Representative Men: Seven Lectures
left to whistle by himself, or thrust into a mob of emperors, all
whistling: and still the sirens sang, "The attractions are proportioned
to the destinies." In every house, in the heart of each maiden, and
of each boy, in the soul of the soaring saint, this chasm is found,--
between the largest promise of ideal power, and the shabby experience.
The expansive nature of truth comes to our succor, elastic, not to be
surrounded. Man helps himself by larger generalizations. The lesson
of life is practically to generalize; to believe what the years and
the centuries say against the hours; to resist the usurpation of
particulars; to penetrate to their catholic sense. Things seem to say
one thing, and say the reverse. The appearance is immoral; the result
is moral. Things seem to tend downward, to justify despondency, to
promote rogues, to defeat the just; and, by knaves, as by martyrs, the
just cause is carried forward. Although knaves win in every political
struggle, although society seems to be delivered over from the hands
of one set of criminals into the hands of another set of criminals,
as fast as the government is changed, and the march of civilization
is a train of felonies, yet, general ends are somehow answered. We
see, now, events forced on, which seem to retard or retrograde the
civility of ages. But the world-spirit is a good swimmer, and storms
and waves cannot drown him. He snaps his finger at laws; and so,
throughout history, heaven seems to affect low and poor means. Through
the years and the centuries, through evil agents, through toys and
atoms, a great and beneficent tendency irresistibly streams.
Let a man learn to look for the permanent in the mutable and fleeting;
let him learn to bear the disappearance of things he was wont to
reverence, without losing his reverence; let him learn that he is here,
not to work, but to be worked upon; and that, though abyss open under
abyss, and opinion displace opinion, all are at last contained in the
Eternal cause.--
"If my bark sink, 'tis to another sea."
V. SHAKSPEARE; OR, THE POET.
Great men are more distinguished by range and extent than by
originality. If we require the originality which consists in weaving,
like a spider, their web from their own bowels; in finding clay, and
making bricks and building the house, no great men are original. Nor
does valuable originality consist in unlikeness to other men. The hero
is in the press of knights, and the thick of events; and, seeing what
men want, and sharing their desire, he adds the needful length of sight
and of arm, to come at the desired point. The greatest genius is the
most indebted man. A poet is no rattlebrain, saying what comes
uppermost, and, because he says everything, saying, at last, something
good; but a heart in unison with his time and country. There is nothing
whimsical and fantastic in his production, but sweet and sad earnest,
freighted with the weightiest convictions, and pointed with the most
determined aim which any man or class knows of in his times.
The Genius of our life is jealous of individuals, and will not have
any individual great, except through the general. There is no choice
to genius. A great man does not wake up on some fine morning, and say,
"I am full of life, I will go to sea, and find an Antarctic continent:
to-day I will square the circle: I will ransack botany, and find a new
food for man: I have a new architecture in my mind: I foresee a new
mechanic power;" no, but he finds himself in the river of the thoughts
and events, forced onward by the ideas and necessities of his
contemporaries. He stands where all the eyes of men look one way, and
their hands all point in the direction in which he should go. The
church has reared him amidst rites and pomps, and he carries out the
advice which her music gave him, and builds a cathedral needed by her
chants and processions. He finds a war raging: it educates him by
trumpet, in barracks, and he betters the instruction. He finds two
counties groping to bring coal, or flour, or fish, from the place of
production to the place of consumption, and he hits on a railroad.
Every master has found his materials collected, and his power lay in
his sympathy with his people, and in his love of the materials he
wrought in. What an economy of power! and what a compensation for the
shortness of life! All is done to his hand. The world has brought him
thus far on his way. The human race has gone out before him, sunk the
hills, filled the hollows, and bridged the rivers. Men, nations, poets,
artisans, women, all have worked for him, and he enters into their
labors. Choose any other thing, out of the line of tendency, out of
the national feeling and history, and he would have all to do for
himself: his powers would be expended in the first preparations. Great
genial power, one would almost say, consists in not being original at
all; in being altogether receptive; in letting the world do all, and
suffering the spirit of the hour to pass unobstructed through the mind.
Shakspeare's youth fell in a time when the English people were
importunate for dramatic entertainments. The court took offence easily
at political allusions, and attempted to suppress them. The Puritans,
a growing and energetic party, and the religious among the Anglican
church, would suppress them. But the people wanted them. Inn-yards,
houses without roofs, and extemporaneous enclosures at country fairs,
were the ready theatres of strolling players. The people had tasted
this new joy; and, as we could not hope to suppress newspapers now,--no,
not by the strongest party,--neither then could king, prelate, or
puritan, alone or united, suppress an organ, which was ballad, epic,
newspaper, caucus, lecture, punch, and library, at the same time.
Probably king, prelate and puritan, all found their own account in it.
