This is the third (March) number of the four that were originally published. The facsimile tried to reproduce the original periodical as
closely as possible not only in its textual elements, but in its bibliographical features as
well. The edition was issued in five parts: four close physical facsimiles of each of the four
numbers of the original periodical (in paper covers as the original numbers), plus WMR's important
The Subscribers to this Work are respectfully informed
that the future Numbers
will appear on the last day of the
Month for which they are dated. Also, that a
supplementary,
or large-sized Etching will occasionally be given (as with the
present
Number.)
The purpose of the following Essay is to demonstrate the exist-
ence
of a very important error in the hitherto universally adopted
interpretation of the
character of Macbeth. We shall prove that
a design of illegitimately obtaining the crown of Scotland had been
conceived by Macbeth, and that it had been communicated by him to
his wife, prior to his first meeting with the witches, who are commonly
supposed to have suggested that design.
Most persons when they commence the study of the great
Shaksperian dramas,
already entertain concerning them a set of
traditional notions, generally originated by
the representations, or
misrepresentations, of the theatre, afterwards to become
strength-
ened or confirmed by desultory reading and corroborative criticism.
With
this class of persons it was our misfortune to rank,
when we first entered upon the study of “
As long as we continued under this idea, the impression produced
upon us by
“
Let us proceed to examine the validity of a position, which, * It is proper to state that this article was written, and seen, exactly as it
at
present stands, by several literary friends of the writer, a considerable time
before
the appearance, in the “
“
of the
particular view was thus anticipated, nearly all the most forcible argu-
ments for
maintaining it were omitted; and the subject, mixed up, as it was, with
lengthy
disquisitions upon very minor topics of Shaksperian acting, &c. made
no very
general impression at the time.
The inferences which we believe to be deducible from the first
scene can be
profitably employed only in conjunction with those to
be discovered in the third. Our
analysis must, therefore, be entered
upon by an attempt to ascertain the true character
of the impres-
sions which it was the desire of Shakspere to convey by the second.
This scene is almost exclusively occupied with the narrations of
the
“bleeding Soldier,
” and of Rosse. These narrations are
con-
structed with the express purpose of vividly setting forth the per-
sonal
valour of Duncan's generals, “Macbeth and Banquo.
” Let
us consider what
is the maximum worth which the words of
Shakspere will, at this period
of the play, allow us to attribute to
the moral character of the hero:—a point, let it
be observed,
of first-rate importance to the present argument. We find Mac-
beth, in
this scene, designated by various epithets, all of which,
either
directly or indirectly, arise from feelings of admiration created
by his courageous
conduct in the war in which he is supposed
to have been engaged. “Brave
”
and “Noble Macbeth,
” “Bel-
”
“
lona's Bridegroom,Valiant Cousin,
” and “Worthy Gentleman,
”
are the general
titles by which he is here spoken of; but none of
them afford any positive clue whatever
to his moral character.
Nor is any such clue supplied by the scenes in
which he is pre-
sently received by the messengers of Duncan, and
afterwards
received and lauded by Duncan himself. Macbeth's moral cha-
racter, up to
the development of his criminal hopes, remains
strictly negative.
Hence it is difficult to fathom the meaning of
those critics, (A. Schlegel at their
head), who have over and over
again made the ruin of Macbeth's so many noble qualities
”*
subject of their comment.
In the third scene we have the meeting of the witches, the
announcement of whose
intention to re-assemble upon the heath,
there to meet with Macbeth, forms the certainly most obvious,
though
not perhaps, altogether the most important, aim of the short
scene by which the tragedy
is opened. An enquiry of much
interest here suggests itself. Did Shakspere intend that
in his
tragedy of “
*
We think that he has retained it, and for the following
reasons: Whenever
Shakspere has elsewhere embodied supersti-
tions, he has treated them as direct and
unalterable facts of human
nature; and this he has done because he was
too profound
a philosopher to be capable of regarding genuine superstition as
the
product of random spectra of the fancy, having absolute
darkness for the prime condition
of their being, instead of
eeing in it rather the zodiacal light of truth, the
concomitant
of the uprising, and of the setting of the truth, and a partaker
in its
essence. Again, Shakspere has in this very play devoted
a considerable space to the
purpose of suggesting the self-same
trait of character now under discussion, and this he
appears to
have done with the express intent of guarding against a mistake,
the
probability of the occurrence of which he foresaw, but which,
for reasons connected with
the construction of the play, he could
not hope otherwise to obviate.
We allude to the introductory portion of the present scene. One
sister, we
learn, has just returned from killing swine; another
breathes forth
vengeance against a sailor, on account of the un-
charitable act of his wife; but
“his bark
” though itcannot be lost,
may be “tempest tossed.
” The last words are scarcely
uttered
before the confabulation is interrupted by the approach of Macbeth,
to whom
they have as yet made no direct allusion whatever, through-
out the whole of this
opening passage, consisting in all of some five
and twenty lines. Now this were a
digression which would be a
complete anomaly, having place, as it is supposed to have,
at this
early stage of one of the most consummate of the tragedies of Shak-
spere.
We may be sure, therefore, that it is the chief object of
these lines to impress the
reader beforehand with an idea that, in
the mind of Macbeth, there already exist sure
foundations for that
great superstructure of evil, to the erection of which, the
“meta-
physical aid” of the weird sisters is now to be offered. An
opinion
which is further supported by the reproaches of Hecate, who,
afterwards,
referring to what occurs in this scene, exclaims,
witches had spurred him on to their
acquirement.
The fact that in the old chronicle, from which the plot of the
play is taken,
the machinations of the witches are not assumed to
be un-gratuitous,
cannot be employed as an argument against our
position. In history the sisters figure in
the capacity of prophets
merely. There we have no previous announcement of their inten-
tion
“to meet with Macbeth.
