light to any public designation, and also serve toexcite _voluntary_ endeavours, ' he says, 'I do foresee that of thosethings which I shall enter and register as deficiencies and omissions, many will conceive and censure that some of them are already done, andextant, _others to be but curiosities_ and things of no _great use_'[such as the question of style, for instance, and those 'particular'arts of tradition to which this remark is afterwards applied]--andothers to be of too great difficulty--and almost impossibility--to becompassed and effected; but for _the two first, I refer myself toparticulars_; for the last, --touching impossibility, --I take it thosethings are to be held possible, which may be done by _some person_, though not _by every one_; and which may be done by _many_, though notby _any_ one; and which may be done in succession of ages, though_not_ within the hour-glass of one man's life; and which may be doneby _public designation_, though not by private endeavour. 

That was 'the plot'--that was the plan of the Elizabethan Innovation. 

 THE ENIGMA OF LEONATUS POSTHUMUS. 

 'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be _fortunate_, and flourish in peace and plenty. '

THE VERULAMIAN CABINET, AND ITS WORKMANSHIP. 

Here, for instance, is a specimen of the manner in which scholars whowrite about these times, allude to the reserved parts of thisphilosophy, and to those 'richer and bolder meanings, ' which could notthen be inserted in the acknowledged writings of so great a person. This is a specimen of the manner in which a posthumous collection andreintegration of this philosophy, and a posthumous emancipation of it, is referred to, by scholars who write from the Continent somewhereabout these days. Whether the date of the writing be a little earlieror a little later, --some fifty years or so, --it does not seem to makemuch difference as to the general intent and purport of it. 

Here is a scholar, for instance, whose main idea of life on thisplanet it appears to be, to collect the philosophy, and protect theposthumous fame of the Lord Bacon. For this purpose, he hasestablished a literary intimacy, quite the most remarkable one onrecord--at least, between scholars of different and remotenationalities--between himself and two English gentlemen, a Mr. Smith, and the Rev. Dr. Rawley. He writes from _the Hague_ but he appears tohave acquired in some way a most extraordinary insight into thisbusiness. 

'Though I thought that I had already _sufficiently showed_ whatveneration I had for the illustrious Lord Verulam, yet I shall takesuch care for _the future_, that it may not possibly be denied, that Iendeavoured most zealously to make this thing known to _the learnedworld_. But neither shall this design of setting forth _in one volumeall the Lord Bacon's works, proceed without consulting you_'--[Thisletter is addressed to the Rev. Dr. _Rawley_, and is dated a number ofyears after Lord Bacon's death]--'without consulting you, and withoutinviting _you_ to cast in _your symbol_, worthy such an excellentedition: that so the _appetite_ of the reader'--[It was a time whensymbols of various kinds--large and small--were much in use in thelearned world]--'that so the _appetite_ of the reader, provokedalready by his _published_ works, may be further gratified _by thepure novelty of so considerable an appendage_. 

'For the _French interpreter_, who patched together his things I knownot whence, and tacked that motley piece to him; they shall not haveplace in this great collection. But _yet_ I hope to obtain your leaveto publish a-part, as _an appendix_ to _the Natural History_, --_thatexotic work_, --_gathered together_ from _this and the other place_(_of his lordship's writings_), [that is the true account of it] andby me translated into--_Latin_. 

'For seeing the genuine pieces of the Lord Bacon are already extant, and in many hands, it is necessary that _the foreign reader_ be givento understand _of what threads the texture of that book consists_, andhow much of truth there is in that which that shameless person does, in his preface to the reader, so stupidly write of you. 

'My brother, of blessed memory, turned his words _into Latin_, in theFirst Edition of the Natural History, having some suspicion of thefidelity of an unknown author. I will, in the Second Edition, repeatthem, and with just severity animadvert upon them: that they, intowhose hands that work comes, may know it to be rather patched up ofmany distinct pieces; how much soever the author _bears himself uponthe specious title of Verulam. Unless, perhaps_, I should particularlysuggest _in your name_, that these words were _there inserted_, by wayof _caution_; and lest malignity and rashness should any way blemishthe fame of so eminent a person. 

'If my fate would permit me to live according to my wishes, I wouldfly over into England, that I might behold whatsoever remaineth inyour Cabinet of the Verulamian workmanship, and at least make my eyeswitnesses of it, if the possession of the merchandise be yet denied tothe public. At present I will support the wishes of my impatientdesire, _with hope of seeing, one day, those_ (_issues_) which _beingcommitted to faithful privacy, wait the time till they may safely seethe light_, and not be _stifled_ in their birth. 

'I wish, _in the mean time_, I could have a sight of the copy of theEpistle to Sir Henry Savil, concerning the Helps of the IntellectualPowers: for I am persuaded, as to the _other Latin_ remains, that Ishall not obtain, _for present use_, the removal of _them_ from theplace in which they now are. '

Extract of a letter from Mr. Isaac Gruter. Here is the beginning ofit:--

'TO THE REV. WM. RAWLEY, D. D. 

'Isaac Gruter wisheth much health. 

'Reverend Sir, --It is not just to complain of the slowness of youranswer, seeing that _the difficulty of the passage_, in the season inwhich you wrote, _which was towards winter_, might _easily_ cause itto come _no faster_; seeing _likewise_ there is so much to be found init which may gratify desire, and _perhaps so much the more, the longerit was ere it came to my hands_. And although I had little to sendback, besides my thanks for _the little Index_, yet _that seemed to meof such moment_ that I would no longer _suppress_ them: especiallybecause I accounted it a crime to have suffered _Mr. Smith_ to havebeen without an answer: Mr. Smith, my most kind friend, and to whosecare, in my matters, I owe _all regard_ and affection, yet withoutdiminution of that (part and that no small one neither) in which Dr. Rawley hath place. So that the souls of us three, so throughlyagreeing, may be aptly said to have united in a _triga_. '

It is not necessary, of course, to deny the historical claims of theRev. Dr. Rawley, who is sufficiently authenticated; or even of Mr. Smith himself, who would no doubt be able to substantiate himself, incase a particular inquiry were made for him; and it would involve aserious departure from the method of invention usually employed inthis association, which did not deal with shadows when contemporaryinstrumentalities were in requisition, if the solidarity of Mr. IsaacGruter himself should admit of a moment's question. The precautions ofthis secret, but so powerful league, --the skill with which itsinstrumentalities were selected and adapted to its ends, ischaracterised by that same matchless dramatic power, which betrays'the source from which it springs' even when it 'only plays atworking. '

But if any one is anxious to know who the _third person_ of this trigareally was, or is, a glance at the Directory would enable such a oneto arrive at a truer conclusion than the first reading of this letterwould naturally suggest. For this is none other than the person whomthe principle of this triga, and its enlightened sentiment and bond ofunion, already _symbolically_ comprehended, whom it was intended tocomprehend ultimately in all the multiplicity and variety of hishistorical manifestations, though it involved a deliberate plan forreducing and suppressing his many-headedness, and restoring him to theuse of his one only mind. For though the name of this person is oftenspelt in three letters, and oftener in one, it takes all the names inthe Directory to spell it in full. For this is none other than theperson that '_Michael_' refers to so often and with so much emphasis, glancing always at his own private name, and the singular largenessand comprehensiveness of his particular and private constitution. 'Allthe world knows me in my book, and my book in me. ' '_I_, the first ofany, by my universal being. Every man carries with him the entire formof human condition. '

But the name of Mr. _Isaac Gruter_ was not less comprehensive, andcould be made to represent the whole _triga_ in an emergency, as wellas another; ['I take so great pleasure in being judged and known thatit is almost indifferent to me in _which of the two forms_ I am so']though that does not hinder him from inviting Dr. Eawley to cast in_his symbol_, which was 'so _considerable an appendage_. ' For thoughthe very smallest circle sometimes represents it, it was none otherthan the symbol that gave name to the theatre in which the illustratedworks of this school were first exhibited; the theatre which hung outfor its sign on the outer wall, 'Hercules and his load too. ' At a timewhen 'conceits' and 'devices in letters, ' when anagrams and monograms, and charades, and all kinds of 'racking of orthography' were so muchin use, not as curiosities merely, but to avoid another kind of'racking, ' a cipher referred to in this philosophy as the 'wheelcipher, ' which required the letters of the alphabet to be written in acircle to serve as a key to the reading, supplies a clue to some ofthese symbols. _The first three letters_ of the alphabet representingthe whole _in_ the circle, formed a character or symbol which wasoften made to stand as a 'token' for a proper name, easily spelt inthat way, when phonography and anagrams were in such lively andconstant use, --while it made, at the same time, a symbolicalrepresentation of the radical doctrine of the new school inphilosophy, --a school then _so_ new, that its 'Doctors' were compelledto 'pray in the aid of simile, ' even in affixing their names to theirown works, in some cases. And that same letter which was capable ofrepresenting in this secret language either the _microcosm_, or 'thelarger whole, ' as the case required (either with, or without the _eye_or _I_ in it, sending rays to the circumference) sufficed also tospell the name of the Grand Master of this lodge, --'who also was a_man_, take him for _all in all_, '--the man who took two hemispheresfor '_his symbol_. ' That was the so considerable appendage which hisfriend alludes to, --though 'the natural gaiety of disposition, ' ofwhich we have so much experience in other places, and which thegravity of these pursuits happily does not cloud, suggests a glance inpassing at another signification, which we find alluded to also inanother place in Mrs. Quickly's '_Latin_. ' Mere frivolities as theseconceits and private and retired arts seem now, the Author of theAdvancement of Learning tells us, that to those who have spent theirlabours and studies in them, they seem great matters, referringparticularly to that cipher in which it is possible to write _omniaper omnia_, and stopping to fasten the key of it to his 'index' of'the principal and supreme sciences, '--those sciences 'which beingcommitted to _faithful_ privacy, wait the time when they may safelysee the light, and not be stifled in their birth. '

New constructions, according to true definitions, was _theplan_, --this _triga_ was the initiative. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE IGNORANT ELECTION REVOKED. --A WRESTLING INSTANCE. 

 'For as they were men of the best composition in the state of Rome, which, either being consuls, _inclined to the people_' ['If he would but _incline to the people_, there never was a worthier man'], 'or being tribunes, inclined to the senate, so, in the matter which we handle now [doctrine of _Cure_], they be the best physicians which, being learned, incline to the traditions of experience; or, being empirics, incline to the methods of learning. ' _Advancement of Learning. _

But while the Man of Science was yet planning these vast scientificchanges--vast, but noiseless and beautiful as the movements of God innature--there was another kind of revolution brewing. All that timethere was a cloud on his political horizon--'a huge one, a blackone'--slowly and steadfastly accumulating, and rolling up from it, which he had always an eye on. He knew there was that in it which noscientific apparatus that could be put in operation then, on so shorta notice, and when science was so feebly aided, would be able todivert or conduct entirely. He knew that so fearful a war-cloud wouldhave to burst, and get overblown, before any chance for those peaceoperations, those operations of a solid and lasting peace, which hewas bent on, could be had--before any space on the earth could befound broad enough for his Novum Organum to get to work on, before thecentral levers of it could begin to stir. 

That revolution which 'was singing in the wind' then to his ear, wasone which would have to come first in the chronological order; but itwas easy enough to see that it was not going to be such a one, in allrespects, as a man of his turn of genius would care to be out in withhis works. 

