Thus asks Mrs Kitty in _High Life Below Stairs_, to which his Grace my
Lord Duke gravely replies: 'Ben Jonson.' 'O no,' quoth my Lady Bab:
'Shakspeare was written by one Mr Finis, for I saw his name at the end
of the book!' and this passes off as an excellent joke, and never
fails to elicit the applause of the audience; but still the question
remains unanswered: Who wrote Shakspeare? a question, we humbly think,
which might be made the theme for as much critical sagacity,
pertinacity, and pugnacity, as the almost equally interesting
question, who wrote Homer? In the former case, the question is
certainly in one respect more simple, for the recognised plays and
poems that go by Shakspeare's name are--at least by far the larger
portion--unquestionably from one and the same pen; while Homer, poor,
dear, awful, august, much-abused shade! has been torn by a pack of
German wolves into fragments, which it puzzles the lore and research
of Grote and Muir to patch together again. Even Mr Grote seems
disposed to admit, that while the _Odyssey_ may pass muster as one
continuous poem, whatever was the name of the author, the greater
_Iliad_ must be broken up at least into an _Iliad_ and an _Achilleid_,
by different rhapsodists; and though Colonel Muir stands stoutly on
the other side, the restoration of the unity of Homer may, even with
us sober-minded thinkers, take ten times the years it took to capture
Troy; while with the German Mystics and Mythists, the controversy may
last till they have to open their bewildered and bewildering eyes upon
the realities of another world.
So far, therefore, the question is limited, for we are entitled to
assume, what no one at this time of day dreams of disputing, that
_Hamlet_ and his fellows are not only the productions of one mind, but
are beyond comparison the greatest productions which man's intellect,
not divinely inspired, has yet achieved. The question therefore
is--who wrote them? With the exception of Homer, who lived before the
time of written history, and Junius, who purposely and successfully
shrouded himself in obscurity, there has, perhaps, been no great
writer who has not in his life, his letters, or his sayings, more or
less identified himself with the productions of his pen. Take Walter
Scott, for instance; or Byron, or Addison, or Dryden; or, to go still
earlier, take Ben Jonson, or Kit Marlowe, or Geoffrey Chaucer, and
each and all of them have external marks by which we could assign the
authorship, even if the production had been published anonymously. Try
Shakspeare's plays by the same test, and suppose _Hamlet_, _Macbeth_,
&c., had been successively published after the fashion of Junius, and
what critic of any age would ever have ascribed them to William
Shakspeare?
This may appear uncandid and unfair. It may be said, that Shakspeare
lived in a time when letter-writing and letter-preserving were
comparatively infrequent, and that we have no right to deprive him of
his authorship, any more than we should have had to deprive Dr Johnson
of _Rasselas_, if he had not had the good-fortune of a Boswell to
record his sayings. So we humbly think it would, had Shakspeare, like
Homer, been wholly unknown, and every record of him lost; we should
then, as in the case of Homer, have judged exclusively from the
internal evidence of the works themselves, and formed a brilliant
ideal picture of what the astonishing author must have been in his
daily walk, correspondence, and conversation. But, unfortunately,
enthusiasm worked up to its pitch, sweeping the clouds for a
bird's-eye view of the high pinnacle of human greatness commensurate
with the 'local habitation and the name' of such a genius, is at once
'cabined, cribbed, confined,' by the authentic recorded whatabouts,
whenabouts, and whereabouts of William Shakspeare, actor, owner,
purchaser, and chattels and messuage devisor whilom of the Globe
Theatre, Surrey-side; item of the Blackfriars, Fleet Street; and
ultimately of Stratford-on-Avon, '_gent_,' husband of Anne Hathaway,
to whom he devises his second-best bed. On the one hand, research has
traced his life from the cradle to the grave, and by means of
tradition, legal documents, records, and inscriptions, formed a very
accurate skeleton biography; while, on the other hand, with the single
exception of Ben Jonson, to be noticed hereafter, records and even
tradition are silent upon his walk and conversation; and though his
signature has been several times disinterred, his whole
correspondence, if he ever wrote a letter, has sunk like lead beneath
the dark waters of oblivion; indeed, even the single signature as yet
discovered unconnected with business documents--namely, the 'Willme
Shakspere' on the volume of Montaigne--is not preceded by any remark
whatever, by any sentence that might give a faint echo of _Hamlet_.
