Let us see now, then, what it is,—this 'universal insight in the affairs of the world,' this 'wisdom of counsel and advice, gathered from cases of a like nature,' with an observation that includes all natures,—let us see what this new wisdom of counsel is, when it comes to be applied to this huge growth of the state, this creature of the ages; and in its great crisis of disorder—shaken, convulsed— wrapped in elemental horror, and threatening to dissolve into its primal 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 criticises so severely the learning of other men,—who disposes so scornfully, right and left, of the physic and metaphysic of the schools as he finds them,—who daffs the learning of the world aside, and bids it pass. Let us see what the learning is that is not 'words,' as Hamlet says, complaining of the reading in his book.
This part has been taken out from its dramatic connections, and reserved for a separate exhibition, on account of a certain new and peculiar value it has acquired since it was produced in those connections. Time has changed it 'into something rich and strange,'—Time has framed it, and poured her illustration on it: it is history now. That flaming portent, this aurora that fills the seer's heaven, these fierce angry warriors, that are fighting here upon 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 and revolutions,' says that other philosopher, who scribbles on this same subject about these days in such an entertaining manner, and who brings so many 'buckets' from 'the headspring of sciences,' to water his plants in this field in particular. 'That which most threatens us is a divulsion of the whole mass.'
This part is produced here, then, as a specimen of that kind of prophecy which one does not need to go to heaven for. And the careful reader will observe, that notwithstanding the distinct disavowal of any supernatural gift on the part of this seer, and this frank explanation of the mystery of his Art, the prophecy appears to compare not unfavourably with others which seem to come to us with higher claims. 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, which commands the future in so inclusive a manner, and with so near and sufficient an aim for the most important practical purposes, ought to be besieging Heaven for a _super_natural gift, and questioning the ancient seers for some vague shadows of the coming event, instead of putting this immediate endowment—this 'godlike' endowment—under culture.
There is another reason for reserving this part. In the heat and turmoil of this great ACT, the Muse of the Inductive Science drops her mask, and she forgets to take it up again. The hand that is put forth to draw 'the next ages' into the scene, when the necessary question of the play requires it, is bare. It is the Man of Learning here everywhere, without any disguise,—the man of the new learning, openly applying his 'universal insight,' and 'wisdom of counsel and advice, gathered by general observation of cases of like nature,' to this great question of 'Policy,' which was then hurrying on, with such portentous 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 who would know at last why it is that these old Roman graves 'have waked their sleepers, oped, and let them forth, by his so potent art'; and why it is, that at this great crisis in English history, the noise of the old Roman battle hurtles so fiercely in the English ear, should read now—but read as a work of natural science in politics, from the scientific statesman's hands, deserves to be read—this great revolutionary scene, which the Poet, for reasons of his own, has buried in the heart of this Play, which he has subordinated with his own matchless skill to the general intention of it, but which we, for the sake of pursuing that general intention with the less interruption, now that the storm appears to be 'overblown,' may safely reserve for the conclusion of our reading of this scientific history, and criticism, and rejection of the Military Usurpation of the COMMON-WEAL.
The reading of it is very simple. One has only to observe that the Poet avails himself of the dialogue here, with even more than his usual freedom, for the purpose of disposing of the bolder passages, in the least objectionable manner,—interrupting the statement in critical points, and emphasizing it, by that interruption, to the careful reader 'of the argument,' but to the spectator, or to one who takes it as a dialogue merely, neutralizing it by that dramatic opposition. For the political criticism, which is of the boldest, passes safely enough, by being merely broken, and put into the mouths of opposing factions, who are just upon the point of coming to blows upon the stage, and cannot, therefore, be suspected of collusion.
For the popular magistracy, as it represents the ignorance, and stupidity, and capricious tyranny of the multitude, and their unfitness for rule, is subjected to the criticism of the true consulship, on the one hand, while the military usurpation of the chair of state, and the law of Conquest, is not less severely criticized by the true Tribune—the Tribune, whose Tribe is the Kind—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 the virtual election of the stupidity and ignorance of the people, and which, this Poet and his friends were about to put on its trial, for its innovations in the government, and suppressions of the ancient estates of this realm,—for its suppression of the dignities and privileges of the Nobility, and its suppression of the chartered dignities 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 of course, they are talking of the wars,—the foreign wars: but the principle of inroad and aggression on the one hand, and defence on the other, the arts of subjugation, and reconciliation, the arts of WAR and GOVERNMENT in their most general forms are always cleared and identified, and tracked, under the specifications of the scene.