He knew well enough what there was in it. He had not been so long insuch sharp daily collision with the elements of it--he had not been solong trying conclusions with them under such delicate conditions, conditions requiring so nice an observation--without arriving at somedegree of assurance in regard to their main properties, withoutattaining, indeed, to what he calls _knowledge_ on thatsubject--knowledge as distinguished from opinion--so as to be able topredict 'with a near aim' the results of the possible combinations. The conclusion of this observation was, that the revolutionarymovements then at hand were _not_, on the whole, likely to beconducted throughout on rigidly scientific principles. 

The spectacle of a people violently '_revoking_ their _ignorantelection_, ' and empirically seeking to better their state under suchleaders as such a movement was likely to throw up, and that, too, whenthe _old_ military government was still so strong in moral forces, sosure of a faction in the state--of a faction of the best, which wouldcleave the state to the centre, which would resist with the zealot'sfire unto blood and desperation the _unholy_ innovation--that wouldstand on the last plank of the wrecked order, and wade through seas ofslaughter to restore it; the prospect of untried political innovation, under such circumstances, did _not_ present itself to this Poet'simagination in a form so absolutely alluring, as it might have done toa philosopher of a less rigidly _inductive_, turn of mind. 

His canvas, with its magic draught of the coming event, includesalready some contingencies which the programme of the theoreticalspeculator in revolutions would have been far enough from including_then_, when such movements were yet untried in modern history, andthe philosopher had to go back to mythical Rome to borrow anhistorical frame of one that would contain his piece. The convictionthat the crash was, perhaps, inevitable, that the overthrow of theexisting usurpation, and the restoration of the English subject to hisrights, --a movement then already determined on, --would perhaps involvethese so tragic consequences--the conviction that the revolution wasat hand, was the conviction with which he made his arrangements forthe future. 

But if any one would like to see now for himself what vigorous graspof particulars this inductive science of state involves, what a clear, comprehensive, and masterly basis of history it rests on, and howtotally unlike the philosophy of prenotions it is in this respect--ifone would see what breadth of revolutionary surges this Artist of thepeace principles was able to span with his arches and sleepers, whatupheavings from the then unsounded depths of political contingencies, what upliftings from the last depths of the revolutionary abysses, this science of _stability_, this science of the future STATE, issettled on, --such a one must explore this work yet further, and beable to find and unroll in it that revolutionary picture which itcontains--that scientific exhibition which the Elizabethan statesmanhas contrived to fold in it of a state in which the elements arealready cleaving and separating, one in which the historicalsolidities are already in solution, or struggling towardsit--prematurely, perhaps, and in danger of being surprised andovertaken by new combinations, not less oppressive and unscientificthan the old. 

 'Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, Hang up philosophy'--

wrote this Poet's fire of old. 

 'Canst thou not minister to a _mind_ diseased?'

it writes again. No?

 'Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it. '

'See now what _learning_ is, ' says the practical-minded nurse, quitedazzled and overawed with that exhibition of it which has just beenbrought within her reach, and expressing, in the readiest and largestterms which her vocabulary supplies to her, her admiration of thepractical bent of Friar Laurence's genius; who seems to be doing hisbest to illustrate the idea which another student, who was not _aFriar_ exactly, was undertaking to demonstrate from his cell aboutthat time--the idea of the possibility of converging a large andstudious observation of nature in general, --and it is a very large andcurious one which _this Friar_ betrays, --upon any of those ordinaryquestions of domestic life, which are constantly recurring for privatesolution. And though _this_ knowledge might seem to be 'so variable asit falleth not under _precept_, ' the prose philosopher is of theopinion that 'a universal insight, and a wisdom of council and advice, gathered by general observation of cases of _like nature_, ' isavailable for the particular instances which occur in this department. And the philosophic poet appears to be of his opinion; for there is noend to the precepts which he inducts from this 'variable knowledge'when he gets it on his table of review, in the form of naturalhistory, in '_prerogative cases_' and 'illustrious instances, ' casescleared from their accidental and extraneous adjuncts--ideal cases. And though this poor Friar does not appear to have been verysuccessful in this particular instance; if we take into account thefact that 'the Tragedy was the thing, ' and that nothing but a tragedywould serve his purpose, and that all his learning was converged onthat _effect_; if we take into account the fact that this is ascientific experiment, and that the characters are sacrificed for thesake of the useful conclusions, the success will not perhaps appear soquestionable as to throw any discredit upon this new theory of theapplicability of _learning_ to questions of this nature. 

'Unless philosophy can make a Juliet. ' But this is the philosophy thatdid that very thing, and the one that made a Hamlet also, besides'reversing a prince's doom'; for this is the one that takes intoaccount those very things in heaven and earth which Horatio hadomitted in his abstractions; and this is the philosopher who speaksfrom his philosophic chair of '_men_ of good composition, ' and whogives a recipe for composing _them_. 'Unless philosophy can make aJuliet, ' is Romeo's word. 'See now what learning _is_, ' is the Nurse'scommentary; for that same _Friar_, demure as he looks now under hishood, talking of 'simples' and great nature's latent virtues, is theone that will cog the nurse's hearts from them, and come back belovedof all the trades in Rome. With his new art of 'composition' he willcompose, not Juliets nor Hamlets only; mastering the radicals, he willcompose, he will dissolve and recompose ultimately the greatercongregation; for the powers in nature are always one, and they arenot many. 

Let us see now, then, what it is, --this 'universal insight in theaffairs of the world, ' this 'wisdom of counsel and advice, gatheredfrom cases of a _like nature_, ' with an observation that includes all_natures_, --let us see what this new wisdom of counsel is, when itcomes to be applied to this huge growth of the state, this creature ofthe ages; and in its great crisis of disorder--shaken, convulsed--wrapped in elemental horror, and threatening to dissolve into itsprimal warring atoms. 

 'Doctor, the Thanes fly from me. '

 'If thou _couldst_, Doctor, cast The water of MY LAND, _find her disease_, And purge it to a _sound_ and _pristine health_, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again. '

 'What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour _these English_ hence? Hear'st thou of _them_?'

 'Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. '

Let us see, then, what it is that this man will have, who criticisesso severely the learning of other men, --who disposes so scornfully, right and left, of the physic and metaphysic of the schools as hefinds them, --who daffs the learning of the world aside, and bids it_pass_. Let us see what the learning is that is not '_words_, ' asHamlet says, complaining of the reading in his book. 

This part has been taken out from its dramatic connections, andreserved for a separate exhibition, on account of a certain new andpeculiar value it has acquired since it was produced in thoseconnections. Time has changed it 'into something rich andstrange, '--Time has framed it, and poured her illustration on it: itis history now. That flaming portent, this aurora that fills theseer's heaven, these fierce angry warriors, that are fighting hereupon the clouds, 'in ranks, and squadrons, and right forms of war, 'are but the marvels of that science that lays the future open. 

 'There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased; The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, which, _in their seeds_ And _weak beginnings_, lie intreasured. Such things become the hatch and brood of time. '

'One need not go to heaven to predict imminent changes andrevolutions, ' says that other philosopher, who scribbles on this samesubject about these days in such an entertaining manner, and whobrings so many 'buckets' from 'the headspring of sciences, ' to waterhis plants in this field in particular. 'That which most threatens usis a divulsion of the whole mass. '

This part is produced here, then, as a specimen of that kind ofprophecy which one does not need to go to heaven for. And the carefulreader will observe, that notwithstanding the distinct disavowal ofany supernatural gift on the part of this seer, and this frankexplanation of the mystery of his Art, the prophecy appears to comparenot unfavourably with others which seem to come to us with higherclaims. A very useful and very remarkable kind of prophecy indeed, this inductive prophecy appears to be; and the question arises, whether _a kind_, endowed of God with a faculty of seeing, whichcommands the future in so inclusive a manner, and with so near andsufficient an aim for the most important practical purposes, ought tobe besieging Heaven for a _super_natural gift, and questioning theancient seers for some vague shadows of the coming event, instead ofputting this immediate endowment--this 'godlike' endowment--underculture. 

There is another reason for reserving this part. In the heat andturmoil of this great ACT, the Muse of the Inductive Science drops hermask, and she forgets to take it up again. The hand that is put forthto draw 'the next ages' into the scene, when the necessary question ofthe play requires it, is _bare_. It is the Man of Learning hereeverywhere, without any disguise, --the man of the new learning, openlyapplying his 'universal insight, ' and 'wisdom of counsel and advice, gathered by general observation of cases of like nature, ' to thisgreat question of 'Policy, ' which was then hurrying on, with suchportentous movement, to its inevitable practical solution. 

He who would see at last for himself, then, the trick of this'Magician, ' when he 'brings the rabble to his place, ' the reader whowould know at last why it is that these old Roman graves 'have wakedtheir sleepers, oped, and let them forth, by his so potent art'; and_why_ it is, that at this great crisis in English history, the noiseof the old Roman battle hurtles so fiercely in the English ear, shouldread now--but read as a work of natural science in politics, from thescientific statesman's hands, deserves to be read--this greatrevolutionary scene, which the Poet, for reasons of his own, hasburied in the heart of this Play, which he has subordinated with hisown matchless skill to the general intention of it, but which we, forthe sake of pursuing that general intention with the lessinterruption, now that the storm appears to be 'overblown, ' may safelyreserve for the conclusion of our reading of this scientific history, and criticism, and rejection of the Military Usurpation of theCOMMON-WEAL. 

The reading of it is very simple. One has only to observe that thePoet avails himself of the _dialogue_ here, with even more than hisusual freedom, for the purpose of disposing of the bolder passages, inthe least objectionable manner, --interrupting the statement incritical points, and emphasizing it, by that interruption, to thecareful reader 'of the argument, ' but to the spectator, or to one whotakes it as a _dialogue merely_, neutralizing it by that dramaticopposition. For the political criticism, which is of the boldest, passes safely enough, by being merely _broken_, and put into themouths of opposing factions, who are just upon the point of coming toblows upon the stage, and cannot, therefore, be suspected ofcollusion. 

For the popular magistracy, as it represents the ignorance, andstupidity, and capricious tyranny of the multitude, and theirunfitness for rule, is subjected to the criticism of the trueconsulship, on the one hand, while the military usurpation of thechair of state, and the law of Conquest, is not less severelycriticized by the true Tribune--the Tribune, whose Tribe is theKind--on the other; and it was not necessary to produce, in any _more_prominent manner, just then, the fact, that _both these offices_ and_relations_ were combined in that tottering estate of the realm, --that'old riotous form of military government, ' which held then only by thevirtual election of the stupidity and ignorance of the people, andwhich, this Poet and his friends were about to put on its trial, forits _innovations_ in the government, and suppressions of the ancientestates of this realm, --for its suppression of the dignities andprivileges of the Nobility, and its suppression of the chartereddignities and rights of the Commons. 

 _Scene_. --A Street. Cornets. Enter CORIOLANUS with his two military friends, who have shared with him the conduct of the Volscian wars, and have but just returned from their campaign, COMINIUS and TITUS LARTIUS, --and with them the old civilian MENENIUS, who, patrician as he is, on account of his _honesty_, --a truly patrician virtue, --is in favour with the people. '_He's_ an honest one. Would they were _all so_. '

The military element predominates in this group of citizens, and ofcourse, they are talking of the wars, --the foreign wars: but theprinciple of _inroad_ and _aggression_ on the one hand, and _defence_on the other, the arts of _subjugation_, and _reconciliation_, thearts of WAR and GOVERNMENT in their most general forms are alwayscleared and identified, and tracked, under the specifications of thescene. 