” But in Shakspere they are invested
with all
other of their superstitional attributes, in order that they
may become the evil
instruments of holy vengeance upon evil; of
that most terrible of vengeance which
punishes sin, after it has ex-
ceeded certain bounds, by deepening it.
Proceeding now with our analysis, upon the entrance of Macbeth
and Banquo, the
witches wind up their hurried charm. They are
first perceived by Banquo. To his
questions the sisters refuse to
reply; but, at the command of Macbeth, they immediately
speak,
and forthwith utter the prophecy which seals the fate of Duncan.
Now, assuming the truth of our view, what would be the natural
behaviour of
Macbeth upon coming into sudden contact with beings
who appear to hold intelligence of
his most secret thoughts; and
upon hearing those thoughts, as it were, spoken aloud in
the presence
of a third party? His behaviour would be precisely that which
is
implied by the question of Banquo.
start and seem to fear
If, on the other hand, our view is not true, why, seeing that
their
characters are in the abstract so much alike, why does the present
conduct of
Macbeth differ from that of Banquo, when the witches
direct their prophecies to him? Why
has Shakspere altered the
narrative of Holinshed, without the prospect of gaining any
advan-
tage commensurate to the licence taken in making that alteration?
These are
the words of the old chronicle: “This (the recontre
” Now it was
the
with the witches) was reputed
at the first but some vain fantastical
illusion by Macbeth and Banquo, insomuch that
Banquo would call
Macbeth in jest king of Scotland; and Macbeth again would
call
him in jest likewise the father of many kings.
invariable practice of Shakspere to give facts or traditions just as
he found
them, whenever the introduction of those facts or tra-
ditions was not totally
irreconcileable with the tone of his concep-
tion. How then (should we still receive the
notion which we are
now combating) are we to account for his anomalous practice
in
this particular case?
When the witches are about to vanish, Macbeth attempts to
delay their
departure, exclaiming,
and, to be king
Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whenceintelligence?”
“To be king stands not within the prospect of belief,
” No! it naturally stands much no more than
to be Cawdor.less within the
prospect of belief. Here the mind of Macbeth, having long
been
accustomed to the nurture of its “royal hope,
” conceives that it
is
uttering a very suitable hyperbole of comparison. Had that mind
been hitherto an
honest mind the word “Cawdor
” would have
occupied the place of
“king,
” “king
” that of “Cawdor.
”
Observe
too the general character of this speech: Although the coincidence
of the
principal prophecy with his own thoughts has so strong an
effect upon Macbeth as to
induce him to, at once, pronounce the
words of the sisters,
“intelligence;
” he nevertheless affects to treat
that prophecy as
completely secondary to the other in the strength
of its claims upon his consideration.
This is a piece of over-cautious
hypocrisy which is fully in keeping with the tenor of his conduct
throughout the
rest of the tragedy.
No sooner have the witches vanished than Banquo begins to
doubt whether there
had been “such things there as they did speak
” This is the natural
incredulity of a free mind so circum-
about.
stanced. On the other hand, Macbeth, whose manner,
since the
first announcement of the sisters, has been that of a man in a
reverie, makes no doubt whatever of the reality of their
appearance,
nor does he reply to the expressed scepticism of Banquo, but
abruptly
exclaims, “your children shall be kings.
” To this Banquo
answers,
“you shall be king.
” “And thane of Cawdor too: went
” continues Macbeth. Now, what, in either case, is the
it not
so?
condition of mind
which can have given rise to this part of the
dialogue? It is, we imagine, sufficiently
evident that the playful
words of Banquo were suggested to Shakspere by the narration
of
Holinshed; but how are we to account for those of Macbeth, other-
wise than by
supposing that the question of the crown is now
settled in his mind by the coincidence
of the principal prediction,
with the shapings of his own thoughts, and that he is at
this
moment occupied with the wholly unanticipated revelations,
touch-
ing the thaneship of Cawdor, and the future possession of the throne
by the
offspring of Banquo?
Now comes the fulfilment of the first prophecy. Mark the
words of these men,
upon receiving the announcement of Rosse:
“Banquo. What! can the devil speak truth?
Macbeth. The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me
In borrowed
robes?”
Mark how that reception is in either case precisely the reverse of
that given to
the prophecy itself. Here Banquo starts. But what
is here done for
Banquo, by the coincidence of the prophecy with
the truth, has been already done for
Macbeth, by the coincidence of
his thought with the prophecy. Accordingly, Macbeth is
calm
enough to play the hypocrite, when he must otherwise have experi-
enced
surprise far greater than that of Banquo, because he is much
more nearly concerned in
the source of it. So far indeed from being
overcome with astonishment, Macbeth still
continues to dwell upon
the prophecy, by which his peace of mind is afterwards constantly
disturbed,
Banquo's reply to this question has been one of the chief sources
of the
interpretation, the error of which we are now endeavouring to
expose. He says,
Now, these words have usually been considered to afford the clue to
the entire nature and extent of the supernatural influence brought
into play
upon the present tragedy; whereas, in truth, all that they
express is a natural
suspicion, called up in the mind of Banquo, by
Macbeth's remarkable deportment, that such is the character of the
influence which is at this moment being
exerted upon the soul of the
man to whom he therefore thinks proper to hint the warning
they
contain.
The soliloquy which immediately follows the above passage is
particularly
worthy of comment:
The early portion of this passage assuredly indicates that Macbeth
regards the
communications of the witches merely in the light of an
invitation to the carrying out
of a design pre-existent in his own
mind. He thinks that the spontaneous fulfilment of the chief
prophecy is in no way probable; the
consummation of the lesser
prophecy being held by him, but as an “earnest of
success
” to his
own efforts in consummating the greater. From the latter
portion
of this soliloquy we learn the real extent to which
“metaphysical
” is implicated in bringing about the crime of Duncan's
murder.
aid
It serves to assure Macbeth that that is the “nearest
way
” to the
attainment of his wishes;—a way to the suggestion of which he
now,
for the first time, “
” because the chances of its failure haveyields,
been
infinitely lessened by the “earnest of success
” which he has
just
received.
