An Essay on Shakespeare by 'Philalethes' (1808)

[UPDATE Dec 2015. It turns out that this essay is not by Coleridge; it is by Bowdler himself, and was collected in his posthumously-published Select Pieces in Verse and Prose (1816). I could take this whole blogpost down, but I think I'll leave it here, as evidence of the lengths it's possible to go when trying to convince oneself of something. Apply the requisite pinch of salt when reading what follows]



The essay, published June 1808, takes the form of a long letter written 'To the Editor of the Christian Observer' on the subject of Thomas Bowdler's famous, or notorious, Family Shakespeare, which had been reviewed by the journal (broadly, they thought Bowdler didn't go nearly far enough). Bowdler's edition, of course, set out to purge Shakespeare of indecencies and indelicacies and so to make him fit reading for the whole family. The question is: was this little essay written by Coleridge?

What we want is some proof, or at least some hard evidence that it was. As it stands, what we have is only circumstantial. We know Coleridge read the Christian Observer: he took a copy with him to Malta in 1804, which he annotated, and he makes reference to the journal in an article he wrote for the Courier. In 1808 (when this letter was written) Coleridge was busy lecturing on literature, Shakespeare not the least, at the Royal Institution; so the bard was clearly on his mind. There are various touches in the essay itself, from its opening Ovidian tag [Pontics 2.9.48, in case you're wondering] to the myriad footnotes, the tone and the larger thesis, that smack of STC.

The letter is signed 'Philalethes'. In the very first lecture of his 1811-12 series (on Shakespeare) Coleridge laments the modern journalistic habit of signing articles and letters with authors' real names, and deplores the fact that he lives in 'an age, when a bashful Philalethes or Phileleutheros is as rare on the title-pages and among the signatures of our Magazines, as a real name used to be in the days of our shy and notice-shunning grandfathers.' (He repeats this lament, pretty much word for word, and again invoking 'Philalethes', in the Biographia, 1817; the pseudonym mean 'Lover of Truth'). Indeed, the original passage on which both the 1811 and 1817 passages are based comes from an issue of The Friend of 1809 also mentioning Philalethes. He often published poems under various pseudonyms (for example: his 'To Two Sisters' appeared in the Courier in Dec 1807 under the name 'Siesti'). Did he make use of the 'Philalethes' moniker in writing to the Christian Observer in 1808?

An alternative hypothesis is that 'Philalethes' might be Hazlitt. This has a certain appeal, since we know that Hazlitt wrote to the Morning Chronicle (28 October 1813) using this pseudonym, in part attacking Coleridge. I say 'we know'; Duncan Wu, at any rate, is confident that this letter can be attributed to Hazlitt, ‘Philalethes being a favoured pen-name of the Revd William Hazlitt [Hazlitt’s father]. Hazlitt would use it again when writing to the Atlas in 1829.’ [Wu (ed), New Writings of William Hazlitt: New Essays and Poems 1818-19 (OUP 2007), 76-7]. The problem here is that the establishment Anglican Christian Observer is very far from the sort of journal the radical Hazlitt is likely to have read, or with which he would have wanted to associate (would he really write 'I have long read the Christian Observer with pleasure and improvement'?)  It’s also this that makes it extremely unlikely that this Philalethes was Hazlitt Senior, even though the old fellow didn’t die until 1820, and even though he did write to magazines using this pseudonym. Hazlitt senior was a Unitarian minister, and corresponded with such journals as the Protestant Dissenter's Magazine and the Universal Theological Magazine; he would have had nothing to do with an Anglican journal like this. Also he is not in the least noted for his critical engagement with Shakespeare. Of course, Philalethes could be any Shakespeare-obsessed Anglican thinker and writer, motivated to express in eloquent prose littered with abstruse classical quotation the notion that the 'reign of imagination favours the growth of generous and exalted feelings'. Still, I find myself clinging to the idea that it was Coleridge who wrote this piece. I'm really not sure, though.

