There is something pathetic about the blind devotion of humanity to its famous names.  But how indiscriminate it is; how lacking in discernment!

This is, above all, true of Shakespeare, whose peculiar and quite personal genius has almost been buried under the weight of popular idolatry.  No wonder such critics as Voltaire, Tolstoi, and Mr. Bernard Shaw have taken upon themselves to intervene.  The Frenchman’s protest was an aesthetic one.  The more recent objectors have adopted moral and philosophic grounds.  But it is the unreasoning adoration of the mob which led to both attacks.

It is not difficult to estimate the elements which have gone to make up this Shakespeare-God.  The voices of the priests behind the Idol are only too clearly distinguishable.  We hear the academic voice, the showman’s voice, and the voice of the ethical preacher.  They are all absurd, but their different absurdities have managed to flow together into one powerful and unified convention.  Our popular orators gesticulate and clamour; our professors “talk Greek;” our ethical Brutuses “explain;” and the mob “throw up their sweaty night-caps;” while our poor Cæsar of Poetry sinks down out of sight, helpless among them all.

Charles Lamb, who understood him better than anyone ­and who loved Plays ­does not hesitate to accuse our Stage-Actors of being the worst of all in their misrepresentation.  He doubts whether even Garrick understood the subtlety of the roles he played, and the few exceptions he allows in his own age make us wonder what he would say of ours.

Finally there is the “Philosophical Shakespeare” of the German appreciation, and this we feel instinctively to be the least like the original of all!

The irony of it is that the author of Hamlet and the Tempest does not only live in a different world from that of these motley exponents.  He lives in an antagonistic one.  Shakespeare was as profoundly the enemy of scholastic pedantry as he was the enemy of puritan squeamishness.  He was almost unkindly averse to the breath of the profane crowd.  And his melancholy scepticism, with its half-humorous assent to the traditional pieties, is at the extremest opposite pole from the “truths” of metaphysical reason.  The Shakespeare of the Popular Revivals is a fantastic caricature.  The Shakespeare of the College Text-Books is a lean scarecrow.  But the Shakespeare of the philosophical moralists is an Hob-goblin from whom one flees in dismay.

Enjoying the plays themselves ­the interpreters forgotten ­a normally intelligent reader cannot fail to respond to a recognisable Personality there, a Personality with apathies and antipathies, with prejudices and predilections.  Very quickly he will discern the absurd unreality of that monstrous Idol, that ubiquitous Hegelian God.  Very soon he will recognize that in trying to make their poet everything they have made him nothing.

No one can read Shakespeare with direct and simple enjoyment without discovering in his plays a quite definite and personal attitude towards life.  Shakespeare is no Absolute Divinity, reconciling all oppositions and transcending all limitations.  He is not that “cloud-capped mountain,” too lofty to be scanned, of Matthew Arnold’s Sonnet.  He is a sad and passionate artist, using his bitter experiences to intensify his insight, and playing with his humours and his dreams to soften the sting of that brutish reality which he was doomed to unmask.  The best way of indicating the personal mood which emerges as his final attitude is to describe it as that of the perfectly natural man confronting the universe.  Of course, there is no such “perfectly natural man,” but he is a legitimate lay-figure, and we all approximate to him at times.  The natural man, in his unsophisticated hours, takes the Universe at its surface value, neither rejecting the delicate compensations, nor mitigating the cruelty of the grotesque farce.  The natural man accepts what is given. He swallows the chaotic surprises, the extravagant accidents, the whole fantastic “pell-mell.”  He accepts, too, the traditional pieties of his race, their “hope against hope,” their gracious ceremonial, their consecration of birth and death.  He accepts these, not because he is confident of their “truth” but because they are there; because they have been there so long, and have interwoven themselves with the chances and changes of the whole dramatic spectacle.

