A History of the French Novel. Volume 1. From the Beginning to 1800

From the drawbacks of both these pieces The Alchemist is wholly free. Jonson here escaped his usual pitfall of the unsympathetic, for the vices and follies he satirises are not loathsome, only contemptible at worst, and not always that. He found an opportunity of exercising his extraordinary faculty of concentration as he nowhere else did, and has given us in Sir Epicure Mammon a really magnificent picture of concupiscence, of sensual appetite generally, sublimed by heat of imagination into something really poetic. The triumvirate of adventurers, Subtle, Dol and Face (for Dol has virile qualities), are not respectable, but one does not hate them; and the gulls are perfection. If any character could be spared it is the "Angry Boy," a young person whose humours, as Jonson himself admits of another character elsewhere, are "more tedious than diverting." The Alchemist was followed by Catiline, and Catiline by Bartholomew Fair, a play in which singularly vivid and minute pictures of manners, very amusing sketches of character, and some capital satire on the Puritans, do not entirely redeem a profusion of the coarsest possible language and incident. The Devil is an Ass comes next in time, and though no single character is the equal of Zeal-of-the-land Busy in Bartholomew Fair, the play is even more amusing. The four last plays, The Staple of News, The Magnetic Lady, The New Inn, and The Tale of a Tub, which Jonson produced after long absence from the stage, were not successful, and were both unkindly and unjustly called by Dryden "Ben's dotages." As for the charming Sad Shepherd, it was never acted, and is now unfinished, though it is believed that the poet completed it. It stands midway as a pastoral Féerie between his regular plays and the great collection of ingenious and graceful masques and entertainments, which are at the top of all such things in England (unless Comus be called a masque), and which are worth comparing with the ballets and spectacle pieces of Molière. Perhaps a complete survey of Jonson's work indicates, as his greatest defect, the want of passion. He could be vigorous, he could be dignified, he could be broadly humorous, and, as has been said, he could combine with these the apparently incompatible, or, at least, not closely-connected faculty of grace. Of passion, of rapture, there is no trace in him, except in the single instance – in fire mingled with earth – of Sir Epicure Mammon. But the two following passages – one from Sejanus, one from The Sad Shepherd– will show his dignity and his pathos. No extract in brief could show his humour: —

Arr. "I would begin to study 'em,33 if I thoughtThey would secure me. May I pray to JoveIn secret and be safe? ay, or aloud,With open wishes, so I do not mentionTiberius or Sejanus? Yes I must,If I speak out. 'Tis hard that. May I thinkAnd not be racked? What danger is't to dream,Talk in one's sleep or cough? Who knows the laws?May I shake my head without a comment? SayIt rains, or it holds up, and not be thrownUpon the Gemonies? These now are things,Whereon men's fortune, yea, their fate depends.Nothing hath privilege 'gainst the violent ear.No place, no day, no hour, we see, is free,Not our religious and most sacred timesFrom some one kind of cruelty: all matter,Nay, all occasion pleaseth. Madmen's rage,The idleness of drunkards, women's nothing,Jester's simplicity, all, all is goodThat can be catcht at. Nor is now the eventOf any person, or for any crimeTo be expected; for 'tis always one:Death, with some little difference of placeOr time. What's this? Prince Nero, guarded!"Æg. "A spring, now she is dead! of what? of thorns,Briars and brambles? thistles, burs and docks?Cold hemlock, yews? the mandrake, or the box?These may grow still: but what can spring beside?Did not the whole earth sicken when she diedAs if there since did fall one drop of dew,But what was wept for her! or any stalkDid bear a flower, or any branch a bloom,After her wreath was made! In faith, in faith,You do not fair to put these things upon me,Which can in no sort be: EarineWho had her very being and her nameWith the first knots or buddings of the spring,Born with the primrose and the violetOr earliest roses blown: when Cupid smiledAnd Venus led the Graces out to dance,And all the flowers and sweets in nature's lapLeaped out and made their solemn conjurationTo last but while she lived! Do not I knowHow the vale withered the same day? how Dove,Dean, Eye, and Erwash, Idel, Snite and SoareEach broke his urn, and twenty waters moreThat swelled proud Trent, shrunk themselves dry, that sinceNo sun or moon, or other cheerful star,Looked out of heaven, but all the cope was darkAs it were hung so for her exequies!And not a voice or sound to ring her knellBut of that dismal pair, the screeching owlAnd buzzing hornet! Hark! hark! hark! the foulBird! how she flutters with her wicker wings!Peace! you shall hear her screech.Cla. Good Karolin, sing,Help to divert this phant'sy.Kar. All I can:Sings while Æg. reads the song.'Though I am young and cannot tellEither what Death or Love is well,Yet I have heard they both bear dartsAnd both do aim at human hearts:And then again, I have been told,Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold;So that I fear they do but bringExtremes to touch and mean one thing.'As in a ruin we it callOne thing to be blown up, or fall;Or to our end, like way may have,By a flash of lightning or a wave:So Love's inflamèd shaft or brandMay kill as soon as Death's cold hand,Except Love's fires the virtue haveTo fright the frost out of the grave.'"