After the above soliloquy Macbeth breaks the long pause, implied
in Banquo's
words, “Look how our partner's rapt,
” by exclaiming,
Which is a very logical conclusion; but one at which he would long
ago have
arrived, had “soliciting
” meant “suggestion,
” as most
people suppose it to have done; or at least, under those circum-
stances, he would
have been satisfied with that conclusion, instead
of immediately afterwards changing
it, as we see that he has done,
when he adds,
With that the third scene closes; the parties engaged in it proceed-
ing forthwith
to the palace of Duncan at Fores.
Towards the conclusion of the fourth scene, Duncan names his
successor in the
realm of Scotland. After this Macbeth hastily
departs, to inform his wife of the king's
proposed visit to their
castle, at Inverness. The last words of Macbeth are the following,
These lines are equally remarkable for a tone of settled assurance
as to the
fulfilment of the speaker's royal hope, and for an entire
absence of any expression of
reliance upon the power of the witches,
—the hitherto supposed originators of that
hope,—in aiding its
consummation. It is particularly noticeable that Macbeth
should
make no reference whatever, not even in thought, (that is, in
soliloquy) to
any supernatural agency during the long period inter-
vening between the fulfilment of
the two prophecies. Is it probable
that this would have been the case had Shakspere
intended that
such an agency should be understood to have been the first motive
and
mainspring of that deed, which, with all its accompanying
struggles of conscience, he
has so minutely pictured to us as having
been, during that period, enacted? But besides
this negative argu-
ment, we have a positive one for his non-reliance upon their
pro-
mises in the fact that he attempts to outwit them by the murder of
Fleance even
after the fulfilment of the second prophecy.
The fifth scene opens with Lady Macbeth's perusal of her hus-
band's narration
of his interview with the witches. The order of
our investigation requires the
postponement of comment upon the
contents of this letter. We leave it for the present,
merely cau-
tioning the reader against taking up any hasty objections to a
very
important clause in the enunciation of our view by reminding
him that, contrary
to Shakspere's custom in ordinary cases, we are
made acquainted only with a portion of the missive in question.
Let us then proceed to consider the soliloquy
which immediately
follows the perusal of this letter:
It is vividly apparent that this passage indicates a knowledge of
the character
it depicts, which is far too intimate to allow of its
being other than a direct inference from facts connected with pre-
vious communications upon similar
topics between the speaker and
the writer: unless, indeed, we assume that in this
instance Shak-
spere has notably departed from his usual principles of
charac-
terization, in having invested Lady Macbeth with an amount of
philosophical
acuteness, and a faculty of deduction, much beyond
those pretended to by any other of
the female creations of the same
author.
The above passage is interrupted by the announcement of the
approach of Duncan.
Observe Lady Macbeth's behaviour upon
receiving it. She immediately determines upon what
is to be done,
and all without (are we to suppose?) in any way consulting, or
being
aware of, the wishes or inclinations of her husband! Observe
too, that neither does she appear to regard the witches' prophecies
as anything more than an
invitation, and holding forth of “meta-
” to the carrying out of an independent project. That
physical aid
this should be the case in
both instances vastly strengthens the
argument legitimately deducible from each.
At the conclusion of the passage which called for the last remark,
Macbeth,
after a long and eventful period of absence, let it be
recollected, enters to a wife
who, we will for a moment suppose,
is completely ignorant of the character of her
husband's recent
cogitations. These are the first words which pass between them,
Macbeth. My dearest love,L. Macbeth. And when goes hence?Macbeth. To-morrow, as he purposes.L. Macbeth. Oh! neverMacbeth. We will speak further.”
Are these words those which would naturally arise from the
situation at
present, by common consent, attributed to the speakerseach speaker is totally
ignorant of the sentiments pre-existent in the mind of the other.
Are
the words, “we will speak further,
” those which might in
nature
form the whole and sole reply made by a man to his wife's com-
pletely
unexpected anticipation of his own fearful purposes? If
not, if few or none of these
lines, thus interpreted, will satisfy the
reader's feeling for common truth, does not
the view which we have
adopted invest them with new light, and improved, or
perfected
meaning?
The next scene represents the arrival of Duncan at Inverness, and
contains
nothing which bears either way upon the point in question.
Proceeding, therefore, to the
seventh and last scene of the first act
we come to what we cannot but consider to be
proof positive of the
opinion under examination. We shall transcribe at length
the
portion of this scene containing that proof; having first reminded
the reader
that a few hours at most can have elapsed between the
arrival of Macbeth, and the period
at which the words, now to be
quoted, are uttered.
Lady Macbeth. Was the hope drunk,
Wherein you dressed yourself? Hath it slept since,
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time,Macbeth. Prithee, peace:Lady Macbeth. What beast was't then
That made you break this enterprise to me?
When you durst do it, then you were a man,
And to be more than what you were you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both.
had I so sworn
As you have done to this.”
With respect to the above lines, let us observe that, the words,
“nor
time nor place did then adhere,
” render it evident that they
hold reference to
something which passed before Duncan had sig-
nified his intention of visiting the
castle of Macbeth. Consequently
the words of Lady Macbeth can have no reference to the
previous
communication of any definite intention, on the part of her husband,
to
murder the king; because, not long before, she professes herself
aware that Macbeth's
nature is “too full of the milk of human kind-
” indeed, she has every reason to
ness to catch the nearest
way;
suppose that she herself has been the
means of breaking that enter-
prise to him, though, in truth, the
crime had already, as we have
seen, suggested itself to his thought, “whose
murder was as yet
”
fantastical.
