Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

When the poet Shenstone was in London, in the spring of 1740, he wrote to a friend," Chimneysweepers damn the convention, and black-shoe boys cry up the genius of Shakspeare." Yet the penny edition had not then appeared; and Sir John Falstaff could never have entertained the hope of meeting Mrs. Page through MEADOWS. Is there no flower in the garden of English poetry but Sweet-William? One of Burney's recollections of Johnson's conversation, during those nights at Streatham when they sat out fire and candle, was concerning epitaphs,"In lapidary inscriptions a man is not upon oath." But then let us not forget that it is a lapidary inscription. Martin Sherlock has very sensibly said, "The only view of Shakspeare was to make his fortune; and for that it were necessary to fill the playhouse. At the same time that he caused the duchess to enter the boxes, he would cause her servants to enter the pit. The people have always money; to make them spend it, they must be diverted. There never existed three men who had more taste than Raphael, Molière, and Shakspeare. All three have erred against good taste. But let us not, therefore, say that they were unacquainted with it; let us rather say that they sacrificed it to the desire of making their fortunes."* Now, if Sherlock is to be censured for this opinion, let him stand in the pillory in good society. Pope, in his Imitations of Horace, had long before declared,

"Shakspeare (whom you and every playhouse bill

Style the divine, the matchless, what you will),

For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight, And grew immortal in his own despite." Nor was this an opinion hitched in for the sake of rhyme; it was the deliberate judgment of Pope, who reiterates it in his excellent preface to the poet's works :-" One cannot wonder if Shakspeare, having at his first appearance no other aim in his writings than to procure a subsistence, directed his endeavours solely to hit the taste and humour that then prevailed. The audience was generally composed of the meaner sort of people; and therefore the images of life

* Fragment on Shakspeare, 3. 1786.

were to be drawn from those of their own rank." And further on he resumes the same argument; and after alluding to the buoyancy of the poet's genius, which keeps him from sinking in this oppressive and thick atmosphere of low humour, he continues: "He writ to the people; and writ at first without patronage from the better sort, and therefore without aims of pleasing them,--in a word, without any views of reputation, and of what poets are pleased to call immortality I am aware that Pope did not shine as an editor of Shakspeare. He has himself spoken of the dull duty of an editor. He was not deeply versed in the trash of antiquarian collectors; he was not like the doctor who inserted in his bills that "he delighted in matters of difficulty."† He was not a word-catcher, living on syllables. But upon a question of criticism he deserves to be heard.

[ocr errors]

Voltaire remarked to Sherlock, when he visited him at Ferney in 1776, after pointing out two or three disgraceful expressions in one of Shakspeare's plays, "See what it is to be an author; he will do any thing to get money." To be sure he will; that is, when he condescends to write to a sixpenny gallery, and to solicit the vote of a dustman. I do not attach any value to Voltaire's judgment of English poetry, of which he was a most incompetent judge; but upon a simple point of common sense his testimony may certainly be admitted. His observation to a visitor, upon the reverence shewn in England to the memory of Shakspeare, has even beauty in it. "He has been," he said of Shakspeare," the taste of the nation for two hundred years; and what is the taste of a nation for two hundred years will be so for two thousand. This taste becomes a religion." The concluding sentence seems to me to contain a wise and philosophical sentiment. Voltaire, when he uttered it, was in his eighty-third year.

"A general and long-continued reputation," says Rochefoucauld, “is rarely false." There is truth in the remark. The glory of Shakspeare is fixed and indestructible, except with the human heart. New stars must be lighted, and a new intellectual

+ See note on Dunciad, b. iii. 192.

heaven must be created, before his brightness can be extinguished. But in lifting up my voice against the Shakspeare epidemic, I am not disposed to slide into contumelious flippancy, from a desire to avoid the fulsomeness of panegyric. We do not deny the beauty of the sun, because it happens to be overclouded for a moment. Neither am I going to emulate the criticism of the father of Mrs. Carter. "Mr. Pope's reputation," wrote the doctor to his learned daughter, "seems to be on the decline. It has had its run; and it is no wonder that it is out of breath." Shakspeare's reputation will never be out of breath, however it may be goaded forward.