He accepts them spontaneously, humorously, affectionately; not anxious to improve them ­what would be the object of that? ­and certainly not seeking to controvert them.  He révérences this Religion of his Race not only because it has its own sad, pathetic beauty, but because it has got itself involved in the common burden; lightening such a burden here, making it, perhaps, a little heavier there, but lending it a richer tone, a subtler colour, a more significant shape.  It does not trouble the natural man that Religion should deal with “the Impossible.”  Where, in such a world as this, does that begin?  He has no agitating desire to reconcile it with reason.

At the bottom of his soul he has a shrewd suspicion that it rather grew out of the earth than fell from the sky, but that does not concern him.  It may be based upon no eternal verity.  It may lead to no certain issue.  It may be neither very “useful” or very “moral.”  But it is, at any rate, a beautiful work of imaginative art, and it lends life a certain dignity that nothing can quite replace.  As a matter of fact, the natural man’s attitude to these things does not differ much from the attitude of the great artists.  It is only that a certain lust for creation, and a certain demonic curiosity, scourge these latter on to something beyond passive resignation.

A Da Vinci or a Goethe accepts religion and uses it, but between it and the depths of his own mind remains forever an inviolable film of sceptical “white light.”  This “qualified assent” is precisely what excites the fury of such individualistic thinkers as Tolstoi and Bernard Shaw.  It were amusing to note the difference between the “humour” of this latter and the “humour” of Shakespeare.  Shaw’s humour consists in emphasizing the absurdity of human Custom, compared with the good sense of the philosopher.  Shakespeare’s humour consists in emphasizing the absurdity of philosophers, compared with the good sense of Custom.  The one is the humour of the Puritan, directed against the ordinary man, on behalf of the Universe.  The other is the humour of the Artist, directed against the Universe, on behalf of the ordinary man.

Shakespeare is, at bottom, the most extreme of Pessimists.  He has no faith in “progress,” no belief in “eternal values,” no transcendental “intuitions,” no zeal for reform.  The universe to him, for all its loveliness, remains an outrageous jest.  The cosmic is the comic.  Anything may be expected of this “pendant world,” except what we expect; and when it is a question of “falling back,” we can only fall back on human-made custom.  We live by Illusions, and when the last Illusion fails us, we die.  After reading Shakespeare, the final impression left upon the mind is that the world can only be justified as an aesthetic spectacle.  To appreciate a Show at once so sublime and so ridiculous, one needs to be very brave, very tender, and very humorous.  Nothing else is needed.  “Man must abide his going hence, even as his coming hither.  Ripeness is all.”  When Courage fails us, it is ­“as flies to wanton boys are we to the gods.  They kill us for their sport.”  When tenderness fails us, it is ­“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time.”  When humour fails us, it is ­“How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world!”

So much for Life!  And when we come to Death, how true it is, as Charles Lamb says, that none has spoken of Death like Shakespeare!  And he has spoken of it so ­with such an absolute grasp of our mortal feeling about it ­because his mood in regard to it is the mood of the natural man; of the natural man, unsophisticated by false hopes, undated by vain assurance.  His attitude towards death neither sweetens “the unpalatable draught of mortality” nor permits us to let go the balm of its “eternal peace.”  How frightful “to lie in cold obstruction and to rot; this sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod!” and yet, “after life’s fitful fever,” how blessed to “sleep well!”

What we note about this mood ­the mood of Shakespeare and the natural man ­is that it never for a moment dallies with philosophic fancies or mystic visions.  It “thinks highly of the soul,” but in the natural, not the metaphysical, sense.  It is the attitude of Rabelais and Montaigne, not the attitude of Wordsworth or Browning.  It is the tone we know so well in the Homeric poems.  It is the tone of the Psalms of David.  We hear its voice in “Ecclesiastes,” and the wisdom of “Solomon the King” is full of it.  In more recent times, it is the feeling of those who veer between our race’s traditional hope and the dark gulf of eternal silence.  It is the “Aut Christus aut Nihil” of those who “by means of metaphysic” have dug a pit, into which metaphysic has disappeared!

