Books: Preface to Shakespeare
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Samuel Johnson >> Preface to Shakespeare
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There is however proof enough that he was a very diligent reader,
nor was our language then so indigent of books, but that he might
very liberally indulge his curiosity without excursion into foreign
literature. Many of the Roman authours were translated, and some of
the Greek; the reformation had filled the kingdom with theological
learning; most of the topicks of human disquisition had found English
writers; and poetry had been cultivated, not only with diligence,
but success. This was a stock of knowledge sufficient for a mind
so capable of appropriating and improving it.
But the greater part of his excellence was the product of his own
genius. He found the English stage in a state of the utmost rudeness;
no essays either in tragedy or comedy had appeared, from which it
could be discovered to what degree of delight either one or other
might be carried. Neither character nor dialogue were yet understood.
Shakespeare may be truly said to have introduced them both amongst
us, and in some of his happier scenes to have carried them both to
the utmost height.
By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is not easily
known; for the chronology of his works is yet unsettled. Rowe is of
opinion, that "perhaps we are not to look for his beginning, like
those of other writers, in his least perfect works; art had so
little, and nature so large a share in what he did, that for ought
I know," says he, "the performances of his youth, as they were the
most vigorous, were the best." But the power of nature is only the
power of using to any certain purpose the materials which diligence
procures, or opportunity supplies. Nature gives no man knowledge,
and when images are collected by study and experience, can only
assist in combining or applying them. Shakespeare, however favoured
by nature, could impart only what he had learned; and as he must
increase his ideas, like other mortals, by gradual acquisition, he,
like them, grew wiser as he grew older, could display life better,
as he knew it more, and instruct with more efficacy, as he was
himself more amply instructed.
There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy of distinction which
books and precepts cannot confer; from this almost all original and
native excellence proceeds. Shakespeare must have looked upon mankind
with perspicacity, in the highest degree curious and attentive.
Other writers borrow their characters from preceding writers, and
diversify them only by the accidental appendages of present manners;
the dress is a little varied, but the body is the same. Our authour
had both matter and form to provide; for except the characters of
Chaucer, to whom I think he is not much indebted, there were no
writers in English, and perhaps not many in other modern languages,
which shewed life in its native colours.
The contest about the original benevolence or malignity of man had
not yet commenced. Speculation had not yet attempted to analyse
the mind, to trace the passions to their sources, to unfold the
seminal principles of vice and virtue, or sound the depths of the
heart for the motives of action. All those enquiries, which from
that time that human nature became the fashionable study, have been
made sometimes with nice discernment, but often with idle subtilty,
were yet unattempted. The tales, with which the infancy of learning
was satisfied, exhibited only the superficial appearances of action,
related the events but omitted the causes, and were formed for such
as delighted in wonders rather than in truth. Mankind was not then
to be studied in the closet; he that would know the world, was
under the necessity of gleaning his own remarks, by mingling as he
could in its business and amusements.
Boyle congratulated himself upon his high birth, because it favoured
his curiosity, by facilitating his access. Shakespeare had no such
advantage; he came to London a needy adventurer, and lived for a
time by very mean employments. Many works of genius and learning
have been performed in states of life, that appear very little
favourable to thought or to enquiry; so many, that he who considers
them is inclined to think that he sees enterprise and perseverance
predominating over all external agency, and bidding help and
hindrance vanish before them. The genius of Shakespeare was not to
be depressed by the weight of poverty, nor limited by the narrow
conversation to which men in want are inevitably condemned; the
incumbrances of his fortune were shaken from his mind, "as dewdrops
from a lion's mane."
Though he had so many difficulties to encounter, and so little assistance
to surmount them, he has been able to obtain an exact knowledge of
many modes of life, and many casts of native dispositions; to vary
them with great multiplicity; to mark them by nice distinctions;
and to shew them in full view by proper combinations. In this part
of his performances He had none to imitate, but has himself been
imitated by all succeeding writers; and it may be doubted, whether
from all his successors more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or
more rules of practical prudence, can be collected, than he alone
has given to his country.
Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men; he was an
exact surveyor of the inanimate world; his descriptions have always
some peculiarities, gathered by contemplating things as they really
exist. It may be observed, that the oldest poets of many nations
preserve their reputation, and that the following generations
of wit, after a short celebrity, sink into oblivion. The first,
whoever they be, must take their sentiments and descriptions
immediately from knowledge; the resemblance is therefore just,
their descriptions are verified by every eye, and their sentiments
acknowledged by every breast. Those whom their fame invites to the
same studies, copy partly them, and partly nature, till the books
of one age gain such authority, as to stand in the place of nature
to another, and imitation, always deviating a little, becomes at
last capricious and casual. Shakespeare, whether life or nature
be his subject, shews plainly, that he has seen with his own eyes;
he gives the image which he receives, not weakened or distorted by
the intervention of any other mind; the ignorant feel his representations
to be just, and the learned see that they are compleat.
Perhaps it would not be easy to find any authour, except Homer, who
invented so much as Shakespeare, who so much advanced the studies
which he cultivated, or effused so much novelty upon his age
or country. The form, the characters, the language, and the shows
of the English drama are his. "He seems," says Dennis, "to have
been the very original of our English tragical harmony, that is,
the harmony of blank verse, diversified often by dissyllable and
trissyllable terminations. For the diversity distinguishes it from
heroick harmony, and by bringing it nearer to common use makes it
more proper to gain attention, and more fit for action and dialogue.
Such verse we make when we are writing prose; we make such verse
in common conversation."
I know not whether this praise is rigorously just. The dissyllable
termination, which the critick rightly appropriates to the drama,
is to be found, though, I think, not in Gorboduc which is confessedly
before our authour; yet in Hieronnymo, of which the date is not
certain, but which there is reason to believe at least as old as
his earliest plays. This however is certain, that he is the first
who taught either tragedy or comedy to please, there being no
theatrical piece of any older writer, of which the name is known,
except to antiquaries and collectors of books, which are sought
because they are scarce, and would not have been scarce, had they
been much esteemed.
To him we must ascribe the praise, unless Spenser may divide it
with him, of having first discovered to how much smoothness and
harmony the English language could be softened. He has speeches,
perhaps sometimes scenes, which have all the delicacy of Rowe,
without his effeminacy. He endeavours indeed commonly to strike
by the force and vigour of his dialogue, but he never executes his
purpose better, than when he tries to sooth by softness.
Yet it must be at last confessed, that as we owe every thing to
him, he owes something to us; that, if much of his praise is paid
by perception and judgement, much is likewise given by custom and
veneration. We fix our eyes upon his graces, and turn them from his
deformities, and endure in him what we should in another loath or
despise. If we endured without praising, respect for the father
of our drama might excuse us; but I have seen, in the book of some
modern critick, a collection of anomalies which shew that he has
corrupted language by every mode of depravation, but which his
admirer has accumulated as a monument of honour.
He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence, but perhaps
not one play, which, if it were now exhibited as the work of a
contemporary writer, would be heard to the conclusion. I am indeed
far from thinking, that his works were wrought to his own ideas
of perfection; when they were such as would satisfy the audience,
they satisfied the writer. It is seldom that authours, though more
studious of fame than Shakespeare, rise much above the standard
of their own age; to add a little of what is best will always
be sufficient for present praise, and those who find themselves
exalted into fame, are willing to credit their encomiasts, and to
spare the labour of contending with themselves.
It does not appear, that Shakespeare thought his works worthy of
posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon future times, or
had any further prospect, than of present popularity and present
profit. When his plays had been acted, his hope was at an end;
he solicited no addition of honour from the reader. He therefore
made no scruple to repeat the same jests in many dialogues, or to
entangle different plots by the same knot of perplexity, which may
be at least forgiven him, by those who recollect, that of Congreve's
four comedies, two are concluded by a marriage in a mask, by a
deception, which perhaps never happened, and which, whether likely
or not, he did not invent.