66

The best pieces of Shakspeare," says Sherlock, not in his Fragment, but in Letters from a Traveller (1780), "have some faults; but each of his good ones seems to me to resemble the church of St. Peter. This temple, the most wonderful in the world, has a thousand faults, a thousand bad things in sculpture, painting; but I pity the man who thinks of looking for them. When a fault presents itself, let him take a step further, a sublime beauty awaits him."-P. 60. Very good-by all means take a step further; but, in passing by the faults, don't assert them to be beauties, and pelt out of the temple of poetry all who presume to assert the rights of critical Protestantism. There is a class of writers who regard the works of Shakspeare as the metropolis of poetical orthodoxy; and who would not hesitate in burning any recusant Servetus, who might be caught in their Geneva. Before I take leave of Shakspeare, let me make my peace with his devotees by an anecdote from the same book of Sherlock (p. 48), and which pleasingly illustrates the naturalness of that greatest of our poets. While Sherlock was at Naples, the queen lost her son, and continually exclaimed, in her sorrow, "Ah! if my son had not been pretty, my loss would have been less severe; but it was the most charming child." Now, it is curious that Shakspeare has put the same sentiment-an expansion of the same words-into the mouth of a

queen in his tragedy of King John. Constance says,— "Had he been ugly, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, Patch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks,

I would not care; I then would be con

tent.

But since the birth of Cain, the first male. child,

There was not such a gracious creature born."

Mr. Hallam wrote his account of Romeo and Juliet in one of those tranquil intervals that sometimes relieve the Shakspeare epidemic, as well as other fevers. The faults he admits to be in prodigious number: "The conceits, the phrases that jar on the mind's ear, and interfere with the very emotion the poet would excite, occur, at least, in the first three acts without intermission. It seems to have formed part of his conception of this youthful and ardent pair, that they should talk irrationally. The extravagance of their fancy, however, not only forgets reason, but wastes itself in frigid metaphors and incongruous conceptions. The tone of

Romeo is that of the most bombastic commonplace of gallantry; and the young lady differs only in being one degree more mad. The voice of virgin love has been counterfeited by the authors of many fictions; I know none who have thought the style of Juliet would represent it. Nor is this confined to the happier moments of their intercourse. False thoughts and misplaced phrases deform the whole of the third act." This is written in a manly vein of independent criticism.

The stooping of his disenchanted wings to the sordid ignorance of the age, is perceptible throughout the works of Shakspeare. Perhaps I ought rather to say that the atmosphere in which he lived exerted its natural influence upon the constitution of his mind, and that he sometimes involuntarily sank under it. His drums, his trumpets, his mock fights, his attenuated witticisms,what were these but sops to the Cerberus of the pit? Harlequin leaps into the middle of his tragic pageant; the full cheeks of Laughter

* Introduction to the Literature of Europe, t. ii. 393. † Sir John Denham.

66

are seen by the pallid face of Grief; and even Hamlet himself is carried off with a peal of ordnance." Something of this ought, as I have remarked, to be ascribed to the temper of the audience. If Shakspeare played with Dalilah, her fascination was soon broken. He did not, as Prior represents the fourth Henry with the fair D'Estrée, forsake entirely the fields of his victory,—

"Or in his pleasure lose his fame."* He is alone amid all the poets who block up the gates of Fame, in the beginning of the seventeenth century. In stature, in nerve, in arms, he overtops and outglitters all. Mezentius did not advance against Æneas with more grandeur and disdain, than Shakspeare moved among the wits and rivals of his day,

"Quam magnus Orion, Quum pedes incedit medii per maxima Nerei

Stagna viam scindens, humero supereminet undas;

Aut, summis referens annosam montibus

ornum.

Ingrediturque solo, et caput inter nubila condit."-En., b. x. v. 767.

Pope says, very tersely, "He is not so much an imitator as an instrument of nature; and 'tis not so just to say that he speaks from her, as that she speaks through him." He could transport himself into the world of the heart, or the world of history, with almost equal success. Let him describe a Roman, and you would swear that he had lived with Cæsar, and sat in the tent with Brutus at Philippi. The story of Agis,” said Gray, alluding to Home's tragedy, "is an antique statue painted white and red, frized and dressed in a negligée made by a Yorkshire mantuamaker." No critic will ever venture to say so of Shakspeare:

66

"In Rubens' course we trace each wide extreme,

Its dazzling lustre or its doubtful gleam; But though, like Avon's bard, its orb displays

Some darker parts amidst the general blaze,

Struck by his splendour each rapt eye admires,

For while we see his spots, we feel his fires."†

A CHAPTER ON TAILORS.