Again the whole tenor of this passage shows that it refers to ver-
bal
communication between them. But no such communication can
have taken place since Macbeth's rencontre with the witches;
for,
besides that he is, immediately after that recontre, conducted to the
presence
of the king, who there signifies an intention of proceeding
directly to Macbeth's
castle, such a communication would have ren-
dered the contents of the letter to Lady
Macbeth completely super-
fluous. What then are we to conclude concerning these
problematical
lines? First begging the reader to bear in mind the tone of
sophistry
which has been observed by Schlegel to pervade, and which is
indeed
manifest throughout the persuasions of Lady Macbeth, we
answer, that she wilfully
confounds her husband's,—probably vague
and unplanned—“enterprise
” of
obtaining the crown, with that
“nearest way
” to which she now urges him;
but, at the same time,
she obscurely individualizes the separate purposes in the
words,
“and to be
”more than what you were, you would be so
much
more the man.
It is a fact which is highly interesting in itself, and one which
strongly
impeaches the candour of the majority of Shakspere's
commentators, that the impenetrable
obscurity which must have
pervaded the whole of this passage should never have been
made
the subject of remark. As far as we can remember, not a word has
been said upon
the matter in any one of the many superfluously
explanatory editions of our dramatist's
productions. Censures have
been repeatedly lavished upon minor cases of obscurity, none
upon
this. In the former case the fault has been felt to be Shakspere's,
language is unexceptional, and
the avowal of obscurity might
imply the possibility of misapprehension or stupidity upon
the part
of the avower.
Probably the only considerable obstacle likely to act against the
general
adoption of those views will be the doubt, whether so
important a feature of this
consummate tragedy can have been left
by Shakspere so obscurely expressed as to be
capable of remaining
totally unperceived during upwards of two centuries, within which
period the genius of a Coleridge and of a Schlegel has been applied
to its
interpretation. Should this objection be brought forward, we
reply, in the first place,
that the objector is ‘begging’ his question
in assuming that the feature under
examination has remained
totally unperceived. Coleridge by way of
comment upon these
words of Banquo,
writes thus: “The general idea is all that can be required of a
” Here Coleridge
denies
poet—not a
scholastic logical consistency in all the parts, so as to
meet metaphysical objectors.
* * * * * * * * How strictly true
to nature it is, that Banquo, and not Macbeth
himself, directs our
notice to the effects produced in Macbeth's mind, rendered temptible
by previous dalliance with ambitious thoughts.
the necessity of “logical consistency, so as to meet
metaphysical
” although he has, throughout his criticisms upon
Shaks-
objectors,
pere, endeavored, and nearly always with success, to prove the
existence of that consistency; and so strongly has he felt the want
of
it here, that he has, in order to satisfy himself, assumed that
“pre-
” whose existence it
has
vious dalliance with ambitious thoughts,
been our object to prove.
But, putting Coleridge's imperfect perception of the truth out of the
question,
surely nothing can be easier than to believe that for the
belief in
which we have so many precedents. How many beauties,
lost upon Dryden, were perceived by
Johnson; How many, hidden
to Johnson and his cotemporaries, have been brought to light
by
Schlegel and by Coleridge.
Resuming a consideration of the subject-matter suitable in painting
and
sculpture, it is necessary to repeat those premises, and to re-es-
tablish those
principles which were advanced or elicited in the first
number of this essay.
It was premised then that works of Fine Art affect the beholder
in the same
ratio as the natural prototypes of those works would
affect him; and
not in proportion to the difficulties overcome in the
artificial representation of those
prototypes. Not contending, mean-
while, that the picture painted by the hand of the
artist, and then
by the hand of nature on the eye of the beholder, is, in amount,
the
same as the picture painted there by nature alone; but disregarding,
as
irrelevant to this investigation, all concomitants of fine art wherein
they involve an ulterior impression as to the relative merits of the
work by the amount of its success, and, for a like reason,
disregard-
ing all emotions and impressions which are not the immediate
and
proximate result of an excitor influence of, or pertaining to, the
things artificial, as a bona fide equivalent of the things
natural.
Or the premises may be practically stated thus:—(1st.) When
one looks on a
certain painting or sculpture for the first time, the
first notion is that of a painting
or sculpture. (2nd.) In the next
place, while the objects depicted are revealing
themselves as real
objects, the notion of a painting or sculpture has elapsed, and, in
its
place, there are emotions, passions,| actions (moral or intellectual)
according
in sort and degree to the heart or mind-moving influence
of the objects represented.
(3rd.) Finally, there is a notion of a
painting or sculpture, and a judgment or
sentiment commensurate
with the estimated merits of the work.—The second statement
gives
the premised conditions under which Fine Art is about to be
treated: the 3rd
statement exemplifies a phase in the being of Fine
Art under which it is never to be
considered: and furthermore,
whilst the mental reflection last mentioned (the judgment
on the
work) is being made, it may occur that certain objects, most diffi-
cult of
artistic execution, had been most successfully handled: the
merits of introducing such
objects, in such a manner, are the merits
of those concomitants mentioned as equally
without the scope of
consideration.
Thus much for the premises—next to the re-establishment of
principles.
1st. The principle was elicited, that Fine Art should regard the
general
happiness of man, by addressing those of his attributes
which are peculiarly human, by exciting the activity of his rational
and benevolent powers;
and thereafter:—2nd, that the Subject in
Art should be drawn from objects which so
address and excite him;
and 3rd, as objects so exciting the mental activity may (in
propor-
tion to the mental capacity) excite it to any amount, and so possibly
in the
highest degree (the function of Fine Art being mental excite-
ment, and that of High Art being the highest mental
excitement) that
all objects so exciting mental activity and emotion in the
highest
degree, may afford subjects for High Art.
Having thus re-stated the premises and principles already
deduced, let us
proceed to enquire into the propriety of selecting
the Subject from the past or the
present time; which enquiry
resolves itself fundamentally into the analysis of objects
and
incidents experienced immediately by the senses, or acquired by
mental
education.