So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, though he
retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet little "declined into
the vale of years," before he could be disgusted with fatigue,
or disabled by infirmity, he made no collection of his works, nor
desired to rescue those that had been already published from the
depravations that obscured them, or secure to the rest a better
destiny, by giving them to the world in their genuine state.
Of the plays which bear the name of Shakespeare in the late editions,
the greater part were not published till about seven years after
his death, and the few which appeared in his life are apparently
thrust into the world without the care of the authour, and therefore
probably without his knowledge.
Of all the publishers, clandestine or professed, their negligence
and unskilfulness has by the late revisers been sufficiently shown.
The faults of all are indeed numerous and gross, and have not only
corrupted many passages perhaps beyond recovery, but have brought
others into suspicion, which are only obscured by obsolete
phraseology, or by the writer's unskilfulness and affectation. To
alter is more easy than to explain, and temerity is a more common
quality than diligence. Those who saw that they must employ conjecture
to a certain degree, were willing to indulge it a little further.
Had the authour published his own works, we should have sat quietly
down to disentangle his intricacies, and clear his obscurities; but
now we tear what we cannot loose, and eject what we happen not to
understand.
The faults are more than could have happened without the concurrence
of many causes. The stile of Shakespeare was in itself ungrammatical,
perplexed and obscure; his works were transcribed for the players
by those who may be supposed to have seldom understood them; they
were transmitted by copiers equally unskilful, who still multiplied
errours; they were perhaps sometimes mutilated by the actors,
for the sake of shortening the speeches; and were at last printed
without correction of the press.
In this state they remained, not as Dr. Warburton supposes,
because they were unregarded, but because the editor's art was not
yet applied to modern languages, and our ancestors were accustomed
to so much negligence of English printers, that they could very
patiently endure it. At last an edition was undertaken by Rowe;
not because a poet was to be published by a poet, for Rowe seems
to have thought very little on correction or explanation, but that
our authour's works might appear like those of his fraternity, with
the appendages of a life and recommendatory preface. Rowe has been
clamorously blamed for not performing what he did not undertake,
and it is time that justice be done him, by confessing, that though
he seems to have had no thought of corruption beyond the printer's
errours, yet he has made many emendations, if they were not made
before, which his successors have received without acknowledgment,
and which, if they had produced them, would have filled pages
and pages with censures of the stupidity by which the faults were
committed, with displays of the absurdities which they involved, with
ostentatious exposition of the new reading, and self congratulations
on the happiness of discovering it.
Of Rowe, as of all the editors, I have preserved the preface and
have likewise retained the authour's life, though not written with
much elegance or spirit; it relates however what is now to be known,
and therefore deserves to pass through all succeeding publications.
The nation had been for many years content enough with Mr. Rowe's
performance, when Mr. Pope made them acquainted with the true
state of Shakespeare's text, shewed that it was extremely corrupt,
and gave reason to hope that there were means of reforming it. He
collated the old copies, which none had thought to examine before,
and restored many lines to their integrity; but, by a very compendious
criticism, he rejected whatever he disliked, and thought more of
amputation than of cure.
I know not why he is commended by Dr. Warburton for distinguishing
the genuine from the spurious plays. In this choice he exerted no
judgement of his own; the plays which he received, were given by
Hemings and Condel, the first editors; and those which he rejected,
though, according to the licentiousness of the press in those
times, they were printed during Shakespeare's life, with his name,
had been omitted by his friends, and were never added to his works
before the edition of 1664, from which they were copied by the
later printers.
This was a work which Pope seems to have thought unworthy of his
abilities, being not able to suppress his contempt of "the dull
duty of an editor". He understood but half his undertaking. The
duty of a collator is indeed dull, yet, like other tedious tasks,
is very necessary; but an emendatory critick would ill discharge
his duty, without qualities very different from dulness. In perusing
a corrupted piece, he must have before him all possibilities of
meaning, with all possibilities of expression. Such must be his
comprehension of thought, and such his copiousness of language. Out
of many readings possible, he must be able to select that which best
suits with the state, opinions, and modes of language prevailing
in every age, and with his authour's particular cast of thought,
and turn of expression. Such must be his knowledge, and such his
taste. Conjectural criticism demands more than humanity possesses,
and he that exercises it with most praise has very frequent need
of indulgence. Let us now be told no more of the dull duty of an
editor.