It had become, by all causes, a national interest,--by no means
conspicuous, so that some great scholar would have thought of treating
it in an English history,--but not a whit less considerable, because
it was cheap, and of no account, like a baker's-shop. The best proof
of its vitality is the crowd of writers which suddenly broke into this
field; Kyd, Marlow, Greene, Jonson, Chapman, Dekker, Webster, Heywood,
Middleton, Peele, Ford, Massinger, Beaumont, and Fletcher.
The secure possession, by the stage, of the public mind, is of the
first importance to the poet who works for it. He loses no time in
idle experiments. Here is audience and expectation prepared. In the
case of Shakespeare there is much more. At the time when he left
Stratford, and went up to London, a great body of stage-plays, of
all dates and writers, existed in manuscript, and were in turn produced
on the boards. Here is the Tale of Troy, which the audience will bear
hearing some part of every week; the Death of Julius Caesar, and other
stories out of Plutarch, which they never tire of; a shelf full of
English history, from the chronicles of Brut and Arthur, down to the
royal Henries, which men hear eagerly; and a string of doleful
tragedies, merry Italian tales, and Spanish voyages, which all the
London 'prentices know. All the mass has been treated, with more or
less skill, by every playwright, and the prompter has the soiled and
tattered manuscripts. It is now no longer possible to say who wrote
them first. They have been the property of the Theatre so long, and
so many rising geniuses have enlarged or altered them, inserting a
speech, or a whole scene, or adding a song, that no man can any longer
claim copyright on this work of numbers. Happily, no man wishes to.
They are not yet desired in that way. We have few readers, many
spectators and hearers. They had best lie where they are.
Shakspeare, in common with his comrades, esteemed the mass of old
plays, waste stock, in which any experiment could be freely tried. Had
the _prestige_ which hedges about a modern tragedy existed, nothing
could have been done. The rude warm blood of the living England
circulated in the play, as in street-ballads, and gave body which he
wanted to his airy and majestic fancy. The poet needs a ground in
popular tradition on which he may work, and which, again, may restrain
his art within the due temperance. It holds him to the people, supplies
a foundation for his edifice; and, in furnishing so much work done to
his hand, leaves him at leisure, and in full strength for the audacities
of his imagination. In short, the poet owes to his legend what sculpture
owed to the temple. Sculpture in Egypt, and in Greece, grew up in
subordination to architecture. It was the ornament of the temple wall:
at first, a rude relief carved on pediments, then the relief became
bolder, and a head or arm was projected from the wall, the groups being
still arrayed with reference to the building, which serves also as a
frame to hold the figures; and when, at last, the greatest freedom of
style and treatment was reached, the prevailing genius of architecture
still enforced a certain calmness and continence in the statue. As
soon as the statue was begun for itself, and with no reference to the
temple or palace, the art began to decline: freak, extravagance, and
exhibition, took the place of the old temperance. This balance-wheel,
which the sculptor found in architecture, the perilous irritability
of poetic talent found in the accumulated dramatic materials to which
the people were already wonted, and which had a certain excellence
which no single genius, however extraordinary, could hope to create.
In point of fact, it appears that Shakspeare did owe debts in all
directions, and was able to use whatever he found; and the amount of
indebtedness may be inferred from Malone's laborious computations in
regard to the First, Second, and Third parts of Henry VI., in which,
"out of 6043 lines, 1771 were written by some author preceding
Shakspeare; 2373 by him, on the foundation laid by his predecessors;
and 1899 were entirely his own." And the preceding investigation hardly
leaves a single drama of his absolute invention. Malone's sentence is
an important piece of external history. In Henry VIII., I think I see
plainly the cropping out of the original rock on which his own finer
stratum was laid. The first play was written by a superior, thoughtful
man, with a vicious ear. I can mark his lines, and know well their
cadence. See Wolsey's soliloquy, and the following scene with Cromwell,
where,--instead of the metre of Shakspeare, whose secret is, that the
thought constructs the tune, so that reading for the sense will best
bring out the rhythm,--here the lines are constructed on a given tune,
and the verse has even a trace of pulpit eloquence. But the play
contains, through all its length, unmistakable traits of Shakspeare's
hand, and some passages, as the account of the coronation, are like
autographs. What is odd, the compliment to Queen Elizabeth is in the
bad rhythm.
Shakspeare knew that tradition supplies a better fable that any
invention can. If he lost any credit of design, he augmented his
resources; and, at that day our petulant demand for originality was
not so much pressed. There was no literature for the million. The
universal reading, the cheap press, were unknown. A great poet, who
appears in illiterate times, absorbs into his sphere all the light
which is anywhere radiating. Every intellectual jewel, every flower
of sentiment, it is his fine office to bring to his people; and he
comes to value his memory equally with his invention. He is therefore
little solicitous whence his thoughts have been derived; whether through
translation, whether through tradition, whether by travel in distant
countries, whether by inspiration; from whatever source, they are