Now this, to say the least, is singular to the very last degree. The
unsurpassed brilliancy of the writer throws not one single spark to
make noticeable the quiet uniform mediocrity of the man. Is it more
difficult to suppose that Shakspeare was not the author of the poetry
ascribed to him, than to account for the fact, that there is nothing
in the recorded or traditionary life of Shakspeare which in any way
connects the poet with the man? It will not do to use the common
hackneyed expression, that Shakspeare had a 'genius so essentially
dramatic, that all other writers the world has seen have never
approached him in his power of going out of himself.' Even the
inspired writers of Scripture have their style and their expressions
modified, and adapted to the peculiar idiosyncrasy and accidental
position of the respective men; and taking human nature as we find it,
we think it much easier to suppose that Shakspeare never once appears
personally in his dramas, because his interest in them was not
personal, but pecuniary. William Shakspeare, the man, was
comparatively well known. He was born in Stratford-on-Avon, of
respectable parentage; he married Anne Hathaway; had children;
apparently became unsettled; went to London to push his fortune; made
a deal of money by theatrical speculations, and by the profits of
certain plays, of which he was reputed to be the author; then retired
quietly to the country, and was heard of no more, excepting that a few
years afterwards old Aubrey states that 'Shakspeare, Drayton, and Ben
Jonson had a merry-meeting, and, it seems, drank too hard, for
Shakspeare died of a fever there contracted.' Brandish not thy dagger,
Melpomene, at this profanation! The scandal is not ours, but Aubrey's,
Shakspeare's earliest biographer, but who did not write till forty-six
years after his death. His name and signature are connected with the
buying and selling of land and theatrical shares, and such-like
commonplace transactions; and his last will and testament, with which
everybody is familiar, is as plain and prosaic as if it had been the
production of a pig-headed prerogative lawyer. Now, in all this we see
a sensible, sagacious, cautious, persevering man, who certainly was
free from the rashness and (excepting the closing scene, if old Aubrey
is to be believed) rakish extravagance too often characteristic of
genius at any time, and perhaps particularly so of Shakspeare's time.
It is apparent that Shakspeare, at least from the time the plays
commenced, never had to shift for his living: he had always money to
lend and money to spend; and we know also, that many of his
contemporaries, men with genius akin to that which produced these
plays, were in continued and utter extremity, willing to barter
exertion, name, and fame, for the daily dole that gets the daily
dinner.
May not William Shakspeare--the cautious, calculating man, careless of
fame, and intent only on money-making--have found, in some furthest
garret overlooking the 'silent highway' of the Thames, some pale,
wasted student, with a brow as ample and lofty as his own, who had
written the _Wars of the Roses_, and who, with eyes of genius gleaming
through despair, was about, like Chatterton, to spend his last copper
coin upon some cheap and speedy means of death? What was to hinder
William Shakspeare from reading, appreciating, and purchasing these
dramas, and thereafter keeping his poet, as Mrs Packwood did? The mere
circumstance of his assuming them as his own, may have seemed to be
justified by his position as manager, and his regard to the interests
of the theatre; as a play by a well-known and respected favourite
would be more likely to escape hissing than one by an unknown
adventurer; and the practice once commenced must go on; for we cannot
suppose that Shakspeare could afford to deny the authorship of
_Macbeth_, if he had previously consented to father _Henry VI._, _The
Two Gentlemen of Verona_, and the _Midsummer Night's Dream_. This
assumption, we are sorry to say, smooths away many of the difficulties
that have hitherto baffled the critics. How could Shakspeare, say
they, have been able to write at all, while obviously and laboriously
employed in the active business of his profession? Where did he
acquire that all-comprehensive knowledge of nature, men, and books?