Confidence is the common consequence of success. They whose excellence
of any kind has been loudly celebrated, are ready to conclude,
that their powers are universal. Pope's edition fell below his own
expectations, and he was so much offended, when he was found to
have left any thing for others to do, that he past the latter part
of his life in a state of hostility with verbal criticism.
I have retained all his notes, that no fragment of so great a writer
may be lost; his preface, valuable alike for elegance of composition
and justness of remark, and containing a general criticism on his
authour, so extensive that little can be added, and so exact, that
little can be disputed, every editor has an interest to suppress,
but that every reader would demand its insertion.
Pope was succeeded by Theobald, a man of narrow comprehension and
small acquisitions, with no native and intrinsick splendour of
genius, with little of the artificial light of learning, but zealous
for minute accuracy, and not negligent in pursuing it. He collated
the ancient copies, and rectified many errors. A man so anxiously
scrupulous might have been expected to do more, but what little he
did was commonly right.
In his report of copies and editions he is not to be trusted,
without examination. He speaks sometimes indefinitely of copies,
when he has only one. In his enumeration of editions, he mentions
the two first folios as of high, and the third folio as of middle
authority; but the truth is, that the first is equivalent to all
others, and that the rest only deviate from it by the printer's
negligence. Whoever has any of the folios has all, excepting those
diversities which mere reiteration of editions will produce. I
collated them all at the beginning, but afterwards used only the
first.
Of his notes I have generally retained those which he retained
himself in his second edition, except when they were confuted by
subsequent annotators, or were too minute to merit preservation. I
have sometimes adopted his restoration of a comma, without inserting
the panegyrick in which he celebrated himself for his achievement.
The exuberant excrescence of diction I have often lopped, his
triumphant exultations over Pope and Rowe I have sometimes suppressed,
and his contemptible ostentation I have frequently concealed; but
I have in some places shewn him, as he would have shewn himself,
for the reader's diversion, that the inflated emptiness of some
notes may justify or excuse the contraction of the rest.
Theobald, thus weak and ignorant, thus mean and faithless, thus
petulant and ostentatious, by the good luck of having Pope for his
enemy, has escaped, and escaped alone, with reputation, from this
undertaking. So willingly does the world support those who solicite
favour, against those who command reverence; and so easily is he
praised, whom no man can envy.
Our authour fell then into the hands of Sir Thomas Hanmer, the
Oxford editor, a man, in my opinion, eminently qualified by nature
for such studies. He had, what is the first requisite to emendatory
criticism, that intuition by which the poet's intention is immediately
discovered, and that dexterity of intellect which dispatches
its work by the easiest means. He had undoubtedly read much; his
acquaintance with customs, opinions, and traditions, seems to have
been large; and he is often learned without shew. He seldom passes
what he does not understand, without an attempt to find or to make
a meaning, and sometimes hastily makes what a little more attention
would have found. He is solicitous to reduce to grammar, what
he could not be sure that his authour intended to be grammatical.
Shakespeare regarded more the series of ideas, than of words; and
his language, not being designed for the reader's desk, was all
that he desired it to be, if it conveyed his meaning to the audience.
Hanmer's care of the metre has been too violently censured. He found
the measures reformed in so many passages, by the silent labours
of some editors, with the silent acquiescence of the rest, that
he thought himself allowed to extend a little further the license,
which had already been carried so far without reprehension; and
of his corrections in general, it must be confessed, that they are
often just, and made commonly with the least possible violation of
the text.