Here, at any rate, is the piece. What do you think? Coleridgean enough?

To the Editor of the Christian Observer.

“Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.”

I have read your review of the Family Shakespeare, and it reminds me of an anecdote, which is told—no matter where. It occurred in the reign of Louis the Fourteenth.

A general complaint had prevailed in France for many years of the disorderly state of the capital. There was no walking in the fauxbourgs after five o’clock, without danger of being murdered; every table-d'hôte was a scene of uproar; and the lowest class of profligate women infested the streets without number. Colbert (who was a great man for police and privileged companies) undertook to reform this evil; and, after applying himself for some time diligently to the business, had the vanity to think he had succeeded. But a zealous Jansenist of that day, whose name was Bussy-Guitot, understood the matter differently. He published a small piece, by which he shewed, in the first place, that Paris was a town where no reputable gentleman should think of residing;—that all towns indeed were to be avoided as hostile to the simplicity of country life; and therefore that the labour of purifying them was quite misplaced. And, as to the minister's boasted success in Paris, he observed that nothing could be more imperfect; for he himself had heard the bargemen swearing at the Pont-Neuf, and a lad of fourteen had actually been hustled not three weeks before in the Rüe de S. Honoré. My readers will inquire, perhaps, how this ended. I am sorry to say, that the pamphlet had a run; Colbert, finding his reforms unpopular, threw them up; and the city soon became as riotous and profligate as ever.

Now this Jansenist, it should be known, was an exceedingly worthy person. He read his Bible continually; and cordially believed every sentence he gave to the public. How happened it then that he was the occasion of so much mischief? Why just thus. He had been bred in the college of PortRoyal, and understood all the points in controversy with the Jesuits to perfection. But Père Arnauld, who was his oracle, could teach only what he knew; and of the ways of the world he had the happiness to know nothing. In this only he was wiser than his pupil, that he meddled but little with its concerns.

I could not refrain troubling you with this little history, because I really think it very parallel to what has lately happened,—saving only the size of the respective subjects.

All the world read Shakespeare, and all the world would read him. He had been, for more than two centuries, the pride and delight of his countrymen. His finer passages were quoted by every body. His familiar dialogues had become the language of common life. Meantime, all serious persons lamented that dramas so justly admired should be deformed in every page with indecency and profaneness; yet still the years rolled by without any attempt to purify them. If we may guess by the lateness of the undertaking, the task should seem to have been difficult. At length, twenty of the plays are published; cleared for the most part from offensive passages, without being deprived of their original interest; and the intentions of the editor appear, from his preface, to have been equally moral and good-natured.¹ A critique soon afterwards appears in a very valuable religious publication, the sum of which is this: Shakespeare ought never to be read at all —the other dramatists are in the same case—it is therefore idle to reform them: and as to this attempt, it has quite failed; for the name of the evil spirit is retained at p. 334, an oath at p. 360, Falstaff is allowed to quibble upon grace, and—“Oh major tandem parcas, &c.” [This is Horace: Oh major tandem parcas, insane, minori—‘O you who are the greater madman, spare me, I beg you, who am not so far gone’ AR]
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¹ In justice to the editor, it should be observed, that the play (1st Part of Henry IV.) which alone the reviewers thought it necessary to examine, and from which they have selected all their specimens of impropriety, is that which every one will allow to have been the least susceptible of a perfect reform, without material mutilation; while at the same time its transcendent excellence made it impossible that it should be omitted. Notwithstanding the bead-roll of defects with which the Christian Observer has presented us, I cannot but think an impartial examiner will feel surprised at the success with which the editor has executed this part of his labours. As to the integrity of the motives which prompted this publication, let the editor himself be heard: “Though the works of our immortal bard have been presented to the public in a great variety of editions, and are already the ornament of every library, and the delight of every reader; I flatter myself that the present publication may still claim the attention, and obtain the approbation of those, who value every literary production in proportion to the effect it may produce in a religious and moral point of view.— Twenty of the most unexceptionable of Shakespeare's plays are here selected, in which not a single line is added, but from which I have endeavoured to remove everything that could give just offence to the religious and virtuous mind.” Preface to the Family Shakespeare.