The gaiety and childlike animal spirits of Shakespeare’s Comedies need not deceive us.  Why should we not forget the whips and scorns for a while, and fleet the time carelessly, “as they did in the golden age?” Such simple fooling goes better with the irresponsibility of our fate than the more pungent wit of the moral comedians.  The tragic laughter which the confused issues of life excite in subtler souls is not lacking, but the sweet obliquities of honest clowns carry us just as far.  Shakespeare loves fools as few have loved them, and it is often his humour to put into their mouth the ultimate wisdom.

It is remarkable that these plays should commence with a “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and end with a “Tempest.”  In the interval the great sombre passions of our race are sounded and dismissed; but as he began with Titania, so he ends with Ariel.  From the fairy forest to the enchanted island; from a dream to a dream.  With Shakespeare there is no Wagnerian, Euripidean “apologia.”  There is no “Parsifal” or “Bacchanals.”  From the meaningless tumult of mortal passions he returns, with a certain ironic weariness, to the magic of Nature and the wonder of youth.  Prospero, dismissing his spirits “into thin air,” has the last word; and the last word is as the first:  “we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”  The easy-going persons who reluct at the idea of a pessimistic Shakespeare should turn the pages of Troilus and Cressida, Measure for Measure, and Timon of Athens.  What we guessed as we read Hamlet and Lear grows a certainty as we read these plays.

Here the “gentle Shakespeare” does the three things that are most unpardonable.  He unmasks virtue; he betrays Woman; and he curses the gods.  The most intransigent of modern revolutionaries might learn a trick or two from this sacred poet.  In Lear he puts the very voice of Anarchy into the mouth of the King ­“Die for adultery?  No!” “Handy-dandy, which is the Magistrate and which is the Thief?” “A dog’s obeyed in office.”

Have I succeeded in making clear what I feel about the Shakespearean attitude?  At bottom, it is absolutely sceptical.  Deep yawns below Deep; and if we cannot read “the writing upon the wall,” the reason may be that there is no writing there.  Having lifted a corner of the Veil of Isis, having glanced once into that Death-Kingdom where grope the roots of the Ash-Tree whose name is Fear, we return to the surface, from Nadir to Zenith, and become “superficial” ­“out of profundity.”

The infinite spaces, as Pascal said, are “frightful.”  That way madness lies.  And those who would be sane upon earth must drug themselves with the experience, or with the spectacle of the experience, of human passion.  Within this charmed circle, and here alone, they may be permitted to forget the Outer Terror.

The noble spirit is not the spirit that condescends to pamper in itself those inflated moods of false optimistic hope, which, springing from mere physiological well-being, send us leaping and bounding, with such boisterous assurance, along the sunny road.  Such pragmatic self-deception is an impertinence in the presence of a world like this.

It is a sign of what one might call a philosophically ill-bred nature.  It is the indecent “gratitude” of the pig over his trough.  It is the little yellow eye of sanctified bliss turned up to the God who "must be in His Heaven” if we are so privileged.  This “never doubting good will triumph” is really, when one examines it, nothing but the inverted prostration of the helot-slave, glad to have been allowed to get so totally drunk!  It blusters and swaggers, but at heart it is base and ignoble.  For it is not sensitive enough to feel that the Universe cannot be pardoned for the cry of one tortured creature, and that all “the worlds we shall traverse” cannot make up for the despair of one human child.

To be “cheerful” about the Universe in the manner of these people is to insult the Christ who died.  It is to outrage the “little ones” over whose bodies the Wheel has passed.  When Nietzsche, the martyr of his own murdered pity, calls upon us to “love Fate,” he does not shout so lustily.  His laughter is the laughter of one watching his darling stripped for the rods.  He who would be “in harmony with Nature.” with those “murderous ministers” who, in their blind abyss, throw dice with Chance, must be in harmony with the giants of Jotunheim, as well as with the lords of Valhalla.  He must be able to look on grimly while Asgard totters; he must welcome “the Twilight of the Gods.”  To have a mind inured to such conceptions, a mind capable of remaining on such a verge, is, alone, to be, intellectually speaking, what we call “aristocratic.”  When, even with eyes like poor Gloucester’s in the play, we can see “how this world wags,” it is slavish and “plebeian” to swear that it all “means intensely, and means well.”  It is also to lie in one’s throat!