Of no two contemporary men of letters in England can it be said that they were, intellectually speaking, so near akin as Ben Jonson and George Chapman. The translator of Homer was a good deal older than Jonson, and exceedingly little is known of his life. He was pretty certainly born near Hitchin in Hertfordshire, the striking situation of which points his reference to it even in these railroad days. The date is uncertain – it may have been 1557, and was certainly not later than 1559 – so that he was the oldest of the later Elizabethan school who survived into the Caroline period. He perhaps entered the University of Oxford in 1574. His first known work, The Shadow of Night, dates from 1594; and a reference of Meres's shows that he was known for tragedy four years later. In 1613 he, Jonson (a constant friend of his whose mutual fidelity refutes of itself the silly calumnies as to Jonson's enviousness, for of Chapman only, among his colleagues, was he likely to be jealous), and Marston were partners in the venture of Eastward Ho! which, for some real or fancied slight on Scotland, exposed the authors to danger of the law. He was certainly a protégé of Prince Henry, the English Marcellus, and he seems to have received patronage from a much less blameless patron, Carr, Earl of Somerset. His literary activity was continuous and equal, but it was in his later days that he attempted and won the crown of the greatest of English translators. "Georgius Chapmannus, Homeri metaphrastes" the posy of his portrait runs, and he himself seems to have quite sunk any expectation of fame from his original work in the expectation of remembrance as a translator of the Prince of Poets. Many other interesting traits suggest, rather than ascertain, themselves in reference to him, such as his possible connection with the early despatch of English troupes of players to Germany, and his adoption of contemporary French subjects for English tragedy. But of certain knowledge of him we have very little. What is certain is that, like Drayton (also a friend of his), he seems to have lived remote and afar from the miserable quarrels and jealousies of his time; that, as has been already shown by dates, he was a kind of English Fontenelle in his overlapping of both ends of the great school of English poets; and that absolutely no base personal gossip tarnishes his poetical fame. The splendid sonnet of Keats testifies to the influence which his work long had on those Englishmen who were unable to read Homer in the original. A fine essay of Mr. Swinburne's has done, for the first time, justice to his general literary powers, and a very ingenious and, among such hazardous things, unusually probable conjecture of Mr. Minto's identifies him with the "rival poet" of Shakespere's Sonnets. But these are adventitious claims to fame. What is not subject to such deduction is the assertion that Chapman was a great Englishman who, while exemplifying the traditional claim of great Englishmen to originality, independence, and versatility of work, escaped at once the English tendency to lack of scholarship, and to ignorance of contemporary continental achievements, was entirely free from the fatal Philistinism in taste and in politics, and in other matters, which has been the curse of our race, was a Royalist, a lover, a scholar, and has left us at once one of the most voluminous and peculiar collections of work that stand to the credit of any literary man of his country. It may be that his memory has gained by escaping the danger of such revelations or scandals as the Jonson confessions to Drummond, and that the lack of attraction to the ordinary reader in his work has saved him from that comparison which (it has perhaps been urged ad nauseam) is the bane of just literary judgment. To those who always strive to waive all such considerations, these things will make but little difference.