How could he paint with such exact fidelity the peculiar scenery
pertaining exclusively to the subject in question, when he can be
proved never to have left London? What time had he to tread the
'blasted heath,' or describe the aspect of Glammis Castle? How could
he accomplish all this? Why, simply, and naturally, and easily--by
affording his poet all the requisite leisure, and defraying the
expenses of all the requisite tours. And with this view, though it
cannot be proved, and is very unlikely, that Shakspeare ever was in
Scotland, yet it is most likely that the author of _Macbeth_ was; and
thus the intelligence, but not the genius, of these wonderful works
ceases to be supernatural. Again, not one single manuscript of
Shakspeare's plays or poems has ever been discovered; and certainly
the search has been as rigorous and continuous as that for the
Philosopher's Stone; while even Scott, when owning to the Novels,
found it necessary to say that almost all the manuscripts were
holograph; nor, if we do not very much mistake, is there among all the
records and traditions which have been handed to us, any statement of
Shakspeare having been seen writing, or having delivered his
manuscript.
Of course, the obvious answer to all this is, that such a transaction,
carried on through so many years, and having reference to works which
even in that age excited considerable admiration and attention, could
not be concealed. We may reply to this, that Shakspeare, who
apparently was liked by every one, did not conceal it from his
friends, and that they supported him in this pardonable
assumption--the members of the theatre for their own sakes, and his
other friends for his.
Take, besides, the custom of the age, the helter-skelter way in which
dramas were got up, sometimes by half-a-dozen authors at once, of whom
one occasionally monopolised the fame; and the unscrupulous manner in
which booksellers appropriated any popular name of the day, and
affixed it to their publications; and who so popular with all
playgoers of the period as the gentle, well-living Shakspeare? And his
name would better suit his friends and the then public, than any mere
recluse, unknown poet, until his name, like other myths, acquired
sanctity by age. Indeed, we fear it is not necessary to go back to
Shakspeare's time to find the practice of assumed authorship of
purchased plays, without either the reasons or the excuses which apply
to Shakspeare. Unfortunately, however, for those who claim Shakspeare
for Shakspeare, the secret was not wholly kept. Robert Greene, a
well-known contemporary, a writer of reputation, but one who led the
skeldering life peculiar to most of his class, addressed, on his
death-bed, in 1592, a warning to his co-mates not to trust to the
puppets 'that speak from our mouths.' He then goes on in these
remarkable words, which we believe every critic thinks were intended
for Shakspeare: 'Yes, trust them not; for there is an upstart crow
beautified with our feathers, that, with his tiger's heart wrapt in a
player's hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank
verse as the best of you; and, being an absolute _Johannes Factotum_,
is in his own conceit the only _Shake-scene_ in a country.' Again:
with this view, the disputed passages--those in which critics have
agreed that the genius is found wanting--the meretricious ornaments
sometimes crowded in--the occasional bad taste displayed--in short,
all the imperfections discernible and disputable in these mighty
dramas, are reconcilable with their being the interpolations of
Shakspeare himself on his poet's works.
The dedication of the _Venus_ and the _Lucrece_ to Lord Southampton
is, we confess, somewhat against us, for we cannot but think these
poems came from the pen that wrote _Romeo_; but, after all,
Southampton was so generous a patron, that Shakspeare might be excused
in assuming the authorship, in order to make the books (as his poems)
a better return for the thousand pounds bestowed. But if Southampton
really knew him to be the author of the dramas, how comes it that
Raleigh, Spenser, and even Bacon--all with genius so thoroughly
kindred to the author of _Hamlet_--have all ignored his acquaintance?
Raleigh and Bacon seem not to have known of his existence; while
Spenser, if he alludes to the works, takes care to avoid the name. In
short, Heywood, Suckling, Hales, and all the others who are recorded
to have spoken of Shakspeare 'with great admiration,' confine
themselves to the works, and seem personally to avoid the man--always
excepting '_Rare Ben Jonson_;' and we confess, if Ben is to be
entirely believed, Shakspeare wrote Shakspeare. But Ben, if
unsupported, is somewhat disqualified from being what the Scotch would
call a 'famous witness'--he was under the deepest pecuniary
obligations to Shakspeare, and was through life, despite the
nonsensical tradition of their quarrel, his hearty friend and
boon-companion, with 'blind affection,' as he phrases it, as seen
above, literally 'unto death,' and therefore bound by the strongest
ties to keep his secret, if secret there were. Besides, Ben can be
convicted of at least one unqualified fib on the subject. Hear how he
describes Droeshout's print of Shakspeare, prefixed to the first folio
edition of 1623:
This figure that thou here see'st put,
It was for gentle Shakspeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With nature to outdo the life.
