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Shakspere As A Playwright
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This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.
As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.
399 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1916
About the author
Brander Matthews
374 books2 followersJames Brander Matthews was an American writer and educator. He was the first full-time professor of dramatic literature at an American university and played a significant role in establishing theater as a subject worthy of formal study in the academic world. His interests ranged from William Shakespeare, Molière, and Henrik Ibsen to French boulevard comedies, folk theater, and the new realism of his own day.
Matthews was born to a wealthy family, grew up in New York City, and graduated from Columbia College in 1871, where he was a member of the Philolexian Society and the fraternity of Delta Psi, and from Columbia Law School in 1873. He had no real interest in the law, never needed to work for a living (given his family fortune), and turned to a literary career, publishing in the 1880s and 1890s short stories, novels, plays, books about drama, biographies of actors, and three books of sketches of city life. One of these, Vignettes of Manhattan (1894), was dedicated to his friend Theodore Roosevelt.
From 1892 to 1900, he was a professor of literature at Columbia and thereafter held the Chair of Dramatic Literature until his retirement in 1924. He was known as an engaging lecturer and a charismatic if demanding teacher. An English professorship in his name still exists at Columbia.
Matthews' students knew him as a man well-versed in the history of drama and as knowledgeable about continental dramatists as he was about American and British playwrights. Long before they were fashionable, he championed playwrights who were regarded as too bold for American tastes, such as Hermann Sudermann, Arthur Pinero, and preeminently Henrik Ibsen, about whom he wrote frequently and eloquently.
He lived for the theater and made clear his belief that theater was a performance art, first and foremost, and that plays as literary texts should never be viewed in the same light. Yet in the classroom he was an exacting guide to stage craftsmanship.
Matthews was a prolific, varied, and uneven writer, author of over thirty books. His own novels and plays are undistinguished and long-forgotten (the claim to fame of one of his plays is its footnote status in Theodore Dreiser's novel Sister Carrie: it is the melodrama, A Gold Mine, Carrie attends which leads her to consider a career on the stage).
Some of his surveys of American literature and drama sold very well as high-school and college texts. Yet one of his earliest books, French Dramatists of the Nineteenth Century (1881), is deemed to be an excellent scholarly study of the subject and was revised and reprinted twice over two decades, while his 1919 autobiography, These Many Years, is likewise deemed a deftly-told story of an education in the arts by a man who lived a rich and productive life. It also offers an interesting evocation of life in Manhattan c. 1860–1900. Matthews additionally published a biography of Molière in 1910 and a biography of Shakespeare in 1913.
- Wikipedia
Matthews was born to a wealthy family, grew up in New York City, and graduated from Columbia College in 1871, where he was a member of the Philolexian Society and the fraternity of Delta Psi, and from Columbia Law School in 1873. He had no real interest in the law, never needed to work for a living (given his family fortune), and turned to a literary career, publishing in the 1880s and 1890s short stories, novels, plays, books about drama, biographies of actors, and three books of sketches of city life. One of these, Vignettes of Manhattan (1894), was dedicated to his friend Theodore Roosevelt.
From 1892 to 1900, he was a professor of literature at Columbia and thereafter held the Chair of Dramatic Literature until his retirement in 1924. He was known as an engaging lecturer and a charismatic if demanding teacher. An English professorship in his name still exists at Columbia.
Matthews' students knew him as a man well-versed in the history of drama and as knowledgeable about continental dramatists as he was about American and British playwrights. Long before they were fashionable, he championed playwrights who were regarded as too bold for American tastes, such as Hermann Sudermann, Arthur Pinero, and preeminently Henrik Ibsen, about whom he wrote frequently and eloquently.
He lived for the theater and made clear his belief that theater was a performance art, first and foremost, and that plays as literary texts should never be viewed in the same light. Yet in the classroom he was an exacting guide to stage craftsmanship.
Matthews was a prolific, varied, and uneven writer, author of over thirty books. His own novels and plays are undistinguished and long-forgotten (the claim to fame of one of his plays is its footnote status in Theodore Dreiser's novel Sister Carrie: it is the melodrama, A Gold Mine, Carrie attends which leads her to consider a career on the stage).
Some of his surveys of American literature and drama sold very well as high-school and college texts. Yet one of his earliest books, French Dramatists of the Nineteenth Century (1881), is deemed to be an excellent scholarly study of the subject and was revised and reprinted twice over two decades, while his 1919 autobiography, These Many Years, is likewise deemed a deftly-told story of an education in the arts by a man who lived a rich and productive life. It also offers an interesting evocation of life in Manhattan c. 1860–1900. Matthews additionally published a biography of Molière in 1910 and a biography of Shakespeare in 1913.
- Wikipedia
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
February 20, 2026
Mission 2026: Binge reviewing (and rereading on occasion) all previous Reads, I was too slothful to review, back when I read them.
My journey into serious academic study truly began upon my promotion to the eleventh grade. From that formative stage onwards, both throughout my years as a student and later in my professional life, I have engaged with an extensive range of texts, returning frequently to the discipline of sustained reading and reflection. Over the years, this engagement has amounted to the careful study of hundreds of volumes across diverse fields of thought and inquiry.