 _Cor_. Tullus Aufidius then _had made_ NEW HEAD. 

 _Lart_. He had, my lord, and _that_ it was, which caused Our swifter COMPOSITION. 

 _Cor_. So then, the _Volsces_ stand but as at first, Ready, when _time_ shall _prompt_ them, to make _road_ Upon _us_ again. 

 _Com_. _They_ [Volsces?] _are worn_, lord consul, so That we shall hardly in _our ages_ see _Their_ banners wave again. 

 * * * * *

 [_Enter Sicinius and Brutus. _]

 _Cor_. Behold! these are the tribunes of the people, The _tongues_ o' the _common mouth_. I do despise them; For they do prank them in authority, Against all _noble_ sufferance. 

 _Sic_. Pass no further. 

 _Cor_. Ha! what is that?

 _Bru_. It will be dangerous to Go on: No further. 

 _Cor_. What makes this CHANGE?

 _Men_. _The matter_?

 _Com_. Hath he not passed the NOBLES and the COMMONS?

 _Bru_. Cominius. --No. 

 _Cor_. Have I had _children's voices_? [ _Yes. _]

 _Sen_. Tribunes, give way:--he shall to the market-place. 

 _Bru_. The people are incensed against him. 

 _Sic_. Stop. Or _all will fall in broil_. 

 _Cor_. Are these _your herd_? Must _these_ have voices that can yield them now, And straight disclaim their tongues? _You, being their mouths_, why rule you not their teeth? _Have you not set them on?_

 _Men_. Be calm, be calm. 

 _Cor. _ It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot, To curb the will of the _nobility_:-- _Suffer it, and live with such as cannot rule, Nor_ ever will be _ruled_. 

 _Bru_. Call't not a _plot_: The people cry you mocked them; and of late, When _corn_ was given them gratis, you repined; _Scandaled the suppliants for the people; called them Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness. _

 _Cor_. Why, this was known before. 

 _Bru_. _Not to them all. _

 _Cor_. _Have you informed them since?_

 _Bru_. How! _I_ inform them?

 _Cor_. You are like to do _such business_. 

 _Bru_. Not unlike, Each way to better _yours_. 

 _Cor_. Why _then_ should _I_ be consul? By yon clouds, Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me _Your fellow tribune_. 

 _Sic_. You show too much of _that_, For which the people stir: If you will pass To where you are bound, you must inquire your way, -- Which you are out of, --with a _gentler_ spirit; Or never be so noble as a consul, Nor yoke with him for tribune. 

 _Men_. Let's _be calm_. 

 _Com_. The people are abused;--set on--this paltering Becomes not Rome: nor has Coriolanus Deserved this so dishonoured rub, laid falsely I' the plain way of his merit. 

 _Cor_. Tell me of _corn_: _This was my speech_, and I will speak't _again_. 

 _Men. Not now, not now. _

 _First Sen_. Not in this heat, sir, _now_. 

 _Cor. Now_, as I live, I will. --My nobler friends I crave their pardons:-- For the _mutable_, rank scented _many_, let them _Regard me, as I do not flatter, and Therein behold themselves_: I say again, In soothing _them_, we nourish 'gainst our _senate_, The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, Which we ourselves have ploughed for, sowed and scattered, By mingling them with us, _the honoured number_. Who lack not _virtue, no_, --nor _power_, but _that_ _Which they have given to_--BEGGARS. 

 _Men. Well, no more. _

 _First Sen. No more words, we beseech you. _

 _Cor_. How, no more: As for my country, I have shed my blood, Not fearing outward force, _so_ shall my lungs _Coin words_ till their decay against those meazels Which we disdain, should tetter us, yet sought The very way to catch them. 

 _Bru_. You speak o' the people, As if you were a god to punish, not _A man of their infirmity_. 

 _Sic. 'T were well_ _We let the people know't. _

 _Men_. What, what? his _choler_. 

 _Cor. Choler_! Were I _as patient_ as the _midnight sleep, By Jove, _ 't would be _my mind_. 

 _Sic_. It is a mind, That shall remain a poison where it is, _Not poison any further_. 

 _Cor_. _Shall remain!_ Hear you this Triton of the minnows? _mark you_ _His absolute_ SHALL?

 _Com_. _'Twas from the canon, _ _O good_, but most _unwise patricians_, why You _grave_, but _reckless senators_, have you thus _Given Hydra here to choose_ AN OFFICER, That with his _peremptory shall--being but The horn and noise o' the monster_--wants not _spirit_ To say, he'll turn _your current_ in _a ditch_, And make _your channel his? If he have power, Then_ veil your IGNORANCE:--[that let him have it. ] --if _none, awake_ Your _dangerous_ LENITY. 

[Mark it well, for it is not, as one may see who looks at it but alittle, it is not the lost Roman weal and its danger that fires thepassion of this speech. 'Look at this player whether he has not turnedhis colour, and has tears in his eyes. ' 'What's _Hecuba_ to him or heto _Hecuba_, that he should weep for her? _What would he do_, had hethe motive and the cue for passion that _I_ have. ']

 --if none, awake Your dangerous _lenity. If_ you are _learned_, Be not as _common fools_; if you are _not_--

What do you draw this foolish line for, that separates you from thecommons? If you are not, there's no nobility. If you are not, whatbusiness have you in these chairs of state?

 --if you are not, _Let them have cushions by you_. You are plebeians, If _they_ be senators; and _they are no less_, When _both your voices blended_, the GREATEST TASTE Most palates _theirs_. _They choose_ their magistrate; And such a one as _he_, who puts his _shall_, --

 [Mark it, his _popular shall_]. 

 His _popular shall_, against a graver bench Than ever frown'd in Greece! By Jove himself, It makes the _consuls base_: and _my soul aches_, _To know_, when two authorities are up, [Neither able to rule]. 

 _Neither supreme_, how soon confusion May enter twixt the GAP of BOTH, and take The one by the other. 

 _Com. _ Well, --on to the _market place_. 

 _Cor_. Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth The _corn o' the store-house_ gratis, as 'twas used _Sometime in Greece_. 

[It is not _corn_, but the _property_ of the _state_, and itsappropriation, we talk of here. Whether the _absolute power_ be in thehands of the _people_ or '_their officer_. ' There had been a speechmade on that subject, which had not met with the approbation of theabsolute power then conducting the affairs of this realm; and in itsmain principle, it is repeated here. 'That was my speech, and I willmake it again. ' 'Not now, not now. Not in this heat, sir, now. ' 'Now, as I live, I will. ']

 _Men_. Well, well, no more of that, _Cor_. Though _there_ THE PEOPLE had more _absolute power_, I say they _nourished disobedience, fed_ The _ruin of the state_. 

 _Bru_. Why shall the people _give_ One that speaks thus their voice?

 _Cor_. I'll give my _reasons_, More worthier than _their voices_. They know the corn Was not our RECOMPENSE; resting well assured _They ne'er did service for it_? . . . Well, what then? How shall _this bosom multiplied_, digest; The senate's courtesy? Let _deeds_ express _What's like to be their words_. We did request it, WE _are_ THE GREATER POLL, and in _true fear_ _They gave us our demands_. Thus we debase The nature of our seats, and make the rabble Call our _cares, fears:_ which will in time _break ope The locks o' the senate_, and _bring in the crows To peck the eagles. _

 _Mem_. Come, enough. 

 _Bru_. Enough, with _over measure_. 

 _Cor_. No, take _more_; What may be sworn by, _both divine and human_, Seal what I end withal! This _double_ worship, -- Where _one part_ does _disdain with cause, the other Insult without all reason_; where _gentry, title, wisdom_, Cannot conclude, but by the yea and no Of _General Ignorance_--it _must omit Real necessities_, and _give way the while To unstable slightness_. PURPOSE so _barred_ it follows _Nothing is done to purpose: Therefore_ beseech you, --

 [Therefore beseech you]. 

 You that will be less fearful than discreet; That love the _fundamental part_ of _state_, More than you doubt the _change_ of't--

There was but one man in England then, able to balance thisrevolutionary proposition so nicely--so curiously; 'that love the_fundamental_ part of state more than you doubt the change of it';'You that are _less fearful_ than _discreet_'--not so _fearful_ asdiscreet. 

 that prefer A noble life before a long, and wish To jump a body with a dangerous physic _That's sure_ of _death without it_, --at once _pluck out The multitudinous tongue_; let them not lick The sweet which is their poison; _your dishonour_ MANGLES _true_ JUDGMENT, and bereaves THE STATE Of that INTEGRITY which should _become it_: Not having the power to do the good it would, For the ill which doth control it. 

 _Bru_. He has said enough. 

 [One would think so]. 

 _Sic_. He has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer _As traitors do_. 

 _Cor_. Thou wretch! despite o'erwhelm thee! What should the _people do_ with these bald tribunes? _On whom depending, their obedience fails To the greater bench_? In a rebellion, When what's not meet, but what must be was _law_ Then were they chosen: in a better hour, Let what _is meet_, be said it must be _meet_, And throw their power i' the _dust_. 

 _Bru_. MANIFEST TREASON. 

 _Sic_. _This a Consul_? No. 

 _Bru_. The Aediles! ho! let him be apprehended. 

 _Sic_. Go call the people; [_Exit Brutus_] _in whose name, myself_ Attach _thee_ [_thee_] as a traitorous INNOVATOR, A FOE to the PUBLIC WEAL. Obey, I charge thee, And follow to thine answer. 

 _Cor_. Hence, old goat! _Senators and Patricians. We'll surety him_. 

 _Cor_. Hence, rotten thing, or I shall shake thy bones Out of thy garments. 

 _Sic_. Help, ye citizens. 

 [_Re-enter Brutus, with the Aediles, and a rabble of citizens. _]

 _Men_. _On both sides, more respect. _

 _Sic_. There's HE that would _Take from you all your power_. 

 _Bru_. _Seize him, Aediles_. 

 _Cit_. _Down with him. Down with him_. 

 [_Several speak_. ]

 _Second Sen_. Weapons! Weapons! Weapons!

 [_They all bustle about_ CORIOLANUS. ]

 Tribunes, patricians:--citizens:--what ho:-- Sicinius, Brutus:--Coriolanus:--citizens:--

 _Cit_. _Peace!--Peace!--Peace!--stay!--hold!--peace!_

 _Men_. _What is about to be? I am out of breath: Confusion's near! I cannot speak_: you tribunes To the people. --_Coriolanus_, patience:-- Speak, good Sicinius. 

 _Sic_. Hear me, people;--_Peace_. 

 _Cit_. Let's hear _our_ tribune:--Peace, --_Speak, speak, speak_. 

 _Sic_. _You are at point to lose your liberties_, Marcius _would have all from you_; Marcius Whom late you have named for consul. 

 _Men_. Fye, fye, fye. That is the way to _kindle_, not to _quench_. 

 _Sen_. To _unbuild_ the _city and to lay all flat_. 

 _Sic_. What is the city, but _the people_. 

 _Cit_. TRUE, The _people are_ the city. 

 _Bru_. By the consent of ALL, we were established The _people's_ magistrates. 

 _Cit_. You so remain. 

 _Men_. And so are like to do. 

 _Cor_. That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the _roof_ to the _foundation_; And bury all which yet _distinctly ranges, In heaps and piles of ruin_. 