Oh! could he have but drawn his wit
As well in brass, as he hath hit
His face, &c.
Hear now Nathan Drake: 'The wretched engraving thus undeservedly
eulogised;' and Mr Steevens calls it 'Shakspeare's countenance
deformed by Droeshout'--like the sign of Sir Roger turned into the
Saracen's Head.
We might, did space allow, also allude to the celebrated 'wit-combats
at the Mermaid,' where Shakspeare's wit, when recorded, becomes truly
un-Shakspearian. Let one example suffice, stated by Capell. 'Ben' and
'Bill' propose a joint epitaph. Ben begins:
'Here lies Ben Jonson,
Who was once one--'
Shakspeare concludes:
'That, while he lived, was a _slow_ thing;
And now, being dead, is a _no_-thing.'
We doubt if Benedict would have gained Beatrice had he wooed her in
this style, and yet its tiny sparkle seems a beam of light contrasted
with the dull darkness of the rest. In fine, we maintain we have no
more direct evidence to shew that Shakspeare wrote Hamlet's soliloquy,
than we have that he wrote the epitaph on John a Coombe, the ballad on
Sir Thomas Lucy, or the epitaph to spare his 'bones' on his own
tombstone--all of which the commentators are now determined to
repudiate.
Assuming, then, that we have proved, to our own extreme
dissatisfaction, the probability that Shakspeare kept a poet, we are
bound to say that the intercourse between them must have been one of
almost unexampled cordiality and kindness; for seldom can we discover
anything like hostility in the poet to his employer; but there must
have been two little miffs--one of which occurred during the writing
of the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, and the other before the publication
of the _Twelfth Night_. Shakspeare, it is well known, in very early
youth, married a girl a good deal older than himself, and there is at
least no evidence to shew that, as usual, he did not repent his
choice. Now, we will admit that it was unhandsome in the poet at the
beginning of the _Dream_ to make Hermia and Lysander discourse upon
this delicate subject--
_Hermia._ O cross! too high to be enthralled to low!
_Lysander._ Or else misgraffèd in respect of years.
_Her._ (_the lady._) O spite! too old to be engaged to young!
But matters were still worse, when the Duke, in the _Twelfth Night_,
exclaims:
'Too old, by Heaven! Let still the woman take
An elder than herself.'
And again:
'Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses, whose fair flower
Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.'
It is, we confess, very difficult to suppose that Shakspeare, with his
unquestionable good feeling, could have written this unhandsome insult
to his own wife, though it is very easy to imagine his passing it over
in a hurried perusal previous to its presentation in the green-room.
One thing at least appears certain, and not disputed--the plays
apparently rise, if we may use the expression, as the series goes on;
all at once, Shakspeare, with a fortune, leaves London, and the supply
ceases. Is this compatible with such a genius thus culminating, on any
other supposition than the death of the poet and the survival of the
employer?
Well, reader, how like you our hypothesis? We confess we do not like
it ourselves; but we humbly think it is at least as plausible as most
of what is contained in the many bulky volumes written to connect the
man, William Shakspeare, with the poet of _Hamlet_. We repeat, there
is nothing recorded in his everyday life that connects the two, except
the simple fact of his selling the poems and realising the proceeds,
and their being afterwards published with his name attached; and the
statements of Ben Jonson, which, however, are quite compatible with
his being in the secret. In fact, the only other hypothesis which we
think will serve at all, is to suppose that Shakspeare, like Mohammed,
instead of going to a garret, went to a cave, and received his _Koran_
from Gabriel; but then the mischief is, that Shakspeare is the most
readable of authors, and the _Koran_, perhaps the most unreadable
trash ever inflicted on a student--at least its translation is; and
besides, no angel of them all could ever have shewn such an
acquaintance with our (to a celestial) unkindred humanity as these
poems display. Perhaps the best and crowning hypothesis is that of
Byron about Junius:
That what we Shakspeare call,
Was really, truly, nobody at all.
Thus, whether Shakspeare were written by nobody or not, it seems
pretty well proved that _nobody gave_ the plays to Shakspeare; so
that, whether by inheritance, _purchase_, or divine afflatus, the man
who wrote Shakspeare was--William Shakspeare.