Here then we have to explore the specific difference between the
incidents and
objects of to-day, as exposed to our daily observation,
and the incidents and objects of
time past, as bequeathed to us by
history, poetry, or tradition.
In the first place, there is, no doubt, a considerable real
difference
between the things of to-day and those of times past: but as all
former
times, their incidents and objects differ amongst themselves,
this can hardly be the
cause of the specific difference sought for—a
difference between our share of things
past and things present.
This real, but not specific difference then, however admitted,
shall
not be considered here.
It is obvious, in the meanwhile, that all which we have of the
past is stamped
with an impress of mental assimilation: an impress
it has received from the mind of the
author who has garnered it up,
and disposed it in that form and order which ensure it
acceptance
with posterity. For let a writer of history be as matter of fact as
he
will, the very order and classification of events will save us the
trouble of confusion,
and render them graspable, and more capable
of assimilation, than is the raw material of
every-day experience.
In fact the work of mind is begun, the key of intelligence is
given,
and we have only to continue the process. Where the vehicle for
the
transmission of things past is poetry, then we have them
presented in that succession,
and with that modification of force,
a resilient plasticity, now advancing, now
recoiling, insinuating and
grappling, that ere this material and mental warfare is over,
we
find the facts thus transmitted are incorporated with our psychical
tale in his own way; and the merits of
the story itself, or the
person who tells it, or his way of telling, procures it a
lodgment in
the mind of the hearer, whence it is ever ready to start up and
claim
kindred with some external excitement.
Thus it is the luck of all things of the past to come down to us
with some
poetry about them; while from those of diurnal ex-
perience we must extract this poetry
ourselves: and although all
good men are, more or less, poets, they are passive or
recipient
poets; while the active or donative poet caters for them what they
fail to
collect. For let a poet walk through London, and he shall
see a succession of incidents,
suggesting some moral beauty by a
contrast of times with times, unfolding some principle
of nature,
developing some attribute of man, or pointing to some glory in The
Maker:
while the man who walked behind him saw nothing but
shops and pavement, and coats and
faces; neither did he hear the
aggregated turmoil of a city of nations, nor the noisy
exponents of
various desires, appetites and pursuits: each pulsing tremour of
the
atmosphere was not struck into it by a subtile ineffable some-
thing willed forcibly out
of a cranium: neither did he see the
driver of horses holding a rod of light in his eye
and feeling
his way, in a world he was rushing through, by the motion of
the end of
that rod:—he only saw the wheels in motion, and
heard the rattle on the stones; and yet
this man stopped twice at
a book shop to buy ‘a Tennyson,’ or a ‘Browning's
It was shown how bygone objects and incidents come down to us
invested in
peculiar attractions: this the poet knows and feels, and
the probabilities are that he
transferred the incidents of to-day, with
all their poetical and moral suggestions, to
the romantic long-ago,
partly from a feeling of prudence, and partly that he himself
was
under this spell of antiquity, How many a Troubadour, who
recited tales of king
Arthur, had his incidents furnished him by
the events of his own time! And thus it is
the many are attracted
to the poetry of things past, yet impervious to the poetry of
things
present. But this retrograde movement in the poet, painter, or
the result of necessity, is an
error in judgment or a culpable dis-
honesty. For why should he not acknowledge the
source of his
inspiration, that others may drink of the same spring with
himself;
and perhaps drink deeper and a clearer draught?—For the water is
unebbing
and exhaustless, and fills the more it is emptied: why
then should it be filtered
through his tank where he can teach men
to drink it at the fountain?
If, as every poet, every painter, every sculptor will acknow-
ledge, his best
and most original ideas are derived from his own
times: if his great lessonings to
piety, truth, charity, love, honor,
honesty, gallantry, generosity, courage, are derived
from the same
source; why transfer them to distant periods, and make them not
things of to-day? Why teach us to revere the saints of old, and
not
our own family-worshippers? Why to admire the lance-armed
knight, and not the
patience-armed hero of misfortune? Why to
draw a sword we do not wear to aid and
oppressed damsel, and not a
purse which we do wear to rescue an erring one? Why to
worship
a martyred St. Agatha, and not a sick woman attending the sick?
Why teach us
to honor an Aristides or a Regulus, and not one who
pays an equitable, though to him
ruinous, tax without a railing
accusation? And why not teach us to help what the laws
cannot
help?—Why teach us to hate a Nero or an Appius, and not an
underselling
oppressor of workmen and betrayer of women and
children? Why to love a Ladie in bower, and not a wife's fire-
side? Why paint or poetically depict the
horrible race of Ogres
and Giants, and not show Giant Despair dressed in that
modern
habit he walks the streets in? Why teach men what were great
and good deeds
in the old time, neglecting to show them any good
for themselves?—Till these questions
are answered absolutory to
the artist, it were unwise to propose the other question—Why
a
poet, painter or sculptor is not honored and loved as formerly?
“As formerly,”
says some avowed sceptic in old world transcendency
and golden age affairs, “I believe formerly the
artist was as much
respected and cared for as he is now. 'Tis true the Greeks
granted
an immunity from taxation to some of their artists, who were often
great men
in the state, and even the companions of princes. And
are not some of our poets peers?
Have not some of our artists
received knighthood from the hand of their Sovereign, and
have
not some of them received pensions?”