But, by inserting his emendations, whether invented or borrowed, into
the page, without any notice of varying copies, he has appropriated
the labour of his predecessors, and made his own edition of little
authority. His confidence indeed, both in himself and others, was
too great; he supposes all to be right that was done by Pope and
Theobald; he seems not to suspect a critick of fallibility, and it
was but reasonable that he should claim what he so liberally granted.
As he never writes without careful enquiry and diligent consideration,
I have received all his notes, and believe that every reader will
wish for more.
Of the last editor it is more difficult to speak. Respect is due
to high place, tenderness to living reputation, and veneration
to genius and learning; but he cannot be justly offended at that
liberty of which he has himself so frequently given an example, nor
very solicitous what is thought of notes, which he ought never to
have considered as part of his serious employments, and which, I
suppose, since the ardour of composition is remitted, he no longer
numbers among his happy effusions.
The original and predominant errour of his commentary, is
acquiescence in his first thoughts; that precipitation which is
produced by consciousness of quick discernment; and that confidence
which presumes to do, by surveying the surface, what labour only
can perform, by penetrating the bottom. His notes exhibit sometimes
perverse interpretations, and sometimes improbable conjectures;
he at one time gives the authour more profundity of meaning than
the sentence admits, and at another discovers absurdities, where
the sense is plain to every other reader. But his emendations are
likewise often happy and just; and his interpretation of obscure
passages learned and sagacious.
Of his notes, I have commonly rejected those, against which the
general voice of the publick has exclaimed, or which their own
incongruity immediately condemns, and which, I suppose, the authour
himself would desire to be forgotten. Of the rest, to part I have
given the highest approbation, by inserting the offered reading
in the text; part I have left to the judgment of the reader, as
doubtful, though specious; and part I have censured without reserve,
but I am sure without bitterness of malice, and, I hope, without
wantonness of insult.
It is no pleasure to me, in revising my volumes, to observe how much
paper is wasted in confutation. Whoever considers the revolutions
of learning, and the various questions of greater or less importance,
upon which wit and reason have exercised their powers, must lament
the unsuccessfulness of enquiry, and the slow advances of truth,
when he reflects, that great part of the labour of every writer is
only the destruction of those that went before him. The first care
of the builder of a new system, is to demolish the fabricks which
are standing. The chief desire of him that comments an authour,
is to shew how much other commentators have corrupted and obscured
him. The opinions prevalent in one age, as truths above the reach
of controversy, are confuted and rejected in another, and rise again
to reception in remoter times. Thus the human mind is kept in motion
without progress. Thus sometimes truth and errour, and sometimes
contrarieties of errour, take each other's place by reciprocal
invasion. The tide of seeming knowledge which is poured over one
generation, retires and leaves another naked and barren; the sudden
meteors of intelligence which for a while appear to shoot their
beams into the regions of obscurity, on a sudden withdraw their
lustre, and leave mortals again to grope their way.
These elevations and depressions of renown, and the contradictions
to which all improvers of knowledge must for ever be exposed, since
they are not escaped by the highest and brightest of mankind, may
surely be endured with patience by criticks and annotators, who
can rank themselves but as the satellites of their authours. How
canst thou beg for life, says Achilles to his captive, when thou
knowest that thou art now to suffer only what must another day be
suffered by Achilles?
Dr. Warburton had a name sufficient to confer celebrity on those
who could exalt themselves into antagonists, and his notes have
raised a clamour too loud to be distinct. His chief assailants
are the authours of the Canons of Criticism and of the Review of
Shakespeare's Text; of whom one ridicules his errours with airy
petulance, suitable enough to the levity of the controversy; the
other attacks them with gloomy malignity, as if he were dragging
to justice an assassin or incendiary. The one stings like a fly,
sucks a little blood, takes a gay flutter, and returns for more; the
other bites like a viper, and would be glad to leave inflammations
and gangrene behind him. When I think on one, with his confederates,
I remember the danger of Coriolanus, who was afraid that "girls
with spits, and boys with stones, should slay him in puny battle;"
when the other crosses my imagination, I remember the prodigy in
"Macbeth",
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