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The writers of the article alluded to must allow me to remonstrate a little, both on the spirit and the justice with which their office has been executed, Was it necessary, in reviewing a work which indicated at least good wishes to religion and morals, to exhibit only a censorious disposition, ready to carp at every defect; and to fill three columns (in which their whole critique is included) with a detail of improprieties, left probably, in many instances, from the difficulty of removing them, and which in their aggregate amount to nothing. One is reminded of the old tale in Boccalini, where a gentleman shewed his industry, by picking out with care every particle of chaff to be found in a bushel of sifted wheat—He was rewarded for his pains by a free gift of his precious collection. Why (ask the reviewers, p. 339) are the three Parts of Henry the Sixth omitted? A plain man would imagine, because they are dull. Why retain Othello, yet discard Anthony and Cleopatra and Measure for Measure?² Truly these things are matters of taste; and it is taste, too, that seduces us to read Dryden, and send Marvel and Elkanah Settle to the pastry-cook. But Romeo and Juliet– this too omitted! Here indeed I sympathise with the reviewers; yet, considering their dread of the romantic, one is rather surprised to hear them breathing after a drama, which excites the passions, perhaps, more powerfully than any that Shakespeare has furnished. But there is no end to such objections—they may be supplied at the rate of fifty to a minute. Twenty plays forsooth! why not thirty – why not all? And then Shakespeare must be reformed, while Otway, Rowe, Congreve, are forgotten?
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² Truly I suspect the reviewers are but ill read in Shakespeare. The three Parts of Henry the Sixth undoubtedly contain very striking passages. Such are the deaths of cardinal Beaufort and the earl of Warwick, with many of Henry's speeches. But Warburton declares these plays not to have been written by Shakespeare. It is indeed likely (though denied by Johnson) that his master hand was only employed to throw in a few strokes and some of the boldest colouring. They are besides very heavy, and a most unfaithful transcript of the history of those days. Anthony and Cleopatra, though too busy to be dull, is a poor performance. It contains no original sketches of character, and very little of good sentiment; and is preserved from putrefaction only by its restless activity. Dryden's All for Love, though not good, is generally thought a better performance.--Measure for Measure has many beauties. In particular the scene between Isabella and Claudio, in the third act, is inferior to very few in Shakespeare; but the plot of this drama is so radically indecent, that no skill or labour can purify it. Surely, if the reviewers were sensible of these things, they ought not to have indulged in such weak and cynical exceptions. If they were ignorant, how could they presume to write with more than the authority of knowledge?

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To the whole array of verbal peccadillos, that are marshalled so ostentatiously, it is enough to reply, that if the work had been performed by the greatest master of taste and morals in the empire, every schoolboy would have been able to select twenty times their amount. I willingly believe that the authors of this review have been actuated by good intentions. Yet let me observe, that good intentions and ill-humour match very indifferently together. Should they suggest that these remarks partake of the spirit they condemn, I freely plead guilty. Their article has made me splenetic; and it may be useful for them to have an opportunity of observing how ungraceful spleen and petulance appear in men who sit in judgment upon others. On the general merits of the Family Shakespeare I shall say nothing.

