The Man Shakespeare | Page 6

"in his habit as he
lived."
We are doing ourselves wrong, too, by pretending that Shakespeare
"out-tops knowledge." He did not fill the world even in his own time:
there was room beside him in the days of Elizabeth for Marlowe and
Spenser, Ben Jonson and Bacon, and since then the spiritual outlook,
like the material outlook, has widened to infinity. There is space in life
now for a dozen ideals undreamed-of in the sixteenth century. Let us
have done with this pretence of doglike humility; we, too, are men, and
there is on earth no higher title, and in the universe nothing beyond our
comprehending. It will be well for us to know Shakespeare and all his
high qualities and do him reverence; it will be well for us, too, to see
his limitations and his faults, for after all it is the human frailties in a
man that call forth our sympathy and endear him to us, and without
love there is no virtue in worship, no attraction in example.
The doubt as to the personality of Shakespeare, and the subsequent
confusion and contradictions are in the main, I think, due to Coleridge.
He was the first modern critic to have glimpses of the real Shakespeare,
and the vision lent his words a singular authority. But Coleridge was a
hero-worshipper by nature and carried reverence to lyric heights. He
used all his powers to persuade men that Shakespeare was [Greek:
myrionous anaer]--"the myriad-minded man"; a sort of

demi-god who was every one and no one, a Proteus without
individuality of his own. The theory has held the field for nearly a
century, probably because it flatters our national vanity; for in itself it
is fantastically absurd and leads to most ridiculous conclusions. For
instance, when Coleridge had to deal with the fact that Shakespeare
never drew a miser, instead of accepting the omission as characteristic,
for it is confirmed by Ben Jonson's testimony that he was "of an open
and free nature," Coleridge proceeded to argue that avarice is not a
permanent passion in humanity, and that Shakespeare probably for that
reason chose to leave it undescribed. This is an example of the ecstasy
of hero-worship; it is begging the question to assume that whatever
Shakespeare did was perfect; humanity cannot be penned up even in
Shakespeare's brain. Like every other man of genius Shakespeare must
have shown himself in his qualities and defects, in his preferences and
prejudices; "a fallible being," as stout old Dr. Johnson knew, "will fail
somewhere."
Even had Shakespeare tried to hide himself in his work, he could not
have succeeded. Now that the print of a man's hand or foot or ear is
enough to distinguish him from all other men, it is impossible to
believe that the mask of his mind, the very imprint, form and pressure
of his soul should be less distinctive. Just as Monsieur Bertillon's
whorl-pictures of a thumb afford overwhelming proofs of a man's
identity, so it is possible from Shakespeare's writings to establish
beyond doubt the main features of his character and the chief incidents
of his life. The time for random assertion about Shakespeare and
unlimited eulogy of him has passed away for ever: the object of this
inquiry is to show him as he lived and loved and suffered, and the
proofs of this and of that trait shall be so heaped up as to stifle doubt
and reach absolute conviction. For not only is the circumstantial
evidence overwhelming and conclusive, but we have also the testimony
of eye-witnesses with which to confirm it, and one of these witnesses,
Ben Jonson, is of rare credibility and singularly well equipped.
Let us begin, then, by treating Shakespeare as we would treat any other
writer, and ask simply how a dramatic author is most apt to reveal
himself. A great dramatist may not paint himself for us at any time in

his career with all his faults and vices; but when he goes deepest into
human nature, we may be sure that self-knowledge is his guide; as
Hamlet said, "To know a man well, were to know himself" (oneself), so
far justifying the paradox that dramatic writing is merely a form of
autobiography. We may take then as a guide this first criterion that, in
his masterpiece of psychology, the dramatist will reveal most of his
own nature.
If a dozen lovers of Shakespeare were asked to name the most profound
and most complex character in all his dramas it is probable that every
one without hesitation would answer Hamlet. The current of cultivated
opinion has long set in this direction. With the intuition of a kindred
genius, Goethe was the first to put Hamlet on a pedestal: "the
incomparable," he called him, and devoted pages to an