THE journalist ought to aim at expanding the intellects and amending the morals of his countrymen. As a duty arising out of this indisputable affirmation, we propose saying a few hasty words in defence of tailors. It is needless to mince the matter. Whatever may be the case in other countries, it is certain that in Great Britain tailors, notwithstanding the respect commanded in his own right by an individual here and there, are looked upon as une race proscrite. We have emancipated those miserable and unhappy fanatics, called Roman Catholics; we have cheerfully raised up Jews to high stations; we justly consider shoemakers, pin - makers, pie-makers, candle-makers, cabinetmakers, paper-makers, pipe-makers, soap-boilers, pork - butchers, tripeboilers, gin-spinners, beer-brewers, drysalters, slop-sellers, and numberless other tradesmen, as being quite eligible for the highest civic honours;

Alma. Canto II.

but we never have got over our antipathy to the tailor. We will not elect him to be high sheriff or alderman, far less lord-mayor. The very name of his profession is most absurdly and pertinaciously used as a byword for all that is contemptible in character. So rooted is the prejudice, that we never tire even of those old mysterious doctrines that exist concerning his nature; for example, that nine tailors make only one man, a doctrine by which the otherwise acute and ingenious Charles Lamb found himself so puzzled and bewildered.

This doctrine is bizarre, but it is uneradicable; and with regard to it Radicals, Whigs, and Tories, are unanimous. Not merely Charles Lamb, who elaborately investigates the matter, but Sir Walter Scott, and other authors of the highest grade, have recognised the same dictum. We persist in it, as we do in divers odd illustrations drawn from our

↑ Sir Martin Archer Shee.

frenzied misconceptions of tailors; as for example, if an article is ill-written, or any other duty, be it what it may, is ill-performed, then, forsooth, it is done dans le genre tailleure,-in plain English, tailor-like! Nay, so cruel is the law of proscription which, in our wisdom, we have established against the craft, that to be a tailor's son, or great-great-grandson, is as bad nearly as to be a tailor oneself. There may be exceptions to the rule; but great and heroic must be the force of individual character in the son or grandson, who can utterly "sink the tailor."

Nay, we recollect one exampleit is a tragic story-of a youth just entered at Cambridge-affluent, wellborn, his father having been a distinguished officer, and his grandfather a clergyman. As yet, the youth himself remained profoundly ignorant that one step farther back in the family chronicle would bring him to the tailor! Unfortunately he failed, and was laughed at on his first examination; and, as mischance would have it, he himself about the same time made the appalling discovery that in his own veins - in his own heart, to which he had hitherto trusted might lurk by inheritance certain drops of contamination, than which he would fifty times rather have encountered the bite of a rabid cat, or been drowned in the deepest and muddiest eddy of the river. This was a direful misapplication of the rule γνωθι σεαυτον. No wonder now that he had failed in contending for a prize! Henceforward he lost health, lost courage, lost his natural senses; in one word, lost himself, and was awake-horribly awakeonly to the tailor! He would have no confidant; "bitter," of course, "was the grief devoured alone"* (or rather he was worse than alone, for the tailor haunted him); hope was utterly extinguished, and the too sensitive youth perished, an untimely martyr to the vile prejudice against which we are now so earnestly contending.

Yes, it is too true; one solitary goose or gigantic pair of scissors amongst a family, however numerous, is enough to contaminate, poison, degrade, and destructify the whole race.

The artist's memory is here immortal, with a vengeance. His descendants and relatives, to the third and fourth generation, and in all the collateral branches, never hear the last of it. They must escape from England to countries where the damnable truth is unknown, otherwise the consciousness of its indestructible existence will corrode their vitals. Nay, it is quite possible to cross the wild sea, which rages betwixt Dover and Calais, without being able to "sink the tailor." All the world knows, and of course every one remembers the sad mishap of two adventurous young men, respectable in dress, demeanour, and conversation, who having a week's leave of absence from the shopboard, during some fine weather in autumn, crossed the Channel, determining whilst they themselves floated, that the tailor should sink. Vain hope! As the veracious" Josephus" informs us, their first dinner at a French hotel did not come at the exact hour as appointed, and announced by the gorgeous pendule on the chimney-piece. They remonstrated angrily, and - oh, horrible! -the garçon, with an ironical grimace, pronounced—nay, repeated --the words," tout à l'heure, tout à l'heure"-two tailors! They stamped with rage; and the relentless varlet wheeled about on reaching the door, and, in a loud tone, audible to all the house, bawled out, "two tailors!" Thereafter in vain did an excellent dinner make its appearance by the hands of another garçon. Already they had enough of French cookery, being themselves" done brown." The dindon aux truffes was insipid ; the rosy vin de Rousillon was embittered; even the cognac itself betrayed the fadeur of a broken spirit. The fallacious hope of enjoying "liberty and equality" for one week, was crushed and withered even within the first hour of their existence on these democratic shores. Levelled they were to their former standard, and crest-fallen they returned to Dover.