 _Sic_. _This deserves death. _

 _Bru_. Or let us stand to our authority, Or let us lose it:--

Truly, one hears the Revolutionary voices here. Observing the historywhich is in all men's lives, 'Figuring the nature of the timesdeceased, a man _may prophesy_, ' as it would seem, 'with a _nearaim_, '--quite near--'of the _main_ chance of things, as yet, not cometo life, which in their weak beginnings lie intreasured. Such thingsbecome the hatch and brood of _time_, ' this Poet says; but art, itseems, anticipates that process. There appears to be more of thefuture here, than of the times deceased. 

 _Bru_. We do here pronounce Upon the _part of the people, in whose power We were elected theirs, Marcius is worthy_ Of _present death. _

 _Sic_. Therefore, lay hold of him; Bear him to the rook Tarpeian, and from thence Into destruction cast him. 

 _Bru_. Ĉdiles, seize him. 

 _Cit_. Yield, Marcius, yield. 

 _Men_. Hear me, one word. Beseech you, tribunes, hear me, but a word. 

 _Ĉdiles_. Peace, peace. 

 _Men_. Be that you _seem, truly your country's friend_, And _temperately_ proceed to what you would Thus _violently_ redress. 

 _Bru_. Sir, those _cold ways_ That seem _like prudent helps_, are very _poisonous_. Where the _disease is violent_. --Lay hands upon him, And bear him to the rock. 

 _Cor_. No: I'll die here. [_Drawing his sword_. ] There's some among you have beheld me fighting; Come _try upon yourselves_, what you have _seen_ me. 

 _Men_. DOWN with THAT SWORD; tribunes, withdraw awhile. 

 _Bru_. Lay hands upon him. 

 _Men_. Help, help, MARCIUS, help! You that be NOBLE, help him, young and old. 

 _Cit_. DOWN WITH HIM! DOWN WITH HIM!

'In this _mutiny, the Tribunes, the Ĉdiles, and the People, are all_BEAT IN, ' so the stage direction informs us, which appears a littlesingular, considering there is but _one sword_ drawn, and thevictorious faction does not appear to have the advantage in numbers. It is, however, only a temporary success, as the victors seem to beaware. 

 _Men_. Go, get you to _your houses, be gone away_, All will be nought else. 

 _Second Sen_. Get you gone. 

 _Cor_. _Stand fast, We have as many friends as enemies. _

 _Men_. Shall it be put to _that_?

 _Sen_. _The gods forbid!_ I pry'thee noble friend, home to thy house; _Leave us to_ CURE THIS CAUSE. 

 _Men_. _For_ 'tis a sore _upon us, You cannot tent yourself. Begone, beseech you. _

 _Com_. Come, Sir, along with us. 

 _Cor_. I would they were barbarians (as they are, Though in Rome _littered_) not Romans, (as they are _not_, Though _calved_ i' the porch o' the Capitol). 

 _Men_. Begone; Put not _your worthy rage_ into your _tongue_; _One time_ will _owe another_. [_Hear_. ]

 _Cor_. On fair ground, I could beat _forty_ of them. 

 _Men_. I could _myself_ Take up a _brace_ of the best of them; _yea, the two tribunes_. 

 _Com_. But now 'tis _odds_ beyond arithmetic: And MANHOOD is called FOOLERY, _when it stands Against a falling fabric_. --Will you hence, Before the tag return? whose rage doth rend Like interrupted waters, and _o'erbear What they are used to bear_. [Change of 'predominance. ']

 _Men_. Pray you, begone: I'll _try_ whether _my_ old wit be in request With _those that have but little_; _this_ must be _patched_ With cloth of _any colour_. 

 _Com_. Nay, come away. 

The features of that living impersonation of the heroic faults andvirtues which 'the mirror, ' that professed to give to 'the very bodyof the time, its form and pressure, ' could not fail to show, areglimmering here constantly in 'this ancient piece, ' and often shineout in the more critical passages, with such unmistakeable clearness, as to furnish an effectual diversion for any eye, that shouldundertake to fathom prematurely the player's intention. For 'thegentleman who wrote the late Shepherd's Calendar' was not the onlypoet of this time, as it would seem, who found the scope of a doubleintention, in his poetic representation, not adequate to thecomprehension of his design--who laid on another and another still, and found the complexity convenient. 'The sense is the best judge, 'this Poet says, in his doctrine of criticism, declining peremptorilyto accept of the ancient rules in matters of taste;--a rule in artwhich requires, of course, a corresponding rule of interpretation. Infact, it is no bad exercise for an ordinary mind, to undertake totrack the contriver of these plays, through all the latitudes whichhis art, as he understands it, gives him. It is as good for thatpurpose, as a problem in mathematics. But, 'to whom you will not givean hour, you give nothing, ' he says, and 'he had as lief not be readat all, as be read by a careless reader. ' So he thrusts in hismeanings as thick as ever he likes, and those who don't choose to stayand pick them out, are free to lose them. They are not the ones helaid them in for, --that is all. He is not afraid, but that he willhave readers enough, ere all is done; and he can afford to wait. There's time enough. 

 _First Pat_. This man has marr'd his fortune. 

 _Men_. His nature is too noble for the world: _He_ would not _flatter_ Neptune for _his trident_, Or Jove for _his power_ to _thunder_. His heart's his mouth; What his breast forges, _that_ his _tongue_ must vent; And being angry, does forget that _ever He heard the name of death_. 

 [_A noise within_. ]

 Here's goodly work!

 _Second Pat_. I would they were _a-bed_!

 _Men_. I would they were in Tyber!--_What, the vengeance, Could he_ not _speak them fair_?

 [_Re-enter Brutus and Sicinius with the Rabble_. ]

 _Sic_. WHERE IS THIS VIPER, That would _depopulate_ the city, and BE EVERY MAN HIMSELF?

 _Men_. You worthy tribunes--

 _Sic_. _He_ shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock With rigorous hands; _he hath resisted LAW_, And therefore law shall scorn him further trial. 

['When could they say till now that talked of Rome that _her_ widewalls encompassed but _one man_?' 'What trash is Rome, what rubbish, and what offal, when it serves for the base matter to illuminate sovile a thing as Caesar. ']

 Than the severity of the PUBLIC POWER, _Which he so sets at nought_. 

 _First Cit_. He shall _well_ know The noble _tribunes_ are the _people's mouths_, And _we their hands_. 

[Historical _principles throughout, with much of that kind ofillustration in which his works are so prolific, an illustration whichis not rhetorical, but scientific, based on the COMMON PRINCIPLES INNATURE, which it is his 'primary' business to ascend to, and which itis his 'second' business to apply to each particular branch of art. 'Neither, ' as he tells us plainly, in his Book of Advancement, 'neither are these only _similitudes_ as _men of narrow observation_may conceive them to be, but the _same footsteps of nature_, treadingor printing upon several subjects or matters, ' and the tracking ofthese historical principles to their ultimate forms, is that which herecommends for the _disclosing_ of _nature and_ the _abridging_ ofArt. ]

 _Sic_. He's a _disease_, that must be cut away. 

 _Men_. O he's a _limb_, that has but a disease; Mortal to cut it off; to cure it, easy. What has he done to Rome, that's worthy death? _Killing our enemies?_ The blood he hath _lost_, (Which, I dare vouch, is more than that he hath, _By many an ounce_), he dropped it for his country. And what _is left, to lose it by his country, Were to us all, that do't and suffer it, A brand to the end o' the world. _

There's a piece thrust in here. This is the one of whom he says inanother scene, 'I cannot speak him home. '

 _Bru_. _Merely awry_: when he did love his country, It honour'd him. 

 _Men_. The _service_ of the _foot_, Being once _gangren'd_, is not then respected _For what before it was_?

 _Bru_. We'll hear no more:-- Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence; Lest his infection, being of catching nature, _Spread further_. 

 _Men_. One word more, one word. This _tiger-footed_ rage, when it shall find _The harm_ of _unscann'd swiftness_, will, too late, _Tie leaden pounds to his_ HEELS. [Mark it, for it is a prophecy] _Lest_ PARTIES (as he is _beloved_) _break out_, And sack great _Rome_ with _Romans_. 

 _Bru_. If it were so, --

 _Sic. What_ do ye talk? Have we not had a taste of his obedience? _Our Ĉdiles smote? Ourselves resisted?--Come:--_

 _Men. Consider this; he has been bred i' the wars_, Since he could draw a sword, --

That has been the breeding of states, and nobility, and their rule, hitherto, as this play will show you. Consider what _schooling_ thesestatesmen have had, before you begin the enterprise of reforming them, and take your measures accordingly. They are not learned men, you see. How should they be? There has been no demand for learning. The law ofthe sword has prevailed hitherto. When what's not meet but what mustbe was law, then were they chosen. Proceed by process. 

 _Consider_ this; he has been bred i' the WARS Since he could draw a sword, and is _ill school'd_ In _boulted language_--

[That's the trouble; but there's been a little bolting going on inthis play. ]

 --_Meal and bran, together_ He _throws without distinction. Give me leave_ I'll go to him, and undertake to bring him Where he shall answer by a _lawful form_, (In peace) to his utmost peril. 

 _First Sen. Noble tribunes. _ It is the _humane way_: the _other_ course Will prove too bloody; and--

[What is very much to be deprecated in such movements]. 

 --the END of it, Unknown to the beginning. 

 _Sic_. Noble Menenius; Be _you_ then as the People's Officer: _Masters_, --[and they seem to be that, truly, ]--lay down _your weapons_. 

 _Bru. Go not home_, _Sic_. MEET on the MARKET-PLACE, --

[--that is where the 'idols of the market' are--]

 _We'll attend you there: Where_, if you bring not Marcius, we'll proceed In our _first way_. 

 _Men_. I'll bring him to you. Let me desire _your_ company [_To the Senators_] He _must_ come, Or what is worse will follow. 

 _Sen_. Pray you, let's to him. 

 SCENE--THE FORUM. _Enter Sicinius and Brutus_. 

 _Bru_. In this _point_ charge him _home_, that he affects TYRANNICAL POWER: if he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to _the people_; And that the spoil, got on the Antiates, Was _ne'er distributed_. --

 _Enter an Ĉdile_. What, will he come?

 _Ĉd_. He's coming. 

 _Bru_. How accompanied?

 _Ĉd_. _With old Menenius_, and those senators That always favour'd him. 

 _Sic_. Have you a _catalogue_ Of all the voices that we have procured, _Set down by_ THE POLL?

 _Ĉd_. _I have; 'tis ready. _

 _Sic_. Have you collected them BY TRIBES?

 _Ĉd_. I _have_. 

 _Sic_. Assemble presently the people hither: And when they hear _me_ say, _it shall be so_ _I_ the RIGHT and STRENGTH o' the COMMONS, be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them, If I say _fine_, cry _fine_; if _death_, cry _death_; Insisting on the OLD _prerogative, And power i' THE TRUTH, o' THE CAUSE. 

 [There is a great difference in the delivery of the mathematics, which are the most abstracted of knowledges, and policy, which is the most immersed. --_Advancement_ of LEARNING. ]

 _Ĉd_. I shall inform them. 

 _Bru_. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confused Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence. 

 _Ĉd_. Very well. 

 _Sic_. Make them _be strong_, and _ready for this hint_. When we shall _hap_ to give't them. 

 _Bru_. Go about it. 