This section brings together a curated collection of reflections on those readings—part memoir, part critical appraisal. It encompasses works that have profoundly influenced my intellectual development, those that have offered enduring pleasure, and others that have invited disagreement or critique.
Taken together, these pieces represent an ongoing dialogue between the reader and the written word, shaped by the evolving perspectives of both a student and a professional.
I first encountered this as a student in 1998, nudged firmly yet affectionately by my English teacher, the late Mr. Biswajit Chatterjee. At the time, I read it out of duty. Later, out of curiosity. And now, having read it thrice across nearly three decades, I return to it out of gratitude.
When I first opened Matthews as a student, Shakespeare was still a distant monument — revered, quoted, memorised, but not truly understood. The classroom framed Shakespeare as poetry, as genius, as canon. Matthews did something quietly radical: he brought Shakespeare down from the pedestal and placed him on the stage.
Even in the opening pages, Matthews insists on something deceptively simple — Shakespeare was first and foremost a playwright, not merely a poet or philosopher.
That idea, which now feels obvious, was revelatory to my younger self. I remember underlining passages with a cheap blue pen, not fully grasping them, but sensing a shift in perspective.
On second reading, years later, I realised how deeply Matthews’ thesis had lingered in me. He wasn’t demolishing the poet; he was restoring the craftsman. He invites us to see Shakespeare as a working dramatist embedded in the practical world of actors, audiences, and playhouses. That single reframing changed how I read not just Shakespeare, but drama itself.
One of the most enduring strengths of this book is its grounding in theatrical reality. Matthews repeatedly reminds us that Shakespeare wrote for performance, not posterity.
The Elizabethan theatre emerges not as a romantic abstraction, but as a bustling, imperfect ecosystem — noisy audiences, practical constraints, and collaborative artistry.
As a student in 1998, I only skimmed these sections. Now, they feel like the heart of the book. Matthews reconstructs the Globe era with an almost tactile immediacy.
We begin to imagine Shakespeare not as a solitary genius with a quill, but as a professional navigating deadlines, revising scripts, managing actors, and gauging audience response.
This is perhaps the book’s most lasting gift: it humanises Shakespeare without diminishing him.
Matthews writes with a clarity that feels increasingly rare in academic prose. He is learned but not suffocatingly so. Even today, the book feels refreshingly readable.
There is no performative obscurity, no jargon meant to intimidate. Instead, the prose flows with an almost Edwardian confidence — measured, elegant, and purposeful.
Reading it now, I am struck by how generous Matthews is as a guide. He never flaunts scholarship; he deploys it quietly. He argues without aggression and persuades without spectacle.
For a modern reader accustomed to combative academic writing, this tone feels almost disarming.
Another aspect that deepens with each reading is Matthews’ tracing of Shakespeare’s development as a dramatist. He does not present Shakespeare as fully formed from the beginning. Instead, he maps a trajectory — apprentice, experimenter, master craftsman.
As a student, I found this mildly interesting. Now, I find it deeply moving. The idea that even Shakespeare evolved, struggled, and refined his craft is oddly comforting. Matthews gently dismantles the myth of instantaneous genius and replaces it with something far more inspiring: growth.
In doing so, he gives us permission to admire Shakespeare not only for what he achieved, but for how he arrived there.
Matthews is careful when dealing with biography, acknowledging how little we truly know. His restraint here is admirable. In an age where speculation often masquerades as insight, Matthews maintains intellectual honesty. He avoids sensationalism, preferring solid ground over seductive myth.
Yet, paradoxically, this restraint makes Shakespeare feel more real. The silences become meaningful. The gaps invite imagination without distortion.
Reading this book today, I appreciate Matthews’ integrity far more than I did as a teenager. It taught me something invaluable: scholarship is as much about what you refuse to claim as what you assert.
No reading of this book is complete for me without remembering 1998. I can still see the classroom — high windows, dusty fans, the afternoon lethargy of pre-monsoon heat. And there was Mr. Biswajit Chatterjee, insisting that we read beyond textbooks.
At that age, one rarely recognises the quiet revolutions teachers plant. He didn’t dramatise the importance of Matthews. He simply handed it to us, almost casually, as if sharing a secret. Only later did I realise what a gift that was.
On my second reading, I thought of him with nostalgia. On this third reading, I think of him with reverence. Some books are tied to memory. This one is tied to mentorship.
If I must be honest, the book is not without its limitations. Certain arguments feel dated, particularly in light of modern performance studies and textual scholarship. Matthews occasionally reflects the intellectual climate of the early 20th century — confident in ways contemporary criticism might question.
There is also a certain cultural distance. Matthews writes from an Anglo-American academic world far removed from our postcolonial classrooms. Reading it today, one is aware of that gap.
And yet, these limitations do not diminish the book’s value. If anything, they make it historically richer. We are not just reading about Shakespeare; we are witnessing how Shakespeare was read in 1913.