To answer objections of this latitude demands the assertion of
certain
characteristic facts which, tho' not here demonstrated, may
be authenticated by
reference to history. Of these, the facts of
Saxon, are sufficient to
show in what respect the poets of that
period were held; when a man without any safe
conduct whatever
could enter the enemy's camp on the very eve of battle, as was
here
the case; could enter unopposed, unquestioned, and return unmo-
lested!—What
could have conferred upon the poet of that day so
singular a privilege? What upon the
poet of an earlier time that
sanctity in behoof whereof
What but an universal recognition of the poet as an universal bene-
factor of
mankind? And did mankind recognize him as such, from
some unaccountable infatuation, or
because his labours obtained for
him an indefeasible right to that estimate? How came
it, when a
Greek sculptor had completed some operose performance, that
his
countrymen bore him in triumph thro' their city, and rejoiced in his
prosperity
as identical with their own? How but because his art
had embodied some principle of
beauty whose mysterious influence
it was their pride to appreciate—or he had enduringly
moulded the
limbs of some well-trained Athlete, such as it was their interest
to
develop, or he had recorded the overthrow of some barbaric invader
whom their
fathers had fallen to repel.
In the middle ages when a knight listened, in the morning, to
some song of
brave doing, ere evening he himself might be the hero
of such song.—What wonder then
that he held sacred the function
of the poet! Now-a-days our heroes (and we have them)
are left
unchapleted and neglected—and therefore the poet lives and dies
neglected.
Thus it would appear from these facts (which have been collate-
rally evolved
in course of enquiring into the propriety of choosing
the subject from past or present
time, and in course of the conse-
quent analysis) that Art, to become a more powerful
engine of
civilization, assuming a practically humanizing tendency (the admit-
ted
function of Art), should be made more directly conversant with
the things, incidents,
and influences which surround and constitute
the living world of those whom Art proposes
to improve, and,
whether it should appear in event that Art can or can not
assume
this attitude without jeopardizing her specific existence, that such
a
consummation were desirable must be equally obvious in either
case.
Let us return now to the former consideration. It was stated
that the poet is
affected by every day incidents, which would have
little or no effect on the mind of a
general observer: and if you ask
the poet, who from his conduct may be the supposed
advocate of
the past as the fittest medium for poetic eduction, why he em-
bodied
the suggestions of to-day in the matter and dress of
antiquity; he is likely to answer
as follows.—“You have stated
“that men pass by that which furnishes me with my subject:
If I
“merely reproduce what they slighted, the reproduction will be
“slighted
equally. It appears then that I must devise some means
“of attracting their
sympathies—and the medium of antiquity is
“the fittest for three several reasons.
1st.—Nothing comes down
“to us from antiquity unless fraught with sufficient interest of
some
“sort, to warrant it being worthy of record. Thus, all incidents
“which we
possess of the old time being more or less interesting,
“there arises an illative
impression that all things of old really
“were so: and all things in idea associated
with that time,
“whether real or fictitious, are afforded a favorable
entertainment.
“
“remember to have discovered, after visiting the British
Museum
“for the first time, that the odour of camphor, for which I had
“hitherto no
predilection, afforded me a peculiar satisfaction,
“seemingly suggestive of things
scientific or artistic; it was in fact
“a literary smell! All this was
vague and unaccountable until
“some time after when this happened again, and I was at
once
“reminded of an enormous walrus at the British Museum, and
“then remembered how
the whole collection, from end to end, was
“permeated with the odour of camphor! Still,
despite the con-
“sciousness of this, the camphor retains its influence. Now let
a
“poem, a painting, or sculpture, smell ever so little of antiquity, and
“every
intelligent reader will be full of delightful imaginations.
“2nd.—All things ancient are
mysterious in obscurity:—veneration,
“wonder, and curiosity are the result. 3rd.—All
things ancient
“are dead and gone:—we sympathize with them accordingly. All
“these
effects of antiquity, as a means of enforcing poetry, declare it
“too powerful an ally
to be readily abandoned by the poet.” To
all this the painter will add that the costume
of almost any ancient
time is more beautiful than that of the present—added to which
it
exposes more of that most beautiful of all objects, the human figure.
Thus we have a formidable array of objections to the choice of * Here the author, in the person of respondent, takes occasion to narrate
a real
fact.present-day subjects: and first, it was objected and granted,
that
incidents of the present time are well nigh barren in poetic attrac-
tion for
the many. Then it was objected, but not granted, that their
poetic or pictorial
counterparts will be equally unattractive also: but
this last remains to be proved. It
was said, and is believed by the
author, (and such as doubt it he does not address) that
all good men
are more or less poetical in some way or other; while their
poetry
shows itself at various times. Thus the business-man in the street has
other
to think of than poetry; but when he is inclined to look at a
picture, or in his more
poetical humour, will he neglect the pictorial
counterpart of what he neglected before?
To test this, show him a
camera obscura, where there is a more literal transcript of
present-
day nature than any painting can be:— what is the result? He ex-
presses no
anxiety to quit it, but a great curiosity to investigate; he
feels it is very beautiful,
indeed more beautiful than nature: and
this he will say is because he does not see
nature as an artist does.
Now the solution of all this is easy: 1st. He is in a mood of
mind
which renders him accessible to the influences of poetry, which was
not before
the case. 2nd. He looks at that steadily which he before
regarded cursorily; and, as the
picture remains in his eye, it
acquires an amount of harmony, in behoof of an intrinsic
harmony
resident in the organ itself, which exerts proportionately
modifying
influences on all things that enter within it; and of the nervous
harmony,
and the beautifully apportioned stimuli of alternating
ocular spectra. 3rd. There is a
resolution of discord effected by the
instrument itself, inasmuch as its effects are
homogeneous. All
these harmonizing influences are equally true of the painting;
and
though we have no longer the homogeneous effect of the camera, we
have the
homogeneous effect of one mind, viz., the mind of the
artist.