The only complete edition of Chapman's works dates from our own days, and its three volumes correspond to a real division of subject. Although, in common with all these writers, Chapman has had much uncertain and some improbable work fathered on him, his certain dramas supply one of the most interesting studies in our period. As usual with everyone except Shakespere and (it is a fair reason for the relatively disproportionate estimate of these so long held) Beaumont and Fletcher, they are extremely unequal. Not a certain work of Chapman is void of interest. The famous Eastward Ho! (one of the liveliest comedies of the period dealing with London life) was the work of three great writers, and it is not easy to distribute its collaboration. That it is not swamped with "humours" may prove that Jonson's learned sock was put on by others. That it is neither grossly indecent nor extravagantly sanguinary, shows that Marston had not the chief hand in it, and so we are left to Chapman. What he could do is not shown in the list of his own certain plays till All Fools. The Blind Beggar of Alexandria (1596?) and An Humorous Day's Mirth show that singular promiscuousness – that heaping together of scenes without order or connection – which we have noticed in the first dramatic period, not to mention that the way in which the characters speak of themselves, not as "I" but by their names in the third person, is also unmistakable. But All Fools is a much more noteworthy piece, and though Mr. Swinburne may have praised it rather highly, it would certainly take place in a collection of the score best comedies of the time not written by Shakespere. The Gentleman Usher and Monsieur d'Olive belong to the same school of humorous, not too pedantic comedy, and then we come to the strange series of Chapman's French tragedies, Bussy d'Ambois, The Revenge of Bussy d'Ambois, Byron's Conspiracy, The Tragedy of Charles, Duke of Byron, and The Tragedy of Philip Chabot, Admiral of France. These singular plays stand by themselves. Whether the strong influence which Marlowe exercised on Chapman led the later poet (who it must be remembered was not the younger) to continue The Massacre of Paris, or what other cause begat them, cannot now be asserted or even guessed without lost labour. A famous criticism of Dryden's attests his attention to them, but does not, perhaps, to those who have studied Dryden deeply, quite express the influence which Chapman had on the leader of post-Restoration tragedy. As plays, the whole five are models of what plays should not be; in parts, they are models of what plays should be. Then Chapman returned to the humour-comedy and produced two capital specimens of it in May-Day and The Widow's Tears. Alphonsus, Emperor of Germany, which contains long passages of German, and Revenge for Honour, two tragedies which were not published till long after Chapman's death, are to my mind very dubiously his. Mr. Swinburne, in dealing with them, availed himself of the hypothesis of a mellowing, but at the same time weakening of power by age. It may be so, and I have not the slightest intention of pronouncing decidedly on the subject. They bear to my mind much more mark of the decadent period of Charles I., when the secret of blank verse was for a time lost, and when even men who had lived in personal friendship with their great predecessors lapsed into the slipshod stuff that we find in Davenant, in his followers, and among them even in the earlier plays of Dryden. It is, of course, true that this loosening and slackening of the standard betrays itself even before the death of Chapman, which happened in 1634. But I cannot believe that the author of Bussy d'Ambois (where the verse is rude enough but never lax) and the contemporary or elder of Shakespere, Marlowe, and all the great race, could ever have been guilty of the slovenliness which, throughout, marks Revenge for Honour.