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 a little, it is not the lost Roman weal and its danger that fires the passion of this speech. 'Look at this player whether he has not turned his colour, and has tears in his eyes.' 'What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her? What would he do, had he the 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 the commons? If you are not, there's no nobility. If you are not, what business 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 its appropriation, we talk of here. Whether the absolute power be in the hands of the people or 'their officer.' There had been a speech made on that subject, which had not met with the approbation of the absolute power then conducting the affairs of this realm; and in its main principle, it is repeated here. 'That was my speech, and I will make 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 this revolutionary 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 as discreet.
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 history which is in all men's lives, 'Figuring the nature of the times deceased, a man may prophesy,' as it would seem, 'with a near aim,'—quite near—'of the main chance of things, as yet, not come to life, which in their weak beginnings lie intreasured. Such things become the hatch and brood of time,' this Poet says; but art, it seems, anticipates that process. There appears to be more of the future 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. Ædiles, seize him.
Cit. Yield, Marcius, yield.
Men. Hear me, one word. Beseech you, tribunes, hear me, but a word.
Ædiles. 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 Ædiles, and the People, are all BEAT IN,' so the stage direction informs us, which appears a little singular, considering there is but one sword drawn, and the victorious faction does not appear to have the advantage in numbers. It is, however, only a temporary success, as the victors seem to be aware.
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 and virtues which 'the mirror,' that professed to give to 'the very body of the time, its form and pressure,' could not fail to show, are glimmering here constantly in 'this ancient piece,' and often shine out in the more critical passages, with such unmistakeable clearness, as to furnish an effectual diversion for any eye, that should undertake to fathom prematurely the player's intention. For 'the gentleman who wrote the late Shepherd's Calendar' was not the only poet of this time, as it would seem, who found the scope of a double intention, in his poetic representation, not adequate to the comprehension 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 peremptorily to accept of the ancient rules in matters of taste;—a rule in art which requires, of course, a corresponding rule of interpretation. In fact, it is no bad exercise for an ordinary mind, to undertake to track the contriver of these plays, through all the latitudes which his art, as he understands it, gives him. It is as good for that purpose, as a problem in mathematics. But, 'to whom you will not give an hour, you give nothing,' he says, and 'he had as lief not be read at all, as be read by a careless reader.' So he thrusts in his meanings as thick as ever he likes, and those who don't choose to stay and pick them out, are free to lose them. They are not the ones he laid them in for,—that is all. He is not afraid, but that he will have 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 wide walls encompassed but one man?' 'What trash is Rome, what rubbish, and what offal, when it serves for the base matter to illuminate so vile 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 of illustration in which his works are so prolific, an illustration which is not rhetorical, but scientific, based on the COMMON PRINCIPLES IN NATURE, which it is his 'primary' business to ascend to, and which it is 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, treading or printing upon several subjects or matters,' and the tracking of these historical principles to their ultimate forms, is that which he recommends for the disclosing of nature and the abridging of Art.]
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 in another 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 Ædiles 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 these statesmen 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 of the sword has prevailed hitherto. When what's not meet but what must be 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 in this 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 Ædile.
What, will he come?
Æd. He's coming.
Bru. How accompanied?
Æd. 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?
Æd. I have; 'tis ready.
Sic. Have you collected them BY TRIBES?
Æd. 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.]
Æd. 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.
Æd. 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 Ædile.]
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 Ædile with Citizens.
Sic. Draw near, ye people.
Cor. First hear me speak.