Let it live or perish as it deserves. The editor, however, will probably refuse the decision of critics, who doubt whether the drama can lawfully be studied, and therefore, if true to their principles, acknowledge their incapacity to judge in the act of pronouncing, sentence. From such a bench the reformer of Shakespeare is entitled to appeal, and say, with the old Romans, “Provoco ad populum.” I must, however, observe a little on the moral charge presented by the critics against their literary culprit. They seem to think even his undertaking somewhat reprehensible. “Let it” (they say) “be considered, that the ground-work of almost every dramatic story is passion.” p. 328. Let it be considered, that, of the twenty plays now edited, scarcely one is, in strictness, grounded on passion. Love mingles in their actions, as in common life, and not much more.—“It is scarce possible for a young person of fervid genius to read Shakespeare without a dangerous elevation of fancy.” ib. In an age so fertile of genius as our own, this is melancholy intelligence. But comfort is at hand. Johnson says, the poet “is not long soft or pathetic without some idle conceit or contemptible equivocation;” and a writer, whose discernment the reviewers at least will not question, observes, that “this deformity in the dramatic person of Shakespeare, repulsive as it is to our intellectual feelings, renders his works less seductive and pernicious. Where the judgment is offended, the passions sometimes resent the injury as offered to themselves. The redundant absurdity of Shakespeare occasionally operates as an antidote to his seductions. We refuse to sympathize with the lover or hero, who in the article of death is eager to find rhymes, and expires in giving utterance to a quibble,” and so forth. p. 332. This last authority is decisive. But the general doctrine of this review deserves notice. It is this. Mankind are by nature vastly too romantic. All stimulants therefore should be avoided. Not only the theatre, but dramatic compositions in general, are to be condemned. Other works of imagination follow; novels en masse;³ and, by parity of reasoning (for philosophers at least are answerable for the consequences of their principles), the most animated effusions of eloquence—the finest pieces of history—and “thou, sweet Poetry.” Thus “art after art goes out, and all is night.” [Pope's Dunciad 3. AR] Adieu to every thing that can soften the mind, or elevate, or refine it. Science only is left us; and that too, as it nurses pride and scepticism, may as well go with the rest. In conclusion we hear, “the objector must not plead that imagination is annihilated, for every intellectual ower finds its place in religion. The prophetic imagery of the Old Testament, and the parables of the New, may be regarded as properly the offspring of the inventive faculty.”⁴ Let me not be thought insensible to the sublimity and beauty of the Holy Scriptures; yet surely it could scarcely have been expected, that in the nineteenth century the fable of the Egyptian caliph should be realized; who is reported to have burnt the Alexandrian library, because the contents of those volumes if found in the Koran would not be missed, if not found there must be wicked.
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³ The reviewers are somewhat inconsistent. While Shakespeare is banished, the works of Mrs. Radcliffe and Madame D'Arblay are to be retained, (in the upper shelves of the library indeed, where young ladies and gentlemen cannot reach them), because their heroes and heroines are on the whole tolerably moral personages. Do these writers then possess no power over the heart? Is not “passion the ground-work of their stories?” Or if those works only can be permitted, in which the characters pourtrayed are not deformed by great crimes, what shall we say of Thucydides, Livy, Guicciardini, and Clarendon ? I own I am unable to perceive why the histories of Macbeth, John, and Henry the Eighth, dramatized by Shakespeare, are more pernicious than the histories of the Pazzi and Caesar Borgia, dramatized by Machiavel. the strength of their colouring renders vice more odious. I presume, of course, that the impurities of the first of these writers are to be cleared away; but the reviewers will not hear of reform.

⁴ P. 334. The reviewers do not seem to have possessed themselves well of their own theory. If there is any thing of principle in their article, it is, that whatever excites the imagination is hurtful. This renders all inquiries into the moral character of works falling within that description, superfluous; and an adversary would certainly have sought an “ex absurdo” refutation of this doctrine, in those passages of Scripture which the reviewers have above alluded to. Yet these writers proceed with a flowing sail, and never suspect they are among breakers.

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I join issue with the Christian Observer on their main postulate, by denying at once that the world is too romantic.—Will they, however, do me the honour to consider of a reply to a few preliminary questions?—

1. While nine-tenths of mankind are indulging in licentious systems of principles and conduct, if an opportunity offers of drawing them away from vice, or the probable contagion of vice, in any material instance, is it wise to neglect the occasion, because we cannot bring them upon their knees in confession and penitence? Shall we do nothing, because we cannot do every thing; and treat those who are more active than we, with sarcastic severity? To me this seems the worst sort of optimism, chained to the worst sort of zoilism; two things, which, like some others ending in ism, might very conveniently be spared.