The second part of Chapman's work, his original verse, is much inferior in bulk and in interest of matter to the first and third. Yet, is it not perhaps inferior to either in giving evidence of the author's peculiarities; while the very best thing he ever wrote (a magnificent passage in The Tears of Peace) is contained in it. Its component parts are, however, sufficiently odd. It opens with a strange poem called The Shadow of Night, which Mr. Swinburne is not wrong in classing among the obscurest works in English. The mischievous fashion of enigmatic writing, already glanced at in the section on satire, was perhaps an offshoot of euphuism; and certainly Chapman, who never exhibits much taint of euphuism proper, here out-Herods Herod and out-Tourneurs Tourneur. It was followed by an equally singular attempt at the luscious school of which Venus and Adonis is the most famous. Ovid's Banquet of Sense has received high praise from critics whom I esteem. For my own part I should say that it is the most curious instance of a radically unpassionate nature, trying to lash itself into passion, that our language contains. Then Chapman tried an even bolder flight in the same dialect – the continuation of Marlowe's unfinished Hero and Leander. In this attempt, either by sheer force of his sinewy athletics, or by some inspiration derived from the "Dead Shepherd," his predecessor, he did not fail, curious as is the contrast of the two parts. The Tears of Peace, which contains his finest work, is in honour of Prince Henry – a worthy work on a worthy subject, which was followed up later by an epicedium on the prince's lamented death. Besides some epigrams and sonnets, the chief other piece of this division is the disastrous Andromeda Liberata, which unluckily celebrates the nuptials – stained with murder, adultery, and crime of all sorts – of Frances Howard and Robert Carr. It is in Chapman's most allusive and thorniest style, but is less interesting intrinsically than as having given occasion to an indignant prose vindication by the poet, which, considering his self-evident honesty, is the most valuable document in existence for explaining the apparently grovelling panegyric of the sixteenth and seventeenth century. It makes clear (what indeed an intelligent reader might gather for himself) that the traditional respect for rank and station, uniting with the tendency to look for patterns and precedents in the classics for almost everything, made of these panegyrics a kind of school exercise, in which the excellence of the subject was taken for granted, and the utmost hyperbole of praise was only a "common form" of composition, to which the poet imparted or added what grace of style or fancy he could, with hardly a notion of his ascriptions being taken literally.

But if Chapman's dramas have been greatly undervalued, and if his original poems are an invaluable help to the study of the time, there is no doubt that it is as a translator that he made and kept the strongest hold on the English mind. He himself spoke of his Homeric translations (which he began as early as 1598, doing also Hesiod, some Juvenal, and some minor fragments, Pseudo-Virgilian, Petrarchian and others) as "the work that he was born to do." His version, with all its faults, outlived the popularity even of Pope, was for more than two centuries the resort of all who, unable to read Greek, wished to know what the Greek was, and, despite the finical scholarship of the present day, is likely to survive all the attempts made with us. I speak with all humility, but as having learnt Homer from Homer himself, and not from any translation, prose or verse. I am perfectly aware of Chapman's outrageous liberties, of his occasional unfaithfulness (for a libertine need not necessarily be unfaithful in translation), and of the condescension to his own fancies and the fancies of his age, which obscures not more perhaps than some condescensions which nearness and contemporary influences prevent some of us from seeing the character of the original. But at the same time, either I have no skill in criticism, and have been reading Greek for fifty years to none effect, or Chapman is far nearer Homer than any modern translator in any modern language. He is nearer in the Iliad than in the Odyssey – an advantage resulting from his choice of vehicle. In the Odyssey he chose the heroic couplet, which never can give the rise and fall of the hexameter. In the Iliad, after some hesitation between the two (he began as early as 1598), he preferred the fourteener, which, at its best, is the hexameter's nearest substitute. With Chapman it is not always at its best – very far from it. If he never quite relapses into the sheer doggerel of the First Period, he sometimes comes perilously near to it. But he constantly lifts his wings and soars in a quite different measure which, when he keeps it up for a little, gives a narrative vehicle unsurpassed, and hardly equalled, in English poetry for variation of movement and steady forward flow combined. The one point in which the Homeric hexameter is unmatched among metres is its combination of steady advance with innumerable ripples and eddies in its course, and it is here that Chapman (though of course not fully) can partly match it. It is, however, one of the testimonies to the supreme merit of the Homeric poems that every age seems to try to imitate them in its own special mannerisms, and that, consequently, no age is satisfied with the attempts of another. It is a second, that those who know the original demur at all.