Ædile. 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 was just then bestirring himself to get the life of 'that last king of England who was his ancestor' brought out; a king who was taking so much pains to get his triple wreath of conquest brightened up, and all the lines in it laid out and distinguished—one who was taking so much pains to get the fresh red of that last 'conqueror,' who also 'came in by battle,' cleared up in his coat of arms, in case his double line of white and red from the old Norman should not prove sufficient— sufficient to convince the English nation of his divine right, and that of his heirs for ever, to dispose of it and its weal at his and their pleasure, with or without laws, as they should see fit. A pretty scene this to amuse a king with, whose ancestor, the one from whom he directly 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 taken all from them'; who had planted his chair of state on their suppressed liberties, and 'the charters that they bore in the body of the weal'— that chair which was even then beginning to rock a little—while there was that in the mien and bearing of the royal occupant and his heir which might have looked to the prescient mind, if things went on as they 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 uprisen people, with shouting, from the city gates for ever; charged never more 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 of the military power is completed. Of course one could not tell beforehand what effect that cautious, but on the whole luminous, exhibition of the recent conquest of the English PEOPLE, prepared at the suggestion and under the immediate criticism of royalty, might have with the profoundly loyal English people themselves, in the way of 'striking an awe into them,' and removing any lurking opposition they might have to the exercise of an arbitrary authority in government; but with people of the old Volscian pluck, according to this Poet's account of the matter, an allusion to a similar success on the part of the Conqueror at a critical moment, and when his special qualifications for government happened to be passing under review, was not attended with those happy results which appear to have been expected 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 THE SEVENTH was dedicated by the author, with an urgent recommendation of the 'rare accidents' in that reign to the royal notice and consideration; if that prince had but chanced in some thoroughly thoughtful mood to light upon this yet more 'ancient piece,' he might have found here, also, some things worthy of his notice. It cannot be denied, that the poet's mode of handling the same historical question is much more bold and clear than that of the professed philosopher. But probably this Prince was not aware that his father entertained at Whitehall then, not a literary Historian, merely—a Book-maker, able to compose narratives of the past in an orderly chronological prosaic manner, according to the received method—but a Show-man, also, an Historical Show-man, with such new gifts and arts; a true Magician, who had in his closet a mirror which possessed the property of revealing, not the past nor the present only, but the future, 'with a near aim,' an aim so near that it might well seem 'magical'; and that a cloud was flaming in it, even then, 'which drizzled blood upon the Capitol.' This Prince of Wales did not know, any more than his father did, that they had in their court then an historical scholar, with such an indomitable passion for the stage, with such a decided turn for acting—one who felt himself divinely prompted to a part in that theatre which is the Globe—one who had laid out all for his share 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. They did not know that they had in that servant of the crown, so supple, so 'patient—patient as the midnight sleep,' patient 'as the ostler that for the poorest piece will bear the knave by the volume'—such a born aspirant for rule; one who had always his eye on the throne, one who had always in mind their usurpation of it. They did not know that they had a Hamlet in their court, who never lost sight of his purpose, or faltered in his execution of it; who had found a scientific ground for his actions, an end for his ends; who only affected incoherence; and that it was he who was intriguing to such purpose with the PLAYERS.
The Elizabethan revolutionist was suppressed: then 'Fame, who is the posthumous 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 laboured throughout under this disadvantage, that however welcome that new view of the character and aims of the great English philosopher, which is involved 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 directly opposed, not merely to what may possibly be his own erroneous preconceptions of the case; but to facts which are among the most notable in the history of this country; and not only to facts sustained by unquestionable contemporary authority, and attested by public documents,—facts which history has graven with her pen of iron in the rock for ever, but with other exhibitions of this man's character, not less, but more painful, for which he is himself singly responsible;—not the forced exhibition of a confession wrung from him by authority,—not the craven self-blasting defamation of a glorious name that was not his to blast,—that was the property of men of learning in all coming ages, precious and venerable in their eyes for ever, at the bidding of power,—not that only, but the voluntary exhibition of those qualities with which he stands charged,—which he has gone out of his way to leave to us,—memorials of them which he has collected with his own hands, and sealed up, and sent down to posterity 'this side up,' with the most urgent directions to have them read, and examined, and considered deeply,—that posterity, too, to which he commends, with so much assurance, the care of his honor, the cure 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 of reconciling it with that which we know already, or with that which we believed, and thought we knew, we must not on that account reject it. That is to hurt ourselves. That is to destroy the principle of integrity at its source. We must take our facts and reconcile them, if we can; and let them take care of themselves, if we can not. God is greater than we are, and whatever other sacrifices he may require of us, painful to our human sensibilities, to make way with facts, for the sake of advancing truths, or for any other reason never so plausible, is a thing which he never does, and never did require of any mind. The conclusion that requires facts to be dispensed with, or shorn, on either side to make it tenable, is not going to stand, let it come in what name, or with what authority it will; because the truth of history is, in its least particular, of a universal quality, and is much more potent than anything that the opinion and will of man can oppose to it.
To the mind which is able to receive under all conditions the demonstrated truth, and give to it its full weight,—to the mind to which truth is religion, this book is dedicated. The facts which it contains are able to assert themselves,—will be, at least, hereafter. They will not be dependent ultimately upon the mode of their exhibition here. For they have the large quality, they have the solidity and dimensions of historical truth, and are accessible on more sides than one.
But to those to whom they are already able to commend themselves in the form in which they are here set forth, the author begs leave to say, in conclusion, though it must stand for the present in the form of a simple statement, but a statement which challenges investigation, that so far from coming into any real collision with the evidence which we have on this subject from other sources, those very facts, and those very historical materials on which our views on this subject have been based hitherto, are, that which is wanting to the complete development of the views contained here.