Thus having disproved the supposed poetical obstacles to the
rendering of real
life or nature in its own real garb and time, as
faithfully as Art can render it,
nothing need be said to answer the
advantages of the antique or mediæval rendering;
since they were
only called in to neutralize the aforesaid obstacles, which
obstacles
have proved to be fictitious. It remains then to consider the artistic
objection of costume, &c., which consideration ranges under the
head of real differences between the things of past and present times,
a
consideration formerly postponed. But this requiring a patient
analysis, will
necessitate a further postponement, and in conclusion,
there will be briefly stated the
elements of the argument, thus.—
It must be obvious to every physicist that physical
beauty (which
this subject involves on the one side [the ancient] as opposed to the
superior to physical beauty in the modern,
as psychical beauty in
the modern is superior to psychical beauty in the ancient.
Costume
then, as physical, is more beautiful ancient than modern. Now that
a certain
amount of physical beauty is requisite to constitute Fine
Art, will be readily admitted;
but what that amount is, must be
ever undefined. That the maximum of physical beauty
does not
constitute the maximum of Fine Art, is apparent from the facts of
the
physical beauty of Early Christian Art being inferior to that
of
Grecian art; whilst, in the concrete, Early Christian Art is superior
to Grecian.
Indeed some specimens of Early Christian Art are
repulsive rather than beautiful, yet
these are in many cases the
highest works of Art.
In the “
This familiar incident, affording a subject fraught with more
moral interest
than, and as much picturesque matter as, many antique
or mediæval subjects, is only
wanting in that romantic attraction
which, by association, attaches to things of the
past. Yet, let these
modern subjects once excite interest, as it really appears they
can,
and the incidents of to-day will acquire romantic attractions by the
same
association of ideas.
The claims of ancient, mediæval, and modern subjects will be
considered in
detail at a future period.
*** In these and others of the Flemish Towns, the Carillon, or chimes
which have a most fantastic and delicate music, are played
almost continually
The custom is very ancient.
* The Editor is requested to state that “M. S.” does not here mean Manuscript.
“When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this
sign,
”—
that the Dunces are all in confederacy against
him.Swift.
How shall we know the dunces from the man of genius, who is
no doubt our
superior in judgment, yet knows himself for a fool—
by the proverb?
At least, my dear Doctor, you will let me, with the mass of
readers, have
clearer wits than the dunces—then why should I not
know what you are as soon as, or
sooner than Bavius, &c.—unless
a dunce has a good nose, or a natural instinct
for detecting wit.
Now I take it that these people stigmatized as dunces are but
men of
ill-balanced mental faculties, yet perhaps, in a great degree,
superior to the average
of minds. For instance, a poet of much
merit, but more ambition, has written the
“Lampiad,” an epic;
when he should not have dared beyond the Doric reed: his
ambi-
tious pride has prevented the publication of excellent pastorals,
therefore
the world only knows him for his failure. This, I say, is a
likely man to become a
detractor; for his good judgment shows
the imperfections of most works, his own
included; his ambition
(an ill-combination of self-conscious worth and spleen) leads
him
to compare works of the highest repute; the works of contem-
poraries; and his
own. In all cases where success is most difficult,
he will be most severe; this
naturally leads him to criticise the
very best works.
He has himself failed; he sees errors in successful writers; he
knows he
possesses certain merits, and knows what the perfection
of them should be. This is the
ground work of envy, which makes
a man of parts a comparative fool, and a confederate
against
“true genius.”
I make out my case thus—
There is an exact balance in the distribution of causes of pleasure
and pain:
this has been satisfactorily proved in my next paper,
upon “Cause and Effect,”
therefore I shall take it for granted.
What, then, is there but the mind to determine
its own state of
happiness, or misery: just as the motion of the scales depends
upon
themselves, when two equal weights are put into them. The balance
ought to be
truly hung; but if the unpleasant scale is heavier, then
the motion is in favor of the
pleasant scale, and vice versa. Whether
the beam stands horizontally, or otherwise,
does not matter (that
only determines the key): draw a line at right angles to it, then
put
in your equal weights; if the angle becomes larger on the unpleasant
scale's
side of the line, happiness is the result, if on the other, misery.
It requires but a slight acquaintance with mechanics to see that
he who would
be happy should have the unpleasant side heavier.
I hate corollaries or we might have a
group of them equally appli-
cable to Art and Models.
Inconsistency, whether in matters of importance or in trifles,
whether in
substance or in detail, is never pleasant. We do not here
impute to this poem any
inconsistency between one portion and
another; but certainly its form is at variance
with its subject and
treatment. In the wording of the title, and the character of
typo-
graphy, there is a studious archaism: more modern the poem itself
could
scarcely be.
“
“Still Queen Victoria sits upon her throne; Our aristocracy still keep alive, And, on the whole, may still be said to thrive,— Tho' now and then with ducal acres groan The honored tables of the auctioneer. Nathless, our aristocracy is dear, Tho' their estates go cheap; and all must own That they still give society its tone.”—p. 16.
“Our baronets of late appear to be Unjustly snubbed and talked and written down; Partly from follies of Sir Something Brown, Stickling for badges due to their degree, And partly that their honor's late editions Have been much swelled with surgeons and physicians; For ‘honor hath small skill in surgery,’ And skill in surgery small honor.”—p. 17.
honor” is here meant? and against whom is the taunt
surgeons and physicians,” or against the
Our introduction to Sir Reginald Mohun, Lord of Nornyth Place,
and of
“an income clear of 20,000 pounds,
” and to his friends
Raymond St.
Oun, De Lacy, Wilton, Tancarville, and Vivian—
(for the author's names are
aristocratic, like his predilections)—is
effected through the medium of a stanza, new,
we believe, in ar-
rangement, though differing but slightly from the established
octave,
and of verses so easy and flowing as to make us wonder less at the
promise of
than at Mr. Cayley's assertion that he
“Can never get along at all in prose.”
The incidents, as might be expected of a first canto, are neither
many nor
important, and will admit of compression into a very small
compass.
Sir Reginald, whose five friends had arrived at Nornyth Place late
on the
preceding night, is going over the grounds with them in a
shooting party after a late
breakfast. St. Oun expresses a wish to
“prowl about the place
” in
preference, not feeling in the mood for
the required exertion.