[ocr errors]

That tailors should be sensitive to the unmerited odium, the prescriptive bann under which they live, cannot be wondered at. Like the Jews and Roman Catholics of former days,

* Lady of the Lake-l'Envoye.

they may be silent on the subject, and seem reckless, but they must feel it nevertheless. And the worst of our national conduct is, that we persist in it even whilst acknowledging its absurdity. The error is wilful, therefore the more decidedly incurable. The mere wanderer might be reclaimed; but he who voluntarily turns to the left and into the mud, whilst the right-hand path invites him, is beyond the range of rational instruction. Knowing, then, as they must do, the prejudice entertained against them, why should not the community of tailors club together for the sole purpose of manifesting their resentment and vengeance against the world by whom they are thus obstinately misrepresented and maltreated? But the tailor entertains no such misanthropical notions. He bears the wrongs inflicted on him with philosophical composure, and

66

goes on his way rejoicing," until the current of events brings some convenient opportunity of retaliation.

Notwithstanding his temptations to misanthropy, his consciousness how many brilliant stars he has made (their brilliancy depending far more upon his glossy coats than on their own wits), and with what vile ingratitude he has been requited; yet how admirably courteous, how affable, how nimble, how quick at catching, indeed anticipating, every idea is the tailor on the first visit of a new customer! We shall depict an interview of this kind, and take for our example a not very uncommon case. Suppose a youth of good birth and

66

good expectations" for the first time immerged into the vortex of life in London. Of course he requires a good schneider. Under circumstances like his (for he possesses not enough of mind to join two, far less three ideas together) the world would be closed against him if he were not well-dressed! He is recommended, perhaps, by the Hon. Mr. So-and-So, and (whether at his own house or the tailor's, it matters not) is no doubt treated with the utmost courtesy. But on the other hand, has he manifested any degree, however slight, of real politeness? No! Through his expressions, however bland, it is easy to detect that the fool considers it a duty to remember that he is speaking to a tailor. Latin, Greek, geometry,

and algebra, have been tried upon him in vain. His brain proved impenetrable. But he is at least "fly" to this much, that the tailor is only the ninth part of a man, consequently ought not even to have a name. He therefore affects to stammer, addressing the artist invariably as Mr. A-a-aw! and to every question replies in the most supercilious tones de haut en bas. And yet the paltry puppy knows full well that upon the skilful operations of this very individual whom he pretends to despise, depend his future fortunes!

His

own character, if he has any, would help him no more than will the ghost of Sir Charles Sedley, or Beau Nash, or Beau Brummell! With the fashionable coat he may be something in the world, or rather the coat will be something: he himself always has been, and always will be, a mere cipher.

The measure and instructions are taken. The good artist catches in a trice-more from his own perceptions of character than from the awkward expressions of the youthwhat the latter is driving at. But to make the matter sure, he perhaps exhibits several suits already finished, and in the pink of the mode, from which the débutant, with an immense attempt at dignity and nonchalance, selects such as he considers exactly "the thing." Yes, with an attempt at nonchalance, though perhaps all the while his tiny heart leaps within him at the thoughts of what a swell he will be!

The artist is known to be the very pattern and model of punctuality. The "articles" are sent home and found to fit with the utmost precision. They are indeed so much the thing, that the good-natured customer forthwith obligingly orders two or three more suits, which are finished accordingly; and with such a wardrobe the youth certainly does cut a figure about town; his own meaning visage saying nothing, but his dress very distinctly announcing that he has a good tailor.

un

But though conscious, as he must be, of the advantage thus derived, has our sprig of gentility ever entertained in his heart one spark of gratitude towards the man from whose industry, skill, and courage, they were derived? Ay, courage!

« AnteriorContinuar »