The Life and Times of Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Complete Autobiographical Works. Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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      “Chorus of Devils.

      “STATUE-GHOST. — Will you not relent and feel remorse?

      “D. JOHN. — Could’st thou bestow another heart on me I might. But

      with this heart I have, I can not.

      “D. LOPEZ. — These things are prodigious.

      “D. ANTON. — I have a sort of grudging to relent, but something holds

      me back.

      “D. LOP. — If we could, ‘tis now too late. I will not.

      “D. ANT. — We defy thee!

      “GHOST. — Perish ye impious wretches, go and find the punishments laid

      up in store for you!

      (Thunder and lightning. D. Lop. and D. Ant. are swallowed up.)

      “GHOST To D. JOHN. — Behold their dreadful fates, and know that thy

      last moment’s come!

      “D. JOHN. — Think not to fright me, foolish ghost; I’ll break your

      marble body in pieces and pull down your horse.

      (Thunder and lightning — chorus of devils, etc.)

      “D. JOHN. — These things I see with wonder, but no fear.

      Were all the elements to be confounded,

      And shuffled all into their former chaos;

      Were seas of sulphur flaming round about me,

      And all mankind roaring within those fires,

      I could not fear, or feel the least remorse.

      To the last instant I would dare thy power.

      Here I stand firm, and all thy threats contemn.

      Thy murderer (to the ghost of one whom he had murdered)

      Stands here! Now do thy worst!”

      (He is swallowed up in a cloud of fire.)

      In fine the character of Don John consists in the union of every thing desirable to human nature, as means, and which therefore by the well known law of association becomes at length desirable on their own account. On their own account, and, in their own dignity, they are here displayed, as being employed to ends so unhuman, that in the effect, they appear almost as means without an end. The ingredients too are mixed in the happiest proportion, so as to uphold and relieve each other — more especially in that constant interpoise of wit, gaiety, and social generosity, which prevents the criminal, even in his most atrocious moments, from sinking into the mere ruffian, as far at least, as our imagination sits in judgment. Above all, the fine suffusion through the whole, with the characteristic manners and feelings, of a highly bred gentleman gives life to the drama. Thus having invited the statue-ghost of the governor, whom he had murdered, to supper, which invitation the marble ghost accepted by a nod of the head, Don John has prepared a banquet.

      “D. JOHN. — Some wine, sirrah! Here’s to Don Pedro’s ghost — he should

      have been welcome.

      “D. LOP. — The rascal is afraid of you after death.

      (One knocks hard at the door.)

      “D. JOHN. — (to the servant) — Rise and do your duty.

      “SERV. — Oh the devil, the devil! (Marble ghost enters.)

      “D. JOHN. — Ha! ‘tis the ghost! Let’s rise and receive him! Come,

      Governour, you are welcome, sit there; if we had thought you would

      have come, we would have staid for you.

      Here, Governour, your health! Friends, put it about! Here’s

      excellent meat, taste of this ragout. Come, I’ll help you, come

      eat, and let old quarrels be forgotten. (The ghost threatens him

      with vengeance.)

      “D. JOHN. — We are too much confirmed — curse on this dry discourse.

      Come, here’s to your mistress, you had one when you were living:

      not forgetting your sweet sister. (devils enter.)

      “D. JOHN. — Are these some of your retinue? Devils, say you? I’m

      sorry I have no burnt brandy to treat ‘em with, that’s drink fit

      for devils,” etc.

      Nor is the scene from which we quote interesting, in dramatic probability alone; it is susceptible likewise of a sound moral; of a moral that has more than common claims on the notice of a too numerous class, who are ready to receive the qualities of gentlemanly courage, and scrupulous honour, (in all the recognised laws of honour,) as the substitutes of virtue, instead of its ornaments. This, indeed, is the moral value of the play at large, and that which places it at a world’s distance from the spirit of modern jacobinism. The latter introduces to us clumsy copies of these showy instrumental qualities, in order to reconcile us to vice and want of principle; while the Atheista Fulminato presents an exquisite portraiture of the same qualities, in all their gloss and glow, but presents them for the sole purpose of displaying their hollowness, and in order to put us on our guard by demonstrating their utter indifference to vice and virtue, whenever these and the like accomplishments are contemplated for themselves alone.

      Eighteen years ago I observed, that the whole secret of the modern jacobinical drama, (which, and not the German, is its appropriate designation,) and of all its popularity, consists in the confusion and subversion of the natural order of things in their causes and effects: namely, in the excitement of surprise by representing the qualities of liberality, refined feeling, and a nice sense of honour (those things rather which pass amongst us for such) in persons and in classes where experience teaches us least to expect them; and by rewarding with all the sympathies which are the due of virtue, those criminals whom law, reason, and religion have excommunicated from our esteem.

      This of itself would lead me back to BERTRAM, or the CASTLE OF ST. ALDOBRAND; but, in my own mind, this tragedy was brought into connection with THE LIBERTINE, (Shadwell’s adaptation of the Atheista Fulminato to the English stage in the reign of Charles the Second,) by the fact, that our modern drama is taken, in the substance of it, from the first scene of the third act of THE LIBERTINE. But with what palpable superiority of judgment in the original! Earth and hell, men and spirits are up in arms against Don John; the two former acts of the play have not only prepared us for the supernatural, but accustomed us to the prodigious. It is, therefore, neither more nor less than we anticipate when the Captain exclaims: “In all the dangers I have been, such horrors I never knew. I am quite unmanned:” and when the Hermit says, that he had “beheld the ocean in wildest rage, yet ne’er before saw a storm so dreadful, СКАЧАТЬ