It is the true history of these great events in which the hidden great men of this age played so deep a part; it is the true history of that great crisis in which the life-long plots of these hidden actors began to show themselves on the historic surface in scenic grandeur,—in those large tableaux which history takes and keeps,—which history waits for,—it is the very evidence which has supplied the principal basis of the received views on this subject,—it is the history of the initiation of that great popular movement,—that movement of new ages, with which the chief of popular development, and the leader of these ages, has been hitherto so painfully connected in our impressions; it is that very evidence,—that blasting evidence which the Learning of the Modern Ages has always carried in its stricken heart,—it is that which is wanting here. That also is a part of the story which has begun to be related here.
And those very letters which have furnished 'confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ' of the impressions which the other historical evidence, as it stands at present, inevitably creates,—those very letters which have been collected by the party whose character was concerned in them, and preserved with so much diligence and caution,—which we have been asked with so much emphasis to read and ponder,—which have been recommended to our attention as the very best means, when all is done, of putting ourselves into sympathetic relations with the writer, and attaining at last to a complete understanding of his position, and to a complete acquaintance with his character and aims,—with his natural dispositions, as well as his deliberate scientific aims,—these letters, long as we have turned from them,—often as we have turned from them,—chilled, confounded, sick at heart,—unable, in spite of those recommendations, to find in them any gleam of the soul of these proceedings,—these very letters will have to be read, after all, and with that very diligence which the directions enjoin upon us; they will have, when all is done, to take 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 they should be studied—why they would have to be studied in the end. They have on the face of them a claim to the attention of the learned. There is nothing like them in the history of mankind. For, however mean and disreputable the acts of men may be, when it comes to words,—that medium of understanding and sympathy, in which the identity of the common nature is perpetually declared, even in the most private conferences,—there is usually an attempt to clothe the forlorn and shrinking actuality with the common human dignity, or to make it, at least, passably respectable, if the claim to the heroic is dispensed with,—even in oral speech. But in writing, in letters, destined to never so brief and limited an existence, who puts on paper for the eye of another, for the review of that criticism which in the lowest, basest of mankind, stands in unimpeachable dignity, prepared to detect and pass sentence, and cry out as one aggrieved, on the least failure, or shadow of failure in the best—who puts in writing,—what tenant of Newgate will put on paper, when it comes to that, a deliberate display of meanness,—what convicted felon, but will undertake in that case to give some sort of heroic colour to his proceedings—some air of suffering virtue to his durance?
But a great man, consciously great, who knows that his most trifling letter is liable to publication; a great man, writing on subjects and occasions which insure publicity to his writing; a man of fame, writing letters expressly for publication, and dedicating them to the far-off times; a man of poetic sensibilities, alive to the finest shades of moral differences; one of unparalleled dignity and grandeur of aims—aims pursued from youth to age, without wavering, under the most difficult conditions, pursued to their successful issue; a man whose 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 one sending down along with the works, in which the nobility and the deliberate 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 is the phenomenon which our men of learning have found themselves called upon to encounter here. To separate the man and the philosopher—to fly out upon the man, to throw him overboard with every expression of animosity and disgust, to make him out as bad as possible, to collect diligently every scrap of evidence against him, and set it forth with every conceivable aggravation—this has been the resource of an indignant scholarship in this case, bent on uttering its protest in some form; this has been the defence of learning, cast down from its 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 it does not go far enough. From the point of review that the research of which it is the fruit has now attained, this is the criticism to which it appears to be liable. From this point of view, the complaint to be made against it is, that at the place where it stops it leaves, for want of that part of the evidence which contains it, the historical grandeur of our great men unrevealed or still obscured. For we have had them, in the sober day-light of our occidental learning, in the actualities of history, and not in the mists of a poetic past only—monstrous idealisms, outstretched shadows of man's divinity, demi-gods and heroes, impersonations of ages and peoples, stalking through the twilight of the ante-historic dawn, or in the twilight of a national popular ignorance, embalmed in the traditions of those who are always 'beginners.' We have had them; we need not look to a foreign and younger race for them; we have them, fruit of our own stock; we have had them, not cloaked with falseness, but exposed in the searching noonday glare of our western science. We have had them, we have them still, with all their mortal frailty and littleness and ignorance confessed, with all their 'weaved-up follies ravelled out,' with all the illimitable capacity of affection and passion and will in man, 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 put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.' We have them, our Interpreters, our Poets, our Reformers, who start from the actualities—from the actualities of nature in general, and of the human nature in particular—who make the most careful study of man as he is, in themselves and in all men, the basis of their innovation, the beginning of their advancement to the ideal or divine. We have them; and they, too, they also come to us, with that old garland of glory on their brows, with that same 'crown' of victory, which the world has given from of old to those who have taken her affairs to be their business.