No wonder Shakespeare treats reverently every “superstition,” every anodyne and nepenthe offered to the inmates of this House of the Incurable.  Such “sprinkling with holy water,” such “rendering ourselves stupid,” is the only alternative.  Anything else is the insight of the hero, or the hypocrisy of the preacher!

Has it been realized how curiously the interpreters of Shakespeare omit the principal thing?  They revel in his Grammar, his History, his Biology, his Botany, his Geography, his Psychology and his Ethics.  They never speak of his Poetry.  Now Shakespeare is, above everything, a poet.  To poetry, over and over again, as our Puritans know well, he sacrifices Truth, Morality, Probability, nay! the very principles of Art itself.

As Dramas, many of his plays are scandalously bad; many of his characters fantastic.  One can put one’s finger in almost every case upon the persons and situations that interested him and upon those that did not.  And how carelessly he “sketches in” the latter!  So far from being “the Objective God of Art” they seek to make him, he is the most wayward and subjective of all wandering souls.

No natural person can read him without feeling the pulse of extreme personal passion behind everything he writes.

And this pulse of personal passion is always expressing itself in Poetry.  He will let the probabilities of a character vanish into air, or dwindle into a wistful note of attenuated convention, when once such a one has served his purpose as a reed to pipe his strange tunes through.  He will whistle the most important personage down the wind, lost to interest and identity, when once he has put into his mouth his own melancholy brooding upon life ­his own imaginative reaction.

And so it happens that, in spite of all academic opinion, those who understand Shakespeare best tease themselves least over his dramatic lapses.  For let it be whispered at once, without further scruple.  As far as the art of the drama is concerned, Shakespeare is shameless. The poetic instinct ­one might call it “epical” or “lyrical,” for it is both these ­is far more dominant in our “greatest dramatist” than any dramatic conscience.  That is precisely why those among us who love “poetry,” but find “drama,” especially “drama since Ibsen,” intolerably tiresome, revert again and again to Shakespeare.  Only absurd groups of Culture-Philistines can read these “powerful modern productions” more than once!  One knows not whether their impertinent preaching, or their exasperating technical cleverness is the more annoying.

They may well congratulate themselves on being different from Shakespeare.  They are extremely different.  They are, indeed, nothing but his old enemies, the Puritans, “translated,” like poor Bottom, and wearing the donkey’s head of “art for art’s sake” in place of their own simple foreheads.

Art for art’s sake!  The thing has become a Decalogue of forbidding commandments, as devastating as those Ten. It is the new avatar of the “moral sense” carrying categorical insolence into the sphere of our one Alsatian sanctuary!

I am afraid Shakespeare was a very “immoral” artist.  I am afraid he wrote as one of the profane.

But what of the Greeks?  The Greeks never let themselves go!  No!  And for a sufficient reason.  Greek Drama was Religion.  It was Ritual.  And we know how “responsible” ritual must be.  The gods must have their incense from the right kind of censer.

But you cannot evoke Religion “in vacuo.”  You cannot, simply by assuming grave airs about your personal “taste,” or even about the “taste” of your age, give it that consecration.

Beauty?  God knows what beauty is.  But I can tell you what it is not.  It is not the sectarian anxiety of any pompous little clique to get “saved” in the artistic “narrow path.”  It is much rather what Stendhal called it.  But he spoke so frivolously that I dare not quote him.

Has it occurred to you, gentle reader, to note how “Protestant” this New Artistic Movement is?  Shakespeare, in his aesthetic method, as well as in his piety, had a Catholic soul.  In truth, the hour has arrived when a “Renaissance” of the free spirit of Poetry in Drama is required.  Why must this monstrous shadow of the Hyperborean Ibsen go on darkening the play-instinct in us, like some ugly, domineering John Knox?  I suspect that there are many generous Rabelaisian souls who could lift our mortal burden with oceanic merriment, only the New Movement frightens them.  They are afraid they would not be “Greek” enough ­or “Scandinavian” enough.  Meanwhile the miserable populace have to choose between Babylonian Pantomimes and Gaelic Mythology, if they are not driven, out of a kind of spite, into the region of wholesome “domestic sunshine.”