 [_Exit Ĉdile_. ]

 Put him to choler straight. He hath been used Ever to conquer, and to have his worth Of contradiction. Being once chafed, he cannot Be rein'd again to temperance; then he speaks What's in his heart; and _that_ is there, which looks _With me to break his neck_. [Prophecy--inductive. ] Well, here he comes. 

 _Enter_ CORIOLANUS, _and his party_. 

 _Men_. Calmly, I do beseech you. 

 _Cor_. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece Will bear the knave by the volume. The honour'd gods Keep _Rome in safety_, and the CHAIRS of JUSTICE _Supplied_ with WORTHY MEN! _plant_ LOVE _among us_. Throng OUR LARGE TEMPLES with the _shows_ of PEACE, And _not_ our STREETS with WAR. 

 _First Sen_. _Amen, Amen! [Hear, Hear_!]

 _Men_. A NOBLE _wish_. 

 _Re-enter Ĉdile with Citizens_. 

 _Sic_. Draw near, ye people. 

 _Cor_. First hear _me_ speak. 

 _Ĉdile_. List to your _tribunes_. Audience: _Peace_, I say. 

 _Both Tri_. Well, say, --Peace, ho. 

 _Cor_. Shall I be charged no further than this present? Must all determine here?

 _Sic_. I do demand, If you submit you to the _people's_ voices, Allow their _officers_, and are content To suffer _lawful censure for such faults As shall be proved upon you_?

 _Cor_. I am content. 

 _Men_. Lo, citizens, he says he is content--

 _Cor_. What is the matter, That being pass'd for consul, with full voice, I am so dishonour'd, that the very hour You take it off again?

 _Sic_. _Answer to us_. 

 _Cor_. Say then, 'tis true. _I ought so_. 

 Sic. WE CHARGE YOU, that you have contrived to take From Rome, all seasoned office, and to wind Yourself into a_ POWER TYRANNICAL; _For which_, you are A TRAITOR to the PEOPLE. 

 _Cor_. How! _Traitor_?

 _Men_. Nay, temperately: Your promise. 

 _Cor_. The fires in the lowest hell fold in the people! Call me _their traitor_!

 _Cit_. To the rock, to the rock with him. 

 _Sic_. Peace. We need not put _new matter_ to his charge: What you have _seen_ him do, and heard him speak, _Beating_ your _officers, cursing yourselves_, Opposing _laws_ with _strokes_, and here defying Those whose great power must try him; even THIS, So _criminal_, and in such CAPITAL _kind_, Deserves the extremest death. .. . For that he has, As much as in him lies, from time to time, Envied against the people; _seeking means_ To _pluck away their power_: as now, at last, Given hostile strokes, and that, not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the _ministers_ _That do distribute it; in the name o' the people_, And in the _power of us, the tribunes, we_, Even from _this instant_, banish him our city, In _peril of precipitation_ From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter _our_ Rome's gates. I' THE PEOPLE'S NAME _I say it shall be so_. 

 _Cit_. _It shall be so, it shall be so_: let him away, He's banish'd, and it _shall be so_. 

 _Com_. Hear me, MY MASTERS, and my COMMON FRIENDS. 

 _Sic_. HE'S SENTENCED: no more hearing. 

 _Com_. Let me speak:--

 _Bru_. THERE'S NO MORE TO BE SAID, BUT HE IS BANISHED, _As_ ENEMY _to the_ PEOPLE, AND HIS COUNTRY: IT SHALL BE SO. 

 _Cit_. IT SHALL BE SO, IT SHALL BE SO. 

And this is the story that was set before a king! One, too, who wasjust then bestirring himself to get the life of 'that last king ofEngland who was his ancestor' brought out; a king who was taking somuch pains to get his triple wreath of conquest brightened up, and allthe lines in it laid out and distinguished--one who was taking so muchpains to get the fresh red of that last 'conqueror, ' who also 'came inby battle, ' cleared up in his coat of arms, in case his double line ofwhite and red from the old _Norman_ should not prove sufficient--sufficient to convince the English nation of his divine right, andthat of his heirs for ever, to dispose of it and its weal at his andtheir pleasure, with or without laws, as they should see fit. A prettyscene this to amuse a king with, whose ancestor, the one from whom hedirectly claimed, had so lately seated himself and his line by battle--by battle with the English people _on those very questions_; who had'beaten them in' in their mutinies with his single sword, 'and takenall from them'; who had planted his chair of state on their suppressedliberties, and 'the charters that they bore in the body of the weal'--that chair which was even then beginning to rock a little--while therewas that in the mien and bearing of the royal occupant and his heirwhich might have looked to the prescient mind, if things went on asthey were going then, not unlike to break some one's neck. 

 'Bid them home, '

says the Tribune, after the military hero is driven out by the uprisenpeople, with shouting, from the city gates for ever; charged nevermore to enter them, on peril of precipitation from the Tarpeian Rock. 

 'Bid them home: Say, _their great enemy is gone_, and THEY STAND _in their ancient strength_. '

But it is in the conquered nation that this scene of the deposing ofthe military power is completed. Of course one could not tellbeforehand what effect that cautious, but on the whole luminous, exhibition of the recent conquest of the English PEOPLE, prepared atthe suggestion and under the immediate criticism of royalty, mighthave with the profoundly loyal English people themselves, in the wayof 'striking an awe into them, ' and removing any lurking oppositionthey might have to the exercise of an arbitrary authority ingovernment; but with people of the old Volscian pluck, according tothis Poet's account of the matter, an allusion to a similar success onthe part of the Conqueror at a critical moment, and when his _special_qualifications for government happened to be passing under review, wasnot attended with those happy results which appear to have beenexpected in the other instance. 

 '_If_ you have writ _your annals true_, 't is there, That _like an_ EAGLE in a dove-cote, _I_ Flutter'd your Volsces in Corioli: _Alone, I did it_. ' 'Why--

[The answer is, in this case, ]

 '_Why_, noble lords, _Will you be put in mind_ of his blind fortune, Which was _your shame_, by this unholy braggart, 'Fore _your own eyes and ears_?

 _Cons_. Let him die for't. [Several speak at once. ]

 _Citizens_ [Speaking _promiscuously_]. Tear him to pieces; do it presently. He killed _my son_--_my daughter_;--he killed my cousin Marcus;--he killed _my father_. .. . O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more, _his tribe_, To use _my lawful sword_. Insolent villain! . .. Traitor!--how now?. .. . Ay, TRAITOR, Marcius. _Marcius_? Ay, _Marcius_, Caius Marcius. _Dost thou think_ I'll grace thee with that ROBBERY--thy STOLEN NAME, _Coriolanus_, in CORIOLI?. .. . [. .. . Honest, my lord? 'Ay, honest. ']

 _Cons_. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him. ' 'Would you proceed especially against _Caius Marcius?_ Against him FIRST. '

Surely, if that 'Heir apparent' to whom the _History_ of HENRY THESEVENTH was dedicated by the author, with an urgent recommendation ofthe '_rare accidents_' in that reign to the royal notice andconsideration; if that prince had but chanced in some thoroughlythoughtful mood to light upon this yet more 'ancient piece, ' he mighthave found here, also, some things worthy of his notice. It cannot bedenied, that the poet's mode of handling the same historical questionis much more bold and clear than that of the professed philosopher. But probably this Prince was not aware that his father entertained atWhitehall then, not a literary Historian, merely--a Book-maker, ableto compose narratives of the past in an orderly chronological prosaicmanner, according to the received method--but a Show-man, also, anHistorical Show-man, with such new gifts and arts; a true Magician, who had in his closet a mirror which possessed the property ofrevealing, not the past nor the present only, but the future, 'with anear aim, ' an aim so _near_ that it might well seem 'magical'; andthat a cloud was flaming in it, even then, 'which drizzled blood uponthe Capitol. ' This Prince of Wales did not know, any more than hisfather did, that they had in their court then an historical scholar, with such an indomitable passion for the stage, with such a decidedturn for acting--one who felt himself divinely prompted to a part inthat theatre which is the Globe--one who had laid out all for hisshare in that. They did not either of them know, fortunately for us, that they had in their royal train such an Historic Sport-Manager, such a Prospero for Masques; that there was a true 'Phil-harmonus'there, with so clear an inspiration of scientific statesmanship. Theydid not know that they had in that servant of the crown, so supple, so'patient--patient as the midnight sleep, ' patient 'as the ostler thatfor the poorest piece will bear the knave by the volume'--such a bornaspirant for rule; one who had always his eye on the throne, one whohad always in mind their usurpation of it. They did not know that theyhad a Hamlet in their court, who never lost sight of his purpose, orfaltered in his execution of it; who had found a scientific ground forhis actions, an end for his ends; who only affected incoherence; andthat it was he who was intriguing to such purpose with the PLAYERS. 

The Elizabethan revolutionist was suppressed: then 'Fame, who is theposthumous sister of rebellion, sprang up. '

 'O like a book of sports thou'lt read me o'er, But there's more in me than thou'lt understand. '

 'Henceforth guard thee well, For I'll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there; But _by the forge_ that stithied Mars his helm, I'll kill thee everywhere, yea o'er and o'er. '

CHAPTER XIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

 'How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter, . . . . . . . . And find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. _Till then_, my noble friend, _chew upon this_; Brutus had rather he _a villager_, Than _to repute himself_ a son of Rome, Under these hard conditions _as this time_ _Is like to lay upon us_. 

Inasmuch as the demonstration contained in this volume has labouredthroughout under this disadvantage, that however welcome that new viewof the character and aims of the great English philosopher, which isinvolved in it, as welcome it must be to all true lovers of learning, it presents itself to the mind of the reader as a view directlyopposed, not merely to what may possibly be his own erroneouspreconceptions of the case; but to facts which are among the mostnotable in the history of this country; and not only to factssustained by unquestionable contemporary authority, and attested bypublic documents, --facts which history has graven with her pen of ironin the rock for ever, but with other exhibitions of this man'scharacter, not less, but more painful, for which he is himself singlyresponsible;--not the forced exhibition of a confession wrung from himby authority, --not the craven self-blasting defamation of a gloriousname that was not his to blast, --that was the property of men oflearning in all coming ages, precious and venerable in their eyes forever, at the bidding of power, --not that only, but the voluntaryexhibition of those qualities with which he stands charged, --which hehas gone out of his way to leave to us, --memorials of them which hehas collected with his own hands, and sealed up, and sent down toposterity 'this side up, ' with the most urgent directions to have themread, and examined, and considered deeply, --that posterity, too, towhich he commends, with so much assurance, the care of his honor, thecure of his fame. 

The demonstrated fact must stand. The true mind must receive it. Because our criticism or our learning is not equal to the task ofreconciling it with that which we know already, or with that which we_believed_, and thought we _knew_, we must not on that account rejectit. That is to hurt ourselves. That is to destroy the principle ofintegrity at its source. We must take our facts and reconcile them, ifwe can; and let them take care of themselves, if we can not. God isgreater than we are, and whatever other sacrifices he may require ofus, painful to our human sensibilities, to make way with facts, forthe sake of advancing truths, or for any other reason never soplausible, is a thing which he never does, and never did require ofany mind. The conclusion that requires facts to be dispensed with, orshorn, on either side to make it tenable, is not going to stand, letit come in what name, or with what authority it will; because thetruth of history is, in its least particular, of a universal quality, and is much more potent than anything that the opinion and will of mancan oppose to it. 