The characteristics of Chapman, then, are very much those of Jonson with a difference. Both had the same incapacity of unlaboured and forceless art, the same insensibility to passion, the same inability to rise above mere humours and contemporary oddities into the region of universal poetry. Both had the same extensive learning, the same immense energy, the same (if it must be said) arrogance and contempt of the vulgar. In casual strokes, though not in sustained grasp, Chapman was Jonson's superior; but unlike Jonson he had no lyric gift, and unlike Jonson he let his learning and his ambitious thought clog and obscure the flow of his English. Nor does he show in any of his original work the creative force of his younger friend. With the highest opinion reasonably possible of Chapman's dramas, we cannot imagine him for a moment composing a Volpone or an Alchemist– even a Bartholomew Fair; while he was equally, or still more, incapable of Jonson's triumphs in epigram and epitaph, in song and ode. A certain shapelessness is characteristic of everything that Chapman did – an inability, as Mr. Swinburne (to whom every one who now writes on Chapman must acknowledge indebtedness), has said, "to clear his mouth of pebbles, and his brow of fog." His long literary life, which must have exceeded half a century, and his great learning, forbid our setting this down as it may be set in the case of many of his contemporaries, and especially in the case of those two to whom we are now coming, as due to youth, to the imperfect state of surrounding culture, to want of time for perfecting his work, and so forth. He is the "Bègue de Vilaines," the heroic Stammerer of English literature – a man who evidently had some congenital defect which all his fire and force, all his care and curiosity, could not overcome. Yet are his doings great, and it is at least probable that if he had felt less difficulty in original work, he would not have been prompted to set about and finish the noble work of translation which is among the best products of an unsatisfactory kind, and which will outlive the cavils of generations of etymologists and aorist-grinders. He has been so little read that four specimens of his different manners – the early "tenebrous" style of The Shadow of Night, the famous passage from Bussy d'Ambois which excited Lamb's enthusiasm, and a sample from both Iliad and Odyssey– may be given:

"In this vast thicket (whose description's taskThe pens of fairies and of fiends would ask:So more than human-thoughted horrible)The souls of such as lived implausible,In happy empire of this goddess' glories,And scorned to crown her fanes with sacrifice,34Did ceaseless walk; exspiring fearful groans,Curses and threats for their confusions.Her darts, and arrows, some of them had slain:Others her dogs eat, painting her disdain,After she had transformed them into beasts:Others her monsters carried to their nests,Rent them in pieces, and their spirits sentTo this blind shade, to wail their banishment.The huntsmen hearing (since they could not hear)Their hounds at fault, in eager chase drew near,Mounted on lions, unicorns, and boars,And saw their hounds lie licking of their soresSome yearning at the shroud, as if they chidHer stinging tongues, that did their chase forbid:By which they knew the game was that way gone.Then each man forced the beast he rode upon,T' assault the thicket; whose repulsive thornsSo gall'd the lions, boars, and unicorns,Dragons and wolves, that half their couragesWere spent in roars, and sounds of heaviness:Yet being the princeliest, and hardiest beasts,That gave chief fame to those Ortygian forests,And all their riders furious of their sport,A fresh assault they gave, in desperate sort:And with their falchions made their way in wounds,The thicket open'd, and let in the hounds."
Bu. "What dismal change is here; the good old FriarIs murther'd, being made known to serve my love;And now his restless spirit would forewarn meOf some plot dangerous and imminent.Note what he wants? He wants his upper weed,He wants his life and body; which of theseShould be the want he means, and may supply meWith any fit forewarning? This strange vision(Together with the dark predictionUsed by the Prince of Darkness that was raisedBy this embodied shadow) stir my thoughtsWith reminiscion of the spirit's promise,Who told me, that by any invocationI should have power to raise him, though it wantedThe powerful words and decent rites of art;Never had my set brain such need of spiritT' instruct and cheer it; now, then, I will claimPerformance of his free and gentle vowT' appear in greater light and make more plainHis rugged oracle. I long to knowHow my dear mistress fares, and be inform'dWhat hand she now holds on the troubled bloodOf her incensed lord. Methought the spirit(When he had utter'd his perplex'd presage)Threw his changed countenance headlong into clouds,His forehead bent, as it would hide his face,He knock'd his chin against his darken'd breast,And struck a churlish silence through his powers.Terror of darkness! O, thou king of flames!That with thy music-footed horse dost