That the historical evidence which lies on the surface of an age, like that age from which our modern philosophy proceeds, is of a kind to require, for its unravelling, a different species of criticism from that which suffices for the historical evidence which our own times and institutions produce, is a fact which would hardly seem to require any illustration in the present state of our historical knowledge, in the present state of our knowledge in regard to the history of this age in particular; when not the professed scholar only, but every reader, knows what age in the constitutional history of England, at least, that age was; when we have here, not the erudite historian only, with his rich harvests for the scholar, that are caviare to the multitude, but the Poets of history also, wresting from dull prose and scholasticism its usurped domains, and giving back to the peoples their own, to tell us what age this was. The inner history of this time is indeed still wanting to us; and the reason is, that we have not yet applied to the reading of its principal documents that key of times which our contemporary historians have already put into our hands—that key which, we are told on good authority, is, in certain cases, indispensable to the true interpretation.
That the direct contemporary testimony on which history depends is, in this case, vitiated, tainted at its source, and through all its details—that the documents are all of them, on the face of them, 'suspicious,' and not fit to be received as historical evidence without the severest scrutiny and re-examination—this is the fact which remains to be taken into the account here. For this is a case in which the witnesses come into court, making signs, seeking with mute gesticulation to attract our attention, pointing significantly to the difficulties of the position, asking to be cross-examined, soliciting a second cogitation on what they say, telling us that they mortally hate obscurity, and would avoid it if they could; intimating that if their testimony should be re-examined in a higher court, and when the Star Chamber and the Court of Ecclesiastical Commission are no longer in session, it might perhaps be found to be susceptible of a different reading. This is a case in which the party convicted comes in with his finger on his lips, and an appeal to another tribunal, to another age.
We all know what age in the history of the immemorial liberties and dignities of a race—what age in the history of its recovered liberties, rescued from oppression and recognised and confirmed by statute, this was. We know it was an age in which the decisions of the Bench were prescribed to it by a power that had 'the laws of England at its commandment,' that it was an age in which Parliament, and the press, and the pulpit, were gagged, and in which that same justice had charge, diligent charge 'of amusements also, and of those who only played at working.' That this was a time when the Play House itself,—in that same year, too, in which these philosophical plays began first to attract attention, and again and again, was warned off by express ordinances from the whole ground of 'the forbidden questions.' We know that this was an age in which not the books of the learned only were subjected to 'the press and torture which expulsed' from them all those 'particulars that point to action'—action, at least, in which the common-weal of men is most concerned; that it was a time when the private manuscript was subjected to that same censorship and question, and corrected with those same instruments and engines, which made then a regular part of the machinery of the press; when the most secret cabinet of the Statesman and the Man of Letters must be kept in order for that revision, when his most confidential correspondence, his private note-book and diary must be composed under these restrictions; when in the church, not the pulpit only, but the secrets of the study, were explored for proofs of opposition to the power then predominant; when the private desk and drawers of the poor obscure country clergyman were ransacked, and his half-formed studies of sermons, his rude sketches and hypothetical notes of sermons yet to be—which might or might not be—put down for private purposes perhaps, and never intended to be preached—were produced by Government as an excuse for subjecting him to indignities and cruelties to which those practised upon the Duke of Kent and the Duke of Gloster, in the play, formed no parallel.
To the genius of a race in whose mature development speculation and action were for the first time systematically united, in the intensities of that great historical impersonation which signalises its first entrance upon the stage of human affairs, stimulated into preternatural activity by that very opposition which would have shut it out from its legitimate fields, and shut it up within those impossible, insufferable limits that the will of the one man prescribed to it then,—to that many-sided genius, bent on playing well its part even under those conditions, all the more determined on it by that very opposition—kept in mind of its manliness all the time by that all comprehending prohibition on manhood, that took charge of every act—irritated all the time into a protesting human dignity by the perpetual meannesses prescribed to it, instructed in the doctrine of the human nature and its nobility in the school of that sovereignty which was keeping such a costly 'crib' here then; 'Let a beast be lord of beasts,' says Hamlet, 'and your crib shall stand at the king's mess;' '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 ages filled them, watching his slightest movements; who knew that he was acting 'even in the eyes of all posterity that wear this world out to the ending doom'; to such a one studying out his part beforehand under such conditions, it was not one disguise only, it was not one secret literary instrumentality only, that sufficed for the plot of it. That toy stage which he seized and converted so effectually to his ends, with all its masks did not suffice for the exigencies of this speaker's speech, 'who came prepared to speak well,' and 'to give to his speech a grace by action.'