To the mind which is able to receive under all conditions thedemonstrated truth, and give to it its full weight, --to the mind towhich truth is religion, this book is dedicated. The facts which itcontains are able to assert themselves, --will be, at least, hereafter. They will not be dependent ultimately upon the mode of theirexhibition here. For they have the large quality, they have thesolidity and dimensions of historical truth, and are accessible onmore sides than one. 

But to those to whom they are already able to commend themselves inthe form in which they are here set forth, the author begs leave tosay, in conclusion, though it must stand for the present in the formof a simple statement, but a statement which challenges investigation, that so far from coming into any real collision with the evidencewhich we have on this subject from other sources, those very facts, and those very historical materials on which our views on this subjecthave been based hitherto, are, that which is wanting to the completedevelopment of the views contained here. 

It is the true history of these great events in which the hidden greatmen of this age played so deep a part; it is the true history of thatgreat crisis in which the life-long plots of these hidden actors beganto show themselves on the historic surface in scenic grandeur, --inthose large tableaux which history takes and keeps, --which historywaits for, --it is the very evidence which has supplied the principalbasis of the received views on this subject, --it is the history of theinitiation of that great popular movement, --that movement of new ages, with which the chief of popular development, and the leader of theseages, has been hitherto so painfully connected in our impressions; itis that very evidence, --that blasting evidence which the Learning ofthe Modern Ages has always carried in its stricken heart, --it is_that_ which is wanting here. That also is a part of the story whichhas begun to be related here. 

And those very letters which have furnished 'confirmations strong asproofs of holy writ' of the impressions which the other historicalevidence, as it stands at present, inevitably creates, --those veryletters which have been collected by the party whose character wasconcerned in them, and preserved with so much diligence andcaution, --which we have been asked with so much emphasis to read andponder, --which have been recommended to our attention as the very bestmeans, when all is done, of putting ourselves into sympatheticrelations with the writer, and attaining at last to a completeunderstanding of his position, and to a complete acquaintance with hischaracter and aims, --with his _natural dispositions_, as well as hisdeliberate scientific _aims_, --these letters, long as we have turnedfrom them, --often as we have turned from them, --chilled, confounded, sick at heart, --unable, in spite of those recommendations, to find inthem any gleam of the soul of these proceedings, --these very letterswill have to be read, after all, and with that very diligence whichthe directions enjoin upon us; they will have, when all is done, totake just that place in the development of this plot which the author, who always knows what he is about when he is giving directions, designed them to take. There is one very obvious reason why theyshould be studied--why they would have to be studied in the end. Theyhave on the face of them a claim to the attention of the learned. There is nothing like them in the history of mankind. For, howevermean and disreputable the acts of men may be, when it comes towords, --that medium of understanding and sympathy, in which theidentity of the common nature is perpetually declared, even in themost private conferences, --there is usually an attempt to clothe theforlorn and shrinking actuality with the common human dignity, or tomake it, at least, passably respectable, if the claim to the heroic isdispensed with, --even in oral speech. But in writing, in letters, destined to never so brief and limited an existence, who puts on paperfor the eye of another, for the review of that criticism which in thelowest, basest of mankind, stands in unimpeachable dignity, preparedto detect and pass sentence, and cry out as one aggrieved, on theleast failure, or shadow of failure in the best--who puts inwriting, --what tenant of Newgate will put on paper, when it comes tothat, a deliberate display of meanness, --what convicted felon, butwill undertake in that case to give some sort of heroic colour to hisproceedings--some air of suffering virtue to his durance?

But a great man, consciously great, who knows that his most triflingletter is liable to publication; a great man, writing on subjects andoccasions which insure publicity to his writing; a man of fame, writing letters expressly for publication, and dedicating them to thefar-off times; a man of poetic sensibilities, alive to the finestshades of moral differences; one of unparalleled dignity and grandeurof aims--aims pursued from youth to age, without wavering, under themost difficult conditions, pursued to their successful issue; a manwhose aim in life it was to advance, and ennoble, and enrich his kind;in whose life-success the race of men are made glad; such a onesending down along with the works, in which the nobility and thedeliberate worth and grandeur of his ends are set forth and proved, memorials of himself which exhibit studiously on the surface of them, by universal consent, the most odious character in history; this isthe phenomenon which our men of learning have found themselves calledupon to encounter here. To separate the man and the philosopher--tofly out upon the _man_, to throw him overboard with every expressionof animosity and disgust, to make him out as bad as possible, tocollect diligently every scrap of evidence against him, and set itforth with every conceivable aggravation--this has been the resourceof an indignant scholarship in this case, bent on uttering its protestin some form; this has been the defence of learning, cast down fromits excellency, and debased in all men's eyes, as it seemed for ever, in the person of its high-priest. 

The objection to the work here presented to the public is, that itdoes not go far enough. From the point of review that the research ofwhich it is the fruit has now attained, this is the criticism to whichit appears to be liable. From this point of view, the _complaint_ tobe made against it is, that at the place where it stops it leaves, forwant of that part of the evidence which contains it, the historicalgrandeur of our great men unrevealed or still obscured. For we _have_had them, in the sober day-light of our occidental learning, in theactualities of history, and not in the mists of a poetic pastonly--monstrous idealisms, outstretched shadows of man's divinity, demi-gods and heroes, impersonations of ages and peoples, stalkingthrough the twilight of the ante-historic dawn, or in the twilight ofa national popular ignorance, embalmed in the traditions of those whoare always 'beginners. ' We have had them; we need not look to aforeign and younger race for them; we have them, fruit of our ownstock; we have had them, not cloaked with falseness, but exposed inthe searching noonday glare of our western science. We have had them, we have them still, with all their mortal frailty and littleness andignorance confessed, with all their 'weaved-up follies ravelled out, 'with all the illimitable capacity of affection and passion and will inman, with all his illimitable capacity for folly and wrong-doing, assumed and acknowledged in their own persons, symbolically, vicariously, assumed and confessed. 'I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to putthem in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. ' Wehave them, _our_ Interpreters, _our_ Poets, _our_ Reformers, who startfrom the actualities--from the actualities of nature in general, andof the human nature in particular--who make the most careful study ofman as he is, in themselves and in all men, the basis of theirinnovation, the beginning of their advancement to the ideal or divine. We have them; and they, too, they also come to us, with that oldgarland of glory on their brows, with that same 'crown' of victory, which the world has given from of old to those who have taken heraffairs to be their business. 

That the historical evidence which lies on the surface of an age, likethat age from which our modern philosophy proceeds, is of a kind torequire, for its unravelling, a different species of criticism fromthat which suffices for the historical evidence which our own timesand institutions produce, is a fact which would hardly seem to requireany illustration in the present state of our historical knowledge, inthe present state of our knowledge in regard to the history of thisage in particular; when not the professed scholar only, but everyreader, knows what age in the constitutional history of England, atleast, that age was; when we have here, not the erudite historianonly, with his rich harvests for the scholar, that are _caviare_ tothe multitude, but the Poets of history also, wresting from dull proseand scholasticism its usurped domains, and giving back to the peoplestheir own, to tell us what age this was. The inner history of thistime is indeed still wanting to us; and the reason is, that we havenot yet applied to the reading of its principal documents that key oftimes which our contemporary historians have already put into ourhands--that key which, we are told on good authority, is, in certaincases, indispensable to the true interpretation. 

That the direct contemporary testimony on which history depends is, inthis case, vitiated, tainted at its source, and through all itsdetails--that the documents are all of them, on the face of them, 'suspicious, ' and not fit to be received as historical evidencewithout the severest scrutiny and re-examination--this is the factwhich remains to be taken into the account here. For this is a case inwhich the witnesses come into court, making signs, seeking with mutegesticulation to attract our attention, pointing significantly to thedifficulties of the position, asking to be cross-examined, solicitinga second cogitation on what they say, telling us that they mortallyhate obscurity, and would avoid it if they could; intimating that iftheir testimony should be re-examined in a higher court, and when theStar Chamber and the Court of Ecclesiastical Commission are no longerin session, it might perhaps be found to be susceptible of a differentreading. This is a case in which the party convicted comes in with hisfinger on his lips, and an appeal to another tribunal, to another_age_. 

We all know what age in the history of the immemorial liberties anddignities of a race--what age in the history of its recoveredliberties, rescued from oppression and recognised and confirmed bystatute, this was. We know it was an age in which the decisions of theBench were prescribed to it by a power that had 'the laws of Englandat its commandment, ' that it was an age in which Parliament, and thepress, and the pulpit, were gagged, and in which that same justice hadcharge, diligent charge 'of amusements also, and of those who onlyplayed at working. ' That this was a time when the Play Houseitself, --in that same year, too, in which these philosophical playsbegan first to attract attention, and again and again, was warned offby express ordinances from the whole ground of 'the forbiddenquestions. ' We know that this was an age in which not the books of thelearned only were subjected to 'the press and torture which expulsed'from them all those 'particulars that point to action'--action, atleast, in which the common-weal of men is most concerned; that it wasa time when the private manuscript was subjected to that samecensorship and question, and corrected with those same instruments andengines, which made then a regular part of the machinery of the press;when the most secret cabinet of the Statesman and the Man of Lettersmust be kept in order for that revision, when his most confidentialcorrespondence, his private note-book and diary must be composed underthese restrictions; when in the church, not the pulpit only, but thesecrets of the study, were explored for proofs of opposition to thepower then predominant; when the private desk and drawers of the poorobscure country clergyman were ransacked, and his half-formed studiesof sermons, his rude sketches and hypothetical notes of sermons yet tobe--which might or might not be--put down for private purposesperhaps, and never intended to be preached--were produced byGovernment as an excuse for subjecting him to indignities andcruelties to which those practised upon the Duke of Kent and the Dukeof Gloster, in the play, formed no parallel. 

To the genius of a race in whose mature development speculation andaction were for the first time systematically united, in theintensities of that great historical impersonation which signalisesits first entrance upon the stage of human affairs, stimulated intopreternatural activity by that very opposition which would have shutit out from its legitimate fields, and shut it up within thoseimpossible, insufferable limits that the will of the one manprescribed to it then, --to that many-sided genius, bent on playingwell its part even under those conditions, all the more determined onit by that very opposition--kept in mind of its manliness all the timeby that all comprehending prohibition on manhood, that took charge ofevery act--irritated all the time into a protesting human dignity bythe perpetual meannesses prescribed to it, instructed in the doctrineof the human nature and its nobility in the school of that sovereigntywhich was keeping such a costly 'crib' here then; 'Let a beast be lordof beasts, ' says Hamlet, 'and your crib shall stand at the king'smess;' 'Would you have me false to _my nature_? says another, '_rather_ say I _play_ the _man_ I am'; to that so conscious man, playing his part under these hard conditions, on a stage so high;knowing all the time what theatre that was he played it in, how'_far_' those long-drawn aisles extended; what 'far-off' crowding agesfilled them, watching his slightest movements; who knew that he wasacting 'even in the eyes of all posterity that wear this world out tothe ending doom'; to such a one studying out his part beforehand undersuch conditions, it was not one disguise only, it was not one secretliterary instrumentality only, that sufficed for the plot of it. Thattoy stage which he seized and converted so effectually to his ends, with all its masks did not suffice for the exigencies of thisspeaker's speech, 'who came prepared to speak well, ' and 'to give tohis speech a grace by action. '

Under these circumstances, the art of letter-writing presented itselfto this invention, as a means of accomplishing objects to which otherforms of writing did not admit then of being so readily adapted. Itoffered itself to this invention as a means of conducting certainplots, which inasmuch as they had the weal of men for their object, were necessarily conducted with secresy then. The whole play of thatdramatic genius which shaped our great dramatic poems, came out, _not_on the stage, but in these 'plots' in which the weal of the unborngenerations of men was the end; those plots for the relief of man'sestate which had to be plotted, like murders and highway robberies, then, by bandits that had watch-words, and 'badges' and signals andprivate names, and a secret slang of their own. 