2. Is it not true, that literature, as distinguished from science, and addressing principally the imagination and feelings, is one of the most powerful causes of civilization? Or have all the masters of political wisdom, from Plato to Burke, been mistaken in this matter? Perhaps we shall here it doubted, whether civilization is itself a blessing. Really there is no debating these points anew. If they are not now settled, when we have thrown our books into the fire, we may as well throw our heads after them.

If our system of education is to be wholly recast, and a Christian youth, instead of reading reformed copies of Herodotus and Horace, must sit down to Sozomen and Prudentius; if he must study Quarles instead of Pope, and throw aside Addison for John Bunyan, where shall we find able or enlightened defenders of that religion for which these sacrifices are to be made? While wit, elegance, and philosophy are combined against us, can we think that the battle will be well fought by men of contracted minds and mean attainments?—Doubtless truth will ever be triumphant; but the promise of our Redeemer to his church can no more supersede the necessity of adopting all wise means to advance the interests of religion, than the promises made to the elect release them from unwearied endeavours after perfect holiness. Should the principles promulged in the article under examination be generally embraced by the readers of the Christian Observer, they would probably in the next age be reduced to a sect of low bigots, and in the following be divided between weak enthusiasts and furious fanatics. Meantime it is likely the spirit and essence of Christianity would escape; and in the third generation, perhaps, a few of the most pious and enlightened would discover the sin and folly of their forefathers, and gradually withdrawing themselves to a better school, bear again that testimony, which every age has furnished, to the natural alliance between knowledge and Christianity, a liberalized understanding and an improved heart. And now a few words on romance. Is this the sin of the present day? Is it, in its nature, a sin of great malignity? I venture to reply in the negative to both these queries; and to doubt whether the dangers, apprehended on this subject, are not even more imaginary, than the evils supposed to exist in our system of feminine education.⁵

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⁵ Cymon's paper is ingenious, and he is as near the truth perhaps as those he opposes. Yet surely he takes rather too high an average of female attainments.

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Of all things in the world a terrorist is the most troublesome. He sighs and grumbles till other melancholy souls catch the infection; and them, as numbers give confidence, the prophesyings begin. All who are silly, ignorant, timid, or discontented, become possessed. Old bachelors, tyrannical husbands, country gentlemen of decayed fortunes with their ancient housekeepers, the second rates of a party, doctors of physic who have no patients, citizens retired to Finchley, with an hundred more, join in the clamour, and alarm spreads in every direction. We all remember an epidemical phrenzy of this kind during a season of scarcity; and in private life, tea, carpets, short waists, and romance, have taken their turns. I cannot think the last much more fearful than its predecessors. They, whether harmless or innocent, at least existed; they were visible and tangible: whereas, after rubbing my eyes, and casting a lynx's look around me, I confess the only romancers I have been able to discover are those who declaim against romance.