Mohun, however, sides with St. Oun, and agrees to escort him in
his rambles
after the first few shots. He accordingly soon resigns
his gun to the keeper Oswald,
whose position as one who
Mr. Cayley evidently regards with some complacence. The friends
enter a boat:
here, while sailing along a rivulet that winds through
the estate, St. Oun falls to
talking of wealth, its value and insuf-
ficiency, of death, and life, and fame; and
coming at length to ask
after the history of Sir Reginald's past life, he suggests
“this true
”
epic opening for relation:
“‘The sun, from his meridian heights declining
Mirrored his richest tints upon the shining
Bosom of a lake. In a light shallop, two
Young men, whose dress, etcaetera, proclaims,
Glided in silence o'er the waters blue,
Skirting the wooded slopes. Upward they gazed
On Nornyth's ancient pile, whose windows blazed
“‘In sunset rays, whose crimson fulgence streamed
Across the flood: wrapped in deep thought they seemed.
‘You are pensive, Reginald,’ at length thus spake
Forgive me if your reverie I break,
Craving, with friendship's sympathy, to share
Your spirit's burden, be it joy or care.’”—pp. 48, 49.
Sir Reginald Mohun's story is soon told.—Born in Italy, and
losing his mother
at the moment of his birth, and his father and
only sister dying also soon after, he is
left alone in the world.
(We have quoted this passage, not insensible to its defects,—some
common-place
in sentiment and diction; but independently of the
good it does really contain, as
being the only one of such a character
sustained in quality to a moderate length.)
Reginald and his cousin Wilton grew up together friends, though
not bound by
common sympathies. The latter has known life early,
and “earned experience
piecemeal:
” with the former, thought has
already become a custom.
Thus far only does Reginald bring his retrospect; his other
friends come up,
and they all return homeward. Here, too, ends
the story of this canto; but not without
warranting some surmise
of what will furnish out the next. There is evidence of
observation
adroitly applied in the talk of the two under-keepers who take
charge
of the boat.
is a pretty shot.
It will be observed that there is no vulgarity in this vulgarism:
indeed, the
gentlemanly good humour of the poem is uninterrupted.
This, combined with neatness of
handling, and the habit of not over-
doing, produces that general facility of
appearance which it is no
disparagement, in speaking of a first canto, to term the
chief result
of so much of these life and adventures as is here “done into verse.”
It may be fairly anticipated, however, that no want of variety in the c
onception,
or of success in the pourtrayal, of character will need to
be complained of:
meanwhile, a few passages may be quoted to con-
firm our assertions. The two first
extracts are examples of mere
cleverness; and all that is aimed at is attained. The
former follows
out a previous comparison of the world with a “huge churn.
”
caseine element I conceive to mean nobeau ideal of the Casino.”—p. 12.
In these others there is more purpose, with a no less definite
conciseness:
The misadventures of the five friends on their road to Nornyth are
very
sufficiently described:
There remains to point out one fault,—and that the last fault the
occurrence
of which could be looked for, after so clearly expressed
an intention as this:
A quotation or two will fully explain our meaning: and we would
seriously ask
Mr. Cayley to reflect whether he has always borne his
principle in mind, and avoided
“writing fine;
” whether he has not
sometimes fallen into high-flown
common-place of the most undis-
guised stamp, rendered, moreover, doubly inexcusable
and out of
place by being put into the mouth of one of the personages of the
poem;
It is Sir Reginald Mohun that speaks; and truly, though
not thrust forward as a
“wondrous paragon of praise,
” he must be
confessed to be,
not words only and sentences, but real phrases, in the more
distinct
and specific sense of the term.
Sir Reginald's narrative concludes after this fashion:
A similar instance of conventionality constantly repeated is the
sin of
inversion, which is no less prevalent, throughout the poem,
in the conversational than
in the narrative portions. In some cases
the exigencies of rhyme may be pleaded in
palliation, as for “Cam's
” and “
marge alongbreezy willows
cool,
” which occur in two con-
secutive lines of a speech; but there are many
for which no such
excuse can be urged. Does any one talk of “sloth
obscure,
” or
of “hearts afflicted?
” Or what reason is there for
preferring
“verses easy
” to easy verses? Ought not
the principle laid down
in the following passage of the introduction to be followed
out, not
only into the intention, but into the manner and quality also, of
the
whole work?
sincere in this my lay:
Again, the Author appears to us to have acted unwisely in
occasionally
departing from the usual construction of his stanzas, as
in this instance:
Here the lines do not cohere so happily as in the more varied dis-
tribution of
the rhymes; and, moreover, as a question of principle,
we think it not advisable to
allow of minor deviations from the
uniformity of a prescribed metre.
It may be well to take leave of Mr. Cayley with a last quotation
of his own
words,—words which no critic ought to disregard:
If our remarks have been such as to justify the Author's wish for
sincere
criticism, our object is attained; and we look forward for
the second canto with
confidence in his powers.
Page 19, line 3, for his, read its.
Page 19, line
10, for comes, read falls.
This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to
develope
thought and principle, Essays concerning Art and
other subjects, and analytic Reviews of
current Literature—
particularly of Poetry. Each number will also contain an
Etching;
the subject to be taken from the opening article
of the month.
An attempt will be made, both intrinsically and by review,
to claim for Poetry
that place to which its present develop-
ment in the literature of this country so
emphatically
entitles it.
The endeavour held in view throughout the writings on
Art will be to encourage
and enforce an entire adherance to
the simplicity of nature; and also to direct
attention, as an
auxiliary medium, to the comparatively few works which Art
has yet
produced in this spirit. It need scarcely be added
that the chief object of the etched
designs will be to illustrate
this aim practically, as far as the method of execution
will
permit; in which purpose they will be produced with the
utmost care and
completeness.