Representative Men: Seven Lectures
and refuse all history. Malone, Warburton, Dyce, and Collier, have
wasted their oil. The famed theaters, Covent Garden, Drury Lane, the
Park, and Tremont, have vainly assisted. Betterton, Garrick, Kemble,
Kean, and Macready, dedicate their lives to this genius; him they
crown, elucidate, obey, and express. The genius knows them not. The
recitation begins; one golden word leaps out immortal from all this
painted pedantry, and sweetly torments us with invitations to its own
inaccessible homes. I remember, I went once to see the Hamlet of a
famed performer, the pride of the English stage; and all I then heard,
and all I now remember, of the tragedian, was that in which the
tragedian had no part; simply, Hamlet's question to the ghost,--
"What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon?"
That imagination which dilates the closet he writes into the world's
dimension, crowds it with agents in rank and order, as quickly reduces
the big reality to be the glimpses of the moon. These tricks of his
magic spoil for us the illusions of the green-room. Can any biography
shed light on the localities into which the Midsummer Night's Dream
admits me? Did Shakspeare confide to any notary or parish recorder,
sacristan, or surrogate, in Stratford, the genesis of that delicate
creation? The forest of Arden, the nimble air of Scone Castle, the
moonlight of Portia's villa, "the antres vast and desarts idle," of
Othello's captivity,--where is the third cousin, or grand-nephew, the
chancellor's file of accounts, or private letter, that has kept one
word of those transcendent secrets. In fine, in this drama, as in all
great works of art,--in the Cyclopaean architecture of Egypt and India;
in the Phidian sculpture; the Gothic minsters; the Italian painting;
the Ballads of Spain and Scotland,--the Genius draws up the ladder
after him, when the creative age goes up to heaven, and gives way to
a new, who see the works, and ask in vain for a history.
Shakspeare is the only biographer of Shakspeare; and even he can tell
nothing, except to the Shakspeare in us; that is, to our most
apprehensive and sympathetic hour. He cannot step from off his tripod,
and give us anecdotes of his inspirations. Read the antique documents
extricated, analyzed, and compared, by the assiduous Dyce and Collier;
and now read one of those skyey sentences,--aerolites,--which seem to
have fallen out of heaven, and which, not your experience, but the man
within the breast, has accepted as words of fate; and tell me if they
match; if the former account in any manner for the latter; or, which
gives the most historical insight into the man.
Hence, though our external history is so meager, yet, with Shakspeare
for biographer, instead of Aubrey and Rowe, we have really the
information which is material, that which describes character and
fortune; that which, if we were about to meet the man and deal with
him, would most import us to know. We have his recorded convictions
on those questions which knock for answer at every heart,--on life and
death, on love, on wealth and poverty, on the prizes of life, and the
ways whereby we may come at them; on the characters of men, and the
influences, occult and open, which affect their fortunes: and on those
mysterious and demoniacal powers which defy our science, and which yet
interweave their malice and their gift in our brightest hours. Who
ever read the volume of Sonnets, without finding that the poet had
there revealed, under masks that are no masks to the intelligent, the
lore of friendship and of love; the confusion of sentiments in the
most susceptible, and, at the same time, the most intellectual of men?
What trait of his private mind has he hidden in his dramas? One can
discern, in his ample pictures of the gentleman and the king, what
forms and humanities pleased him; his delight in troops of friends,
in large hospitality, in cheerful giving. Let Timon, let Warwick, let
Antonio the merchant, answer for his great heart. So far from Shakspeare
being the least known, he is the one person, in all modern history,
known to us. What point of morals, of manners, of economy, of
philosophy, of religion, of taste, of the conduct of life, has he not
settled? What mystery has he not signified his knowledge of? What
office or function, or district of man's work, has he not remembered?
What king has he not taught state, as Talma taught Napoleon? What
maiden has not found him finer than her delicacy? What lover has he
not outloved? What sage has he not outseen? What gentleman has he not
instructed in the rudeness of his behavior?
Some able and appreciating critics think no criticism on Shakspeare
valuable, that does not rest purely on the dramatic merit; that he is
falsely judged as poet and philosopher. I think as highly as these
critics of his dramatic merit, but still think it secondary. He was
a full man, who liked to talk; a brain exhaling thoughts and images,
which, seeking vent, found the drama next at hand. Had he been less,
we should have had to consider how well he filled his place, how good
a dramatist he was,--and he is the best in the world. But it turns
out; that what he has to say is of that weight, as to withdraw some
attention from the vehicle; and he is like some saint whose history
is to be rendered into all languages, into verse and prose, into songs
and pictures, and cut up into proverbs; so that the occasions which
gave the saint's meaning the form of a conversation, or of a prayer,
or of a code of laws, is immaterial compared with the universality of
its application. So it fares with the wise Shakspeare and his book of
life. He wrote the airs for all our modern music: he wrote the text
of modern life; the text of manners: he drew the man of England and
Europe; the father of the man in America: he drew the man and described
the day, and what is done in it: he read the hearts of men and women,
their probity, and their second thought, and wiles; the wiles of
innocence, and the transitions by which virtues and vices slide into
their contraries: he could divide the mother's part from the father's
part in the face of the child, or draw the fine demarcations of freedom
and fate: he knew the laws of repression which make the police of
nature: and all the sweets and all the terrors of human lot lay in his
mind as truly but as softly as the landscape lies on the eye. And the
importance of this wisdom of life sinks the form, as of Drama or Epic,
out of notice. 'Tis like making a question concerning the paper on
which a king's message is written.