The minds that conducted this enterprise under these conditions, wereminds conscious of powers equal, at least, to those of the Greeks, andwho thought they had as good a right to invent new methods of literarycommunication, or to convert old ones to new uses as the Greeks had intheir day. 

The speaker for this school was one who could not see why it was notjust as lawful for the moderns to 'invent new measures in verses, ' atleast, as in 'dances, ' and why it was not just as competent for him tocompose 'supposititious' letters for _his_ purposes, as it was forThucydides to compose speeches for _his_; and though eloquence was, inthis case, for the most part, dispensed with, these little every-dayprosaic unassuming, apparently miscellaneous, scraps of life andbusiness, shewing it up piece-meal as it was in passage, and just asit happened in which, of course, no one would think of looking for acomprehensive design, became, in the hands of this artist, aninvention quite as effective as the oratory of the ancient. 

The letters which came out on the trial of Essex, in the name of SirAntony Bacon, but in which the hand of Mr. Francis Bacon appearedwithout much attempt at disguise, were not the only documents of thatkind for which the name of the elder brother, with his more retiringand less 'dangerous' turn of mind, appeared to be, on the whole, theleast objectionable. An extensive correspondence, which will tend tothrow some light on the contemporary aspect of things when it isopened, was conducted in that gentleman's name, about those days. 

But much more illustrious persons, who were forced by the genius ofthis dramatist into his plots, were induced to lend their names andsanction to these little unobtrusive performances of his, whenoccasion served. This was a gentleman who was in the habit of writingletters and arranging plots, for quite the most distinguishedpersonages of his time. In fact, his powers were greatly in requestfor that purpose. For so far as the question of mere ability wasconcerned, it was found upon experiment, that there was nothing hestopped at. Under a sharp pressure, and when the necessary question ofthe Play required it, and nothing else would serve, it was found thathe could compose 'a sonnet' as well as a state paper, or a decision, or a philosophical treatise. He wrote a sonnet for Essex, addressed toQueen Elizabeth, on one very important occasion. If it was not anybetter than those attempts at lyrical expression in another departmentof song, which he has produced as a specimen of his poetical abilitiesin general, it is not strange that Queen Elizabeth, who was a judge ofpoetry, should find herself able to resist the blandishments of thateffusion. But it was not the royal favourite only, it was not Essexand Buckingham only, who were glad to avail themselves of these sosingular gifts, devoted to their use by one who was understood to haveno other object in living, but to promote their ends, --one whose vastphilosophic aims, --aims already propounded in all their extent andgrandeur, propounded from the first, as the ends to which the wholescheme of his life was to be--artistically--with the strong hand ofthat mighty artist, through all its detail subordinated, were supposedto be merged, lost sight of, forgotten in an irrepressible enthusiasmof devotion to the wishes of the person who happened, at the time, tobe the sovereign's favourite; one whose great torch of genius andlearning was lighted, as it was understood, --lighted and fed, to lightthem to their desires. Elizabeth herself, unwilling as she was to addany thing to the powers with which nature had crowned this man, instructed by her instinct, that 'such men were dangerous, ' waswilling, notwithstanding, to employ his peculiar gifts in services ofthis nature; and so was her successor. And the historical fact is, that an extraordinary amount of business of one kind and another, passed in consequence through this gentleman's hands in both thesereigns, and perhaps no one was ever better qualified by constitutionalendowments, and by a predominant tendency to what he calls technically'active good, ' for the dispatch of business in which large and distantresults were comprehended. And if in managing plots for theseillustrious personages, he conducted them always with stedfastreference to his ulterior aims, --if, in writing letters for them, hewrote them always with the under-tones of his own part, --of his ownimmortal part that was to survive 'when tyrants' crests and tombs ofbrass were spent' running through them--if, in composing state papersand concocting legal advice, and legal decisions, he contrived toinsert in them an inner meaning, and to point to the secret historywhich contained their solution, who that knows _what_ those timeswere, who that knows to what divine ends this man's life wasdedicated, shall undertake to blame him for it. 

All these papers were written with an eye to publication; thay werewritten for the future, but they were written in that same secretmethod, in that same 'cipher' which he has to stop to describe beforehe can introduce the subject of 'the principal and supreme sciences, 'with the distinct assurance that as 'matters stand then, it is an artof great use, ' though some may think he introduces it with its kindredarts, in that place, for the sake of making out a muster-roll of thesciences, and to _little_ other purpose, and that trivial as these mayseem in such a connexion, 'to those who have spent their labours andstudies in them, they seem great matters, ' appealing to 'those who areskilful in them' to say whether he has not given, in what he has saidof them, 'though in few words, ' a proof of his proficiency. This wasthe method of writing in which not the principal and supreme sciencesonly, but every thing that was fit to be written at all had need to bewritten then. 

'Ciphers are commonly in letters, but may be in words. ' Both thesekinds of ciphers were employed in the writings of this school. Thereading of that which is '_in letters_, ' the one in which letters aresecretly employed as 'symbols' of esoteric philosophic subtleties, isreserved for those who have found their way into the esoteric chambersof this learning. It is reserved for those who have read the 'Book ofSports and Riddles, ' which this school published, and who happen tohave it with them when it happens to be called for; it is reserved forthose who have circumvented Hamlet, and tracked _him_ to his lastlurking place, and plucked out the heart of his mystery; for those whohave been in Prospero's Island, and 'untied his spell. ' This pointgained, --the secret of the cipher '_in letters_, '--the secret of 'thesymbols, ' and other 'devices' and 'conceits' which were employed inthis school as a medium of secret philosophic correspondence, thecharacters in which these men struck through the works they could notown then, the grand colossal symbol of the school, its symbol ofuniversality, large as the world, enduring as the ages of the humankind, and with it--_in it_, their own particular 'marks' and privatesignatures, --this mastered, --with the secret of _this_ in our hands, the cipher '_in words_' presents no difficulties, When we come to readthe philosophical papers of this great firm in letters, with the aidof that discovery, we shall know what one of the partners of it means, when he says, that on 'account of the rawness and unskilfulness of thehands through which they pass, the greatest matters are sometimescarried in the weakest ciphers. '

It was easy, for instance, in defining the position of the favouritein the Court of Queen Elizabeth, in recommending a civil rather than amilitary greatness as the one least likely to provoke the animosityand suspicion of government under those conditions, in recommendingthat so far from taking umbrage at the advancement of a rival--thepolicy of the position prescribed, the deliberate putting forward andsustaining of another favourite to avert the jealousy and fatalsuspicion with which, under such conditions, the government regardsits favourite, when popularity and the qualities of a militarychieftain are combined in him; it was easy in marking out those grandpoints in the conditions of the chief courtiers' policy at that time, to glance at the position of other men in that same court, seeking forpower under those same conditions--men whose position, inasmuch as theimmediate welfare of society and the destinies of mankind in futureages were concerned in it, was infinitely more important than that ofthe person whose affairs were agitated on the surface of the letter. 

It was easy, too, in setting forth the conflicting claims of the 'NewCompany and the Old' to the monopoly of the manufacture and dying ofwoollens, for instance, to glance at the New Company and the Old whoseclaims to the monopoly of another public interest, not less important, were coming forward for adjustment just about that time, and urgingtheir respective rights upon the attention of the chief men in thenation. 

Or in the discussion of a plan for reforming the king's household, andfor reducing its wanton waste and extravagance--in exhibiting thedetail of a plan for relieving the embarrassments of the palace justthen, which, with the aid of the favourite and his friends, and_their_ measures for relief, were fast urging on the revolution--itwas easy to indicate a more extensive reform; it was impossible toavoid a glance, in passing, at the pitifulness of the position of theman who held all men in awe and bondage then; it was impossible toavoid a touch of that same pen which writes elsewhere, 'Beggar andMadman, ' too, so freely, --consoling _the Monarch_ with the suggestionthat _Essex_ was also greatly in debt at a time when he was muchsought after and caressed, and instancing the case of other courtierswho had been in the same position, and yet contrived to hold theirheads up. 

Under the easy artistic disguise of courtly rivalries and opposingambitions--under cover, it might be, of an outrageous personal mutualhostility--it was easy for public men belonging to the same side inpolitics, who were obliged to conduct, not only the business of thestate, but their own private affairs, and to protect their own mostsacred interests under such conditions, --it was easy for politicianstrained in such a school, by the skilful use of such artifices, toplay into each other's hands, and to attain ends which in open leaguethey would have been sure to lose; to avert evils, it might be, whichit would have been vain and fatal for those most concerned in themopenly to resist. To give to a courtier seeking advancement, withcertain ulterior aims always in view, the character of a speculator, ascholastic dreamer, unable for practice, unfit to be trusted withstate affairs, was not, after all, however pointedly it might becomplained of at the time, so fatal a blow as it would have been todirect attention, already sufficiently on the alert, to the remarkablepractical gifts with which this same speculator happened, as we allknow, to be also endowed. This courtier's chief enemy, if he had beenin his great rival's secrets, or if he had reflected at all, mighthave done him a worse turn than that. The hostilities of that time areno more to be taken on trust than its friendships, and the exaggeratedexpressions of them, --the over-doing sometimes points to anothermeaning. 

While indicating the legal method of proceeding in conducting the showof a trial, to which 'the man whose fame did indeed fold in the orb o'the world' was to be subjected--a trial in which the decision wasknown beforehand--'though, ' says our Poet--

 'Though well, we may not pass upon _his life_, Without _the form of justice_;'--

it was easy for the mean, sycophantic, truckling tool of a Stuart--forthe tool of a Stuart's favourite--to insert in such a paper, if notprivate articles, private readings of passages, interlinings, pointingto a history in that case which has not yet transpired; it was easyfor such a one to do it, when the partner of his treasons would havehad no chance to criticise his case, or meddle with it. 