What, in our hearts, we natural men desire is to be delivered at one blow from the fairies with weird names (so different from poor Titania!), and from the three-thousand “Unities!” What “poetry” we do get is so vague and dim and wistful and forlorn that it makes us want to go out and “buy clothes” for someone.  We veer between the abomination of city-reform and the desolation of Ultima Thule.

But Shakespeare is Shakespeare still.  O those broken and gasped-out human cries, full of the old poignancy, full of the old enchantment!  Shakespeare’s poetry is the extreme opposite of any “cult.”  It is the ineffable expression, in music that makes the heart stop, of the feelings which have stirred every Jack and Jill among us, from the beginning of the world!  It has the effect of those old “songs” of the countryside that hit the heart in us so shrewdly that one feels as though the wind had made them or the rain or the wayside grass; for they know too much of what we tell to none!  It is the “one touch of Nature.”  And how they break the rules, these surpassing lines, in which the emotions of his motley company gasp themselves away!

It is not so much in the great speeches, noble as these are, as in the brief, tragic cries and broken stammerings, that his unapproachable felicity is found.  “Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, the gods themselves throw incense.”  Thick and fast they crowd upon our memory, these little sentences, these aching rhythms!  It is with the flesh and blood of the daily Sacrifice of our common endurance that he celebrates his strange Mass.  Hands that “smell of mortality,” lips that “so sweetly were forsworn,” eyes that “look their last” on all they love, these are the touches that make us bow down before the final terrible absolution.  And it is the same with Nature.  Not to Shakespeare do we go for those pseudo-scientific, pseudo-ethical interpretations, so crafty in their word-painting, so cunning in their rational analysis, which we find in the rest.  A few fierce-flung words, from the hot heart of an amorist’s lust, and all the smouldering magic of the noon-day woods takes your breath.  A sobbing death-dirge from the bosom of a love-lorn child, and the perfume of all the “enclosed gardens” in the world shudders through your veins.

And what about the ancient antagonist of the Earth?  What about the Great Deep?  Has anyone, anywhere else, gathered into words the human tremor and the human recoil that are excited universally when we go down “upon the beached verge of the salt flood, who once a day with his embossed froth the turbulent surge doth cover?” John Keats was haunted day and night by the simple refrain in Lear, “Canst thou not hear the Sea?”

Charming Idyllists may count the petals of the cuckoo-buds in the river-pastures; and untouched, we admire.  But let old Falstaff, as he lies a’ dying, “babble o’ green fields,” and all the long, long thoughts of youth steal over us, like a summer wind.

The modern critic, with a philosophic bias, is inclined to quarrel with the obvious human congruity of Shakespeare’s utterances.  What is the use of this constant repetition of the obvious truism:  “When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools?”

No use, my friend!  No earthly use!  And yet it is not a premeditated reflection, put in “for art’s sake.”  It is the poetry of the pinch of Fate; it is the human revenge we take upon the insulting irony of our lot.

But Shakespeare does not always strike back at the gods with bitter blows.  In this queer world, where we have “nor youth, nor age, but, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep, dreaming on both,” there come moments when the spirit is too sore wounded even to rise in revolt.  Then, in a sort of “cheerful despair,” we can only wait the event.  And Shakespeare has his word for this also.

Perhaps the worst of all “the slings and arrows” are the intolerable partings we have to submit to, from the darlings of our soul.  And here, while he offers us no false hope, his tone loses its bitterness, and grows gentle and solemn.

It is ­“Forever and forever, farewell, Cassius.  If we do meet again, why then ’tis well; if not, this parting was well made.”  And for the Future: 

     “O that we knew
     The end of this day’s business ere it comes! 
     But it suffices that the day will end;
     And then the end is known.”