Shakspeare is as much out of the category of eminent authors, as he
is out of the crowd. He is inconceivably wise; the others, conceivably.
A good reader can, in a sort, nestle into Plato's brain, and think
from thence; but not into Shakspeare's. We are still out of doors. For
executive faculty, for creation, Shakspeare is unique. No man can
imagine it better. He was the farthest reach of subtlety compatible
with an individual self,--the subtilest of authors, and only just
within the possibility of authorship. With this wisdom of life, is the
equal endowment of imaginative and of lyric power. He clothed the
creatures of his legend with form and sentiments, as if they were
people who had lived under his roof; and few real men have left such
distinct characters as these fictions. And they spoke in language as
sweet as it was fit. Yet his talents never seduced him into an
ostentation, nor did he harp on one string. An omnipresent humanity
co-ordinates all his faculties. Give a man of talents a story to tell,
and his partiality will presently appear. He has certain observations,
opinions, topics, which have some accidental prominence, and which he
disposes all to exhibit. He crams this part, and starves that other
part, consulting not the fitness of the thing, but his fitness and
strength. But Shakspeare has no peculiarity, no importunate topic; but
all is duly given; no veins, no curiosities: no cow-painter, no
bird-fancier, no mannerist is he: he has no discoverable egotism: the
great he tells greatly; the small subordinately. He is wise without
emphasis or assertion; he is strong, as nature is strong, who lifts
the land into mountain slopes without effort, and by the same rule as
she floats a bubble in the air, and likes as well to do the one as the
other. This makes that equality of power in farce, tragedy, narrative,
and love-songs; a merit so incessant, that each reader is incredulous
of the perception of other readers.
This power of expression, or of transferring the inmost truth of things
into music and verse, makes him the type of the poet, and has added
a new problem to metaphysics. This is that which throws him into natural
history, as a main production of the globe, and as announcing new eras
and ameliorations. Things were mirrored in his poetry without loss or
blur: he could paint the fine with precision, the great with compass;
the tragic and comic indifferently, and without any distortion or
favor. He carried his powerful execution into minute details, to a
hair point; finishes an eyelash or a dimple as firmly as he draws a
mountain; and yet these like nature's, will bear the scrutiny of the
solar microscope.
In short, he is the chief example to prove that more or less of
production, more or fewer pictures, is a thing indifferent. He had the
power to make one picture. Daguerre learned how to let one flower etch
its image on his plate of iodine; and then proceeds at leisure to etch
a million. There are always objects; but there was never representation.
Here is perfect representation, at last; and now let the world of
figures sit for their portraits. No recipe can be given for the making
of a Shakspeare; but the possibility of the translation of things into
song is demonstrated.
His lyric power lies in the genius of the piece. The sonnets, though
their excellence is lost in the splendor of the dramas, are as
inimitable as they: and it is not a merit of lines, but a total merit
of the piece; like the tone of voice of some incomparable person, so
is this a speech of poetic beings, and any clause as unproducible now
as a whole poem.
Though the speeches in the plays, and single lines, have a beauty which
tempts the ear to pause on them for their euphuism, yet the sentence
is so loaded with meaning, and so linked with its foregoers and
followers, that the logician is satisfied. His means are as admirable
as his ends; every subordinate invention, by which he helps himself
to connect some irreconcilable opposites, is a poem too. He is not
reduced to dismount and walk, because his horses are running off with
him in some distant direction: he always rides.
The finest poetry was first experience: but the thought has suffered
a transformation since it was an experience. Cultivated men often
attain a good degree of skill in writing verses; but it is easy to
read, through their poems, their personal history; any one acquainted
with parties can name every figure: this is Andrew, and that is Rachel.
The sense thus remains prosaic. It is a caterpillar with wings, and
not yet a butterfly. In the poet's mind, the fact has gone quite over
into the new element of thought, and has lost all that is exuvial.
This generosity abides with Shakspeare. We say, from the truth and
closeness of his pictures, that he knows the lesson by heart. Yet there
is not a trace of egotism.
One more royal trait properly belongs to the poet. I mean his
cheerfulness, without which no man can be a poet,--for beauty is his
aim. He loves virtue, not for its obligation, but for its grace: he
delights in the world, in man, in woman, for the lovely light that