In this collection of the apparently miscellaneous remains of ourgreat philosopher, there are included many important state papers, andmuch authentic correspondence with the chief personages and actors ofthat age, which performed their part at the time as letters and statepapers, though they were every one of them written with an innerreference to the position of the writer, and intended to be unfoldedeventually with the key of that position. But along with thisauthentic historical matter, cunningly intermingled with it, much thatis '_supposititious_, ' to borrow a term which this writer foundparticularly to his purpose--supposititious in the same sense in whichthe speeches of Thucydides and those of his imitators aresuppositious--is also introduced. There is a great deal of fictitiouscorrespondence here, designed to eke out that view of this author'slife and times which the authentic letters left unfinished, and whichhe was anxious, for certain reasons, to transmit to posterity, --whichhe was forbidden to transmit in a more direct manner. There is a gooddeal of miscellaneous letter-writing here, and there will be foundwhole series of letters, in which the correspondence is sustained onboth sides in a tolerably lively manner, by this Master of Arts; butunder a very meagre dramatic cover in this case, designedly thin, never meant to serve as a cover with 'men of understanding. ' Readwhich side of the correspondence you will in these cases, 'here is hisdry hand up and down. '

These fictitious supposititious letters are written in his own name, as often as in another's; for of all the impersonations, ancient andmodern, historical and poetic, which the impersonated genius of themodern arts had to borrow to speak and act his part in, there is no_such_ mask, no so deep, thick-woven, impenetrable disguise, as thathistorical figure to which his own name and person is attached;--theman whom the Tudor and the Stuart admitted to their secrets, --the manwhom the Tudor tolerated, whom the Stuart delighted to honor. In hisrules of policy, he has left us the most careful directions for theinterpretations of the lives of men whose 'impediments' are such, andwhose '_natures_ and _ends_' are so 'differing and dissonant from thegeneral state of the times in which they live, ' that it is necessaryfor them to avoid 'disclosing themselves, ' 'to be _in the wholecourse_ of their lives _close, retired_, reserved, as we see inTiberius, _who was never seen at a play_, ' men who are compelled, asit were, 'to act their lives as in a theatre. ' 'The _soundestdisclosing_, ' he says, 'and _expounding_ of MEN is by their NATURES_and_ ENDS. The _weaker_ sort of men are best interpreted by their_natures_, the _wisest_ by their _ends_. ' 'Princes are best_interpreted_ by their _natures_, private persons by their _ends_, because princes being at the top of human desires, _they_ have, forthe most part, no particular ends _whereto they aspire, by distancefrom which_ a man _might take measure and scale of the rest of theiractions and desires_' '_Distance_ from which, '--that is the key forthe interpretation of the lives of private persons of certain unusualendowments, who propound to themselves under such conditions 'good andreasonable ends, and such as are within _their_ power to attain. ' Asto the worthiness of these ends, we have some acquaintance with themalready in our own experience. The great leaders of the new movementswhich make the modern ages--the discoverers of its science ofsciences, the inventors of its art of arts, found themselves in anenemy's camp, and the policy of war was the only means by which theycould preserve and transmit to us the benefits we have alreadyreceived at their hands, --the benefits we have yet to receive fromthem. The story of this Interpreter is sent down to us, not byaccident, but by his own design. But it is sent down to us _with_ theworks in which the nobility of his nature is all laid open, --in whichthe end of his ends is constantly declared, and constantlypursued, --it is sent down to us along with the works in which his endsare _accomplished_, to the times that have found in their experience_what_ they were. He did not think it too much to ask of agesexperimentally acquainted with the virtue of the aims for which hemade these sacrifices, --aims which he constantly propounded as the endof his large activity, to note the 'dissonance' between that lifewhich the surface of these documents exhibits, --between that historicform, too, which the surface of that time's history exhibits, --and thenature which is revealed in this life-act, --the soul, the never-shakensoul of this proceeding. 

 'The god of soldiers, With the consent of _supreme Jove_, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou may'st prove _The shame_ UNVULNERABLE, and stick i' the war Like a _great sea-mark_, standing every flaw, And saving those that _eye thee_. '

'I would not, as I often hear dead men spoken of, that men should sayof _me_, he _judged_, and _lived_ so and so; I knew him better thanany. Now, as much as decency permits, I _here_ discover myinclinations and affections. If any _observe_, he will find that Ihave either told, or _designed_ to tell all. What I cannot speak, Ipoint out with my finger. ' 'There was never greater circumspection and_military_ prudence than is sometimes seen among us' ['Naturalists']. '_Can it be_ that men are afraid to lose themselves by the way, thatthey reserve themselves to the end of the game?'

'I mortally hate to be mistaken by those who happen to come across my_name_. He that does all things for honor and glory, what can _he_think to gain by showing himself to the world in _a mask_, and byconcealing _his true being_ from the people? If you are a coward, andmen commend you for your valour, is it of you that they speak? Theytake you for another. Archelaus, king of Macedon, walking along thestreet, somebody threw water on his head, which they who were with himsaid he ought to punish: "Ay, _but_, " said the other, "he did notthrow the water upon _me_, but upon _him_ whom he took me to be. "_Socrates_ being told by the people, that people spoke ill of him, "Not at all, " said he; "there is nothing _in me_ of what they say. _I_am content to be less commended, provided I am better known. I may bereputed a wise man, in _such a sort of wisdom_ as I take to befolly. "'--['_The French Interpreter_. ']

This is the man who never in all his life came into the theatre, content to work behind the scenes, scientifically enlightened as tothe true ends of living, and the means of attaining those ends, propounding deliberately his _duty_ as a man, his duty to his kind, his obedience to the law of his higher nature, as his predominantend, --but not to the harm or oppression of his particular and privatenature, but to its most felicitous conservation and advancement, --atlarge in its new Epicurean emancipations, rejoicing in its greatfruition, happy in its untiring activities, triumphing over allimpediments, celebrating in secret lyrics, its immortal triumphs over'death and all oblivious enmity, ' and finding, 'in the consciousnessof good intentions, a more continual joy to nature than all theprovision that can be made for security and repose, '--not reconciledto the part he was compelled to play in his own time, --his fine, keensensibilities perpetually at war with it, --always balancing andreviewing the nice ethical questions it involved, and seeking alwaysthe 'nobler' solution. 'The one part have I suffered, the other will Ido, '--demonstrating the possibility of making, even under suchconditions, a 'life sublime. '

 'All places that the eye of heaven visits Are, to a wise man, ports and happy havens. '

There is no room here for details; but this is the account of this soirreconcileable difference between the Man of these Works and the Manin the Mask, in which he triumphantly achieved them;--this is theaccount, in the general, which will be found to be, uponinvestigation, the true one. And the more the subject is studied, evenby the light which this work brings to bear upon it, the more thetruth of this statement will become apparent. 

But though the details are, by the limits of this volume, excludedhere, it cannot well close, without one word as to _the points_ inthis part of the evidence, which have made the deepest impression onus. 

No man suffered death, or mutilation, or torture, or outrage of anykind, under the two tyrannies of this age of learning, that it waspossible for this scientific propounder of the law of human_kind_-ness to avert and protect him from--this anticipator andpropounder of a _human_ civilization. He was far in advance of ourtimes in his criticism of the barbarisms which the rudest ages ofsocial experiment have transmitted to us. He could not tread upon abeetle, without feeling through all that exquisite organization whichwas great nature's gift to her Interpreter in chief, great nature'spang. To anticipate the sovereign's wishes, seeking to divert themfirst 'with a merry conceit' perhaps; for, so light as that were, themotives on which _such_ consequences might depend then--to forestallthe inevitable decision was to arm himself with the powers he needed. The men who were protected and relieved by that secret combinationagainst tyranny, which required, as the first condition of itsexistence, that its chiefs should occupy places of trust andauthority, ought to come out of their graves to testify against thecalumnies that blast our modern learning, and the virtue--the virtueof it, at its source. Does any one think that a universal _slavery_could be fastened on the inhabitants of this island, when wit andmanliness are at their height here, without so much as the project ofan 'underground railway' being suggested for the relief of itsvictims? 'I will seek him and _privily_ relieve him. Go _you_ and_maintain talk with the Duke_ that my charity be not of him_perceived_. If he ask for _me_, I am ill and gone to bed. Go to; sayyou nothing. There is division between the Dukes--[between theDukes]--and a worse matter than that. I have received a letter thisnight. It is _dangerous to be spoken_. I have _locked the letter_ inmy _closet_. There is _part_ of _a power already_ FOOTED. We mustincline to THE KING. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, theking, _my old master_, must be relieved. ' _That_ when all is done willbe found to contain some hints as to the manner in which 'charities'of this kind have need to be managed, under a government armed withpowers so indefinable. 

 _Cassius_. And let us awear our resolution. 

 _Brutus_. No, not an oath: If not _the face_ of _men, The sufferance_ of _our souls_, THE TIMES ABUSE, -- If _these_ be motives weak, _break off betimes_, And _every man_ hence to his _idle_ bed; _So_ let high-sighted tyranny _range on_, Till _each man_ drop _by_ lottery. But if THESE, -- _As I am sure they do_, --bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women, _then, countrymen_, What need we any spur but OUR OWN CAUSE To prick us to redress? what other bond Than _secret Romans_, that have spoken the word, And will not falter. .. . Swear priests and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The _even_ virtue of our enterprise, _Nor_ the insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that, or _our cause_, or our _performance_, Did need an oath. '

[Doctrine of the '_secret Romans_. ']

As to the rest, it was this man--this man of a scientific 'prudence'with the abhorrence of change, which is the instinct of the largerwhole, confirmed by a scientific forethought--it was this man who gaveat last _the signal_ for change; not for war. 'Proceed by process' washis word. Constitutional remedies for the evils which appeared to haveattained at last the unendurable point, were the remedies which heproposed--this was the _move_ which he was willing, for his part, to_initiate_. --'We are not, perhaps, at the last gasp. I think I seeways to save us. '--The proceedings of the Parliament which condemnedhim were studiously arranged beforehand by himself, --he wrote theprogramme of it, and the part he undertook to perform in it was thegreatest in history. [''Tis the indiligent reader that loses mysubject, not I, ' says the 'foreign interpreter' of this style ofwriting. 'There will always be found some word or other, _in acorner_, though it lie very close. ' That is the rule for the readingof the evidence in this case. The word is there, though _it lies veryclose_, as it had need to, to be available. ]

It was as a baffled, disgraced statesman, that he found leisure tocomplete and put in final order for posterity, those noble works, through which we have already learned to love and honour him, in theface of this calumny. It was as a disgraced and baffled statesman andcourtier--all lurking jealousies and suspicions at last put torest--all possibility of a political future precluded; but as a_courtier_ still hanging on the king and on the power that controlledthe king, for _life_ and _liberty_; and careful still not to assertany independence of those same ends, which had always been taken to behis _ends_; it was in this character that he brought out at last theNovum Organum; it was in this character that he ventured to collectand republish his avowed philosophical works; it was in this charactertoo that he ventured at last to produce that little piece of historywhich comes down to us loosely appended to these philosophicalwritings. A history of the Second Conquest of the Children of Alfred, a Conquest which they resisted, in heroic wars, but vainly, for wantof leaders and organization--overborne by the genius of a militarychief whom this historian compares in king-craft with hiscontemporaries Ferdinand of Spain, and Louis XI. It is a history whichwas dedicated to Charles I. , which was corrected in the manuscript byJames I. , at the request of the author; and he owed to that monarch'sapproval of it, permission to come to town for the purpose ofsuperintending its publication. It is the History of _the Founding_ ofthe Tudor Dynasty: prepared, --as were the rest of these works, --underthe patronage of an insolent favourite with whom it was necessary'entirely to drop the character that carried with it the least show of_truth or gracefulness_, ' and under the patronage of a monarch withwhom it was not sufficient 'for persons of superior gifts andendowments to _act_ the deformity of obsequiousness, unless theyreally changed themselves and became abject and contemptible in theirpersons. '

 '_I_ am in this (_Volumnia_) Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles, And you will rather show our general lowts, How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon them, For the _inheritance_ of their loves, and _safeguard_, Of what that want might ruin. 

 Away my _disposition_!

 When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, LIKE HIMSELF. 

 'Yet country-men, _O yet_, hold up your heads. I will proclaim my name about the field. I am the son of Marcus Cato, HO! A foe TO TYRANTS, and my country's friend. 

 'And _I_ am Brutus, Marcus Brutus _I_, Brutus, MY COUNTRY'S FRIEND, know ME for BRUTUS. '

 FINIS.