strikeThe clear light out of crystal on dark earth,And hurl'st instructive fire about the world,Wake, wake, the drowsy and enchanted nightThat sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle;Or thou great prince of shades where never sunSticks his far darted beams, whose eyes are madeTo shine in darkness, and see ever bestWhere sense is blindest: open now the heartOf thy abashed oracle, that for fearOf some ill it includes, would fain lie hid,And rise thou with it in thy greater light.""For Hector's glory still he stood, and ever went aboutTo make him cast the fleet such fire, as never should go out;Heard Thetis' foul petition, and wished in any wiseThe splendour of the burning ships might satiate his eyes.35From him yet the repulse was then to be on Troy conferred,The honour of it given the Greeks; which thinking on, he stirr'dWith such addition of his spirit, the spirit Hector boreTo burn the fleet, that of itself was hot enough before.But now he fared like Mars himself, so brandishing his lanceAs, through the deep shades of a wood, a raging fire should glance,Held up to all eyes by a hill; about his lips a foamStood as when th' ocean is enraged; his eyes were overcomeWith fervour and resembled flames, set off by his dark brows,And from his temples his bright helm abhorrèd lightnings throws;For Jove, from forth the sphere of stars, to his state put his ownAnd all the blaze of both the hosts confined in him alone.And all this was, since after this he had not long to live,This lightning flew before his death, which Pallas was to give(A small time thence, and now prepared) beneath the violenceOf great Pelides. In meantime, his present eminenceThought all things under it; and he, still where he saw the standsOf greatest strength and bravest arm'd, there he would prove his hands,Or no where; offering to break through, but that passed all his powerAlthough his will were past all theirs, they stood him like a towerConjoined so firm, that as a rock, exceeding high and great,And standing near the hoary sea, bears many a boisterous threatOf high-voiced winds and billows huge, belched on it by the storms;So stood the Greeks great Hector's charge, nor stirred their battellous forms.""This the Goddess told,And then the morning in her throne of goldSurveyed the vast world; by whose orient lightThe nymph adorn'd me with attires as bright,Her own hands putting on both shirt and weedRobes fine, and curious, and upon my headAn ornament that glittered like a flame;Girt me in gold; and forth betimes I cameAmongst my soldiers, roused them all from sleep,And bade them now no more observance keepOf ease, and feast, but straight a shipboard fall,For now the Goddess had inform'd me all.Their noble spirits agreed; nor yet so clearCould I bring all off, but Elpenor thereHis heedless life left. He was youngest manOf all my company, and one that wanLeast fame for arms, as little for his brain;Who (too much steep'd in wine and so made fainTo get refreshing by the cool of sleep,Apart his fellows plung'd in vapours deep,And they as high in tumult of their way)Suddenly waked and (quite out of the stayA sober mind had given him) would descendA huge long ladder, forward, and an endFell from the very roof, full pitching onThe dearest joint his head was placed upon,Which quite dissolved, let loose his soul to hell."

With regard to Marston (of whose little-known personality something has been said in connection with his satires) I find myself somewhat unable to agree with the generality of critics, who seem to me to have been rather taken in by his blood-and-thunder work, his transpontine declamation against tyrants, and his affectation of a gloomy or furious scorn against mankind. The uncouthness, as well as the suspicion of insincerity, which we noted in his satirical work, extend, as it seems to me, also to his dramas; and if we class him as a worker in horrors with Marlowe earlier, and with Webster and Ford later, the chief result will be to show his extreme inferiority to them. He is even below Tourneur in this respect, while, like Tourneur, he is exposed to the charge of utterly neglecting congruity and proportion. With him we relapse not merely from the luminous perfection of Shakespere, from the sane order of work which was continued through Fletcher, and the best of Fletcher's followers, but from the more artificial unity of Jonson, back into the chaotic extravagances of the First Period. Marston, like the rest, is fond of laughing at Jeronimo, but his own tragic construction and some of his own tragic scenes are hardly less bombastic, and scarcely at all less promiscuous than the tangled horrors of that famous melodrama. Marston, it is true, has lucid intervals – even many of them. Hazlitt has succeeded in quoting many beautiful passages, one of which was curiously echoed in the next age by Nat. Lee, in whom, indeed, there was a strong vein of Elizabethan melodrama. The sarcasm on philosophical study in What You Will is one of the very best things of its own kind in the range of English drama, – light, sustained, not too long nor too short, in fact, thoroughly "hit off."