In what quarter of the town or country is it, that this fever has spread? We see hundreds of young men continually. Among these, it must be owned, there are vices and follies enough; but the most common of all their vices is selfishness, and the rarest of all their follies is romance. The industrious for the most part attend to their books at college, and to their business afterwards. The idle sport away life according to their fancies; they hunt, drink, game, lounge about St. James's, get upon the turf, fight duels, stand contested elections; but neither fancy nor fashion leads them to be romantic.–Girls, however, we hear, have lively imaginations. Whether their natural disposition to romance is greater than ours I know not, but the checks upon it are greater, and they have no inducement to cherish it. They live under the empire of manners; and the manners of the female world are with us very unfavourable to the developement of strong feelings: nor is it possible that romance should be common in one sex while it is neglected and despised in the other. Facts support the theory; and both observation and inquiry will convince us that the offence, so dreaded and so talked of, is almost as rare among women as men. It is evident, indeed, that the genius of this age and country opposes it. In France, where the ancient noblesse were separated from the bourgeoisie by a broad interval; where they were generally unemployed except during the campaigns, and dependent upon a court famous for its magnificence and gallantry; where the spirit of chivalry was still high, and devotion to the sex was the pride of every gentleman; in France, I say, such as it once was, there may have been a redundance of romantic sentiment. Some infusion of it, however, there must be in a polished society; and he surely is inattentive to the course of human affairs, who thinks, that in a community so commercial and calculating as ours, it is likely to be excessive. It may be reasonably suspected that we have too little, but something more than a dry affirmation is necessary to convince us that we have too much. The reviewers, however, are under great apprehensions lest their “half-employed son” should think himself into an Orlando. To say the truth, if they educate him no better than they propose to educate others, there is little danger of his thinking himself into any thing. But suppose the worst. The young gentleman is dying for Rosalind. What then? He may be very silly, but he is not very criminal. Romance is not virtue; it is not reason; but it is better than selfishness and the litter of puppy follies. The reign of imagination favours at least the growth of generous and exalted feelings, which, though ludicrous from their extravagance, have some. thing about them, that, in youth, is not wholly unaniable or unbecoming. Life too supplies correctives abundantly. The romancer of eighteen is sad and sober at thirty; and if he purchases that lesson of the highest wisdom, for which most of us pay in suffering, more dearly than others, the impression it may be hoped will prove the more deep and lasting.

To return, in conclusion, to the Family Shakespeare. I would not be understood to deny, that some words may be found in the reformed copy, which it would have been more proper to omit. Had the reviewers offered a kind and friendly remonstrance on these points, the editor would probably have confessed that his vigilance had sometimes slumbered, and have seized the first occasion of repairing the defects. But no man was ever goaded into a sincere acknowledgment or conviction of errors by the stings and scourges of persecution. Neither can it be admitted that those errors are numerous. On the contrary, I am persuaded that they who are the most competent to estimate the merits of this performance, will not, upon an accurate examination, think its execution unworthy of the virtuous and disinterested motives which gave it birth. I have long read the Christian Observer with pleasure and improvement. Its claims to general favour are very high as a literary performance,—as a religious miscellany still higher; and it would be a source of real regret to me, if any thing contained in this letter should tend in the slightest degree to diminish its well-earned reputation. The editors too, I am sensible, may find it exceedingly difficult to refuse admission to some articles, the spirit of which they cannot approve. But the interests of religion, as well as their own, require that they should exercise a severer judgment on the contributions they receive. The spirit of censoriousness visible in several of their reviews has called forth remonstrances; and I do not hesitate to say, that the article which has occasioned this letter is the worst specimen of severity they have ever exhibited. We may say of them, as Cotta of the Epicureans; “solent, id quod virorum bonorum est, admodum irasci.” [This is from Cicero's De Legibus 1:21: 'and so it is that the best of men are very angry'. AR] Yet it must be owned, that to find fault is the easiest of all things; and one of the least becoming of all things is to find fault pettishly. In men too, who upon all moral questions assume a severe tone, and refer continually to the highest and only just standard of action, we are entitled to expect a very guarded practice. A face of beauty renders every blemish remarkable. To declaim against theatres and theatrical compositions, routs, balls, and card-parties, while we are unkind, ungentle, fretful, or censorious, is exactly of a piece with the old morality of the Pharisees, the more modern casuistry of the Jesuists, and the inconsistencies of formalism in all ages. Whether public amusements are lawful may be questionable; but , there can be no question at all, as to evil tempers being criminal, in all degrees, and of every description. For myself, though I am not now in the habit either of reading dramas or attending their representation, I have no difficulty in confessing, that my mind would be a less burthened with the recollection of having spent an evening in the stagebox at Drury-lane, than of having given to the world the review of the Family Shakespeare.

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PHILALETHES.

[The Christian Observer, 7 (June 1808), 388-94]