So why return to this book in 2026? Why read Matthews when shelves now groan under newer Shakespeare criticism? Because this book reminds us of something fundamental: literature lives in perspective. Matthews does not overwhelm you with theory. He gives you a lens — and once you see through it, you cannot unsee.
Even now, after multiple readings and many more Shakespeare books, Matthews remains one of the clearest voices in my mental library. Not the loudest, not the most fashionable, but among the most formative.
It is the kind of book that quietly reframes how you think.
Reading it now, decades after that first encounter, I felt an unexpected calm. There was no urgency to underline, no anxiety to extract meaning. Instead, there was a sense of return — like revisiting an old town where the roads have not changed, but you have.
I noticed sentences I had missed earlier. I lingered where I once hurried. And I realised that the book had not changed. I had.
Perhaps that is the true test of a lasting work — not that it remains relevant in every argument, but that it remains alive in memory.
If my first reading was academic and my second nostalgic, this third reading feels almost personal. Matthews is no longer just a critic; he is part of a long conversation that began in a classroom in 1998.
And at the centre of that memory stands Mr. Biswajit Chatterjee — not imposing Shakespeare upon us, but opening a door. Books like this remind us that reading is rarely solitary. It is threaded with voices — teachers, moments, younger selves.
‘Shakspere as a Playwright’ may not be the most cited Shakespeare book today. It may not dominate syllabi or academic debates. But for me, it remains something far more enduring: a bridge between student and reader, between past and present.
There are books, which are read once and shelved. A few are revisited in adulthood out of nostalgia. But then there are rare books that accompany us like a quiet teacher across decades. Brander Matthews’ book belongs, for me, to that last category.
Most recommended
My journey into serious academic study truly began upon my promotion to the eleventh grade. From that formative stage onwards, both throughout my years as a student and later in my professional life, I have engaged with an extensive range of texts, returning frequently to the discipline of sustained reading and reflection. Over the years, this engagement has amounted to the careful study of hundreds of volumes across diverse fields of thought and inquiry.
This section brings together a curated collection of reflections on those readings—part memoir, part critical appraisal. It encompasses works that have profoundly influenced my intellectual development, those that have offered enduring pleasure, and others that have invited disagreement or critique.
Taken together, these pieces represent an ongoing dialogue between the reader and the written word, shaped by the evolving perspectives of both a student and a professional.
I first encountered this as a student in 1998, nudged firmly yet affectionately by my English teacher, the late Mr. Biswajit Chatterjee. At the time, I read it out of duty. Later, out of curiosity. And now, having read it thrice across nearly three decades, I return to it out of gratitude.
When I first opened Matthews as a student, Shakespeare was still a distant monument — revered, quoted, memorised, but not truly understood. The classroom framed Shakespeare as poetry, as genius, as canon. Matthews did something quietly radical: he brought Shakespeare down from the pedestal and placed him on the stage.
Even in the opening pages, Matthews insists on something deceptively simple — Shakespeare was first and foremost a playwright, not merely a poet or philosopher.
That idea, which now feels obvious, was revelatory to my younger self. I remember underlining passages with a cheap blue pen, not fully grasping them, but sensing a shift in perspective.
On second reading, years later, I realised how deeply Matthews’ thesis had lingered in me. He wasn’t demolishing the poet; he was restoring the craftsman. He invites us to see Shakespeare as a working dramatist embedded in the practical world of actors, audiences, and playhouses. That single reframing changed how I read not just Shakespeare, but drama itself.
One of the most enduring strengths of this book is its grounding in theatrical reality. Matthews repeatedly reminds us that Shakespeare wrote for performance, not posterity.
The Elizabethan theatre emerges not as a romantic abstraction, but as a bustling, imperfect ecosystem — noisy audiences, practical constraints, and collaborative artistry.
As a student in 1998, I only skimmed these sections. Now, they feel like the heart of the book. Matthews reconstructs the Globe era with an almost tactile immediacy.
We begin to imagine Shakespeare not as a solitary genius with a quill, but as a professional navigating deadlines, revising scripts, managing actors, and gauging audience response.
This is perhaps the book’s most lasting gift: it humanises Shakespeare without diminishing him.
Matthews writes with a clarity that feels increasingly rare in academic prose. He is learned but not suffocatingly so. Even today, the book feels refreshingly readable.
There is no performative obscurity, no jargon meant to intimidate. Instead, the prose flows with an almost Edwardian confidence — measured, elegant, and purposeful.
Reading it now, I am struck by how generous Matthews is as a guide. He never flaunts scholarship; he deploys it quietly. He argues without aggression and persuades without spectacle.
For a modern reader accustomed to combative academic writing, this tone feels almost disarming.
Another aspect that deepens with each reading is Matthews’ tracing of Shakespeare’s development as a dramatist. He does not present Shakespeare as fully formed from the beginning. Instead, he maps a trajectory — apprentice, experimenter, master craftsman.
As a student, I found this mildly interesting. Now, I find it deeply moving. The idea that even Shakespeare evolved, struggled, and refined his craft is oddly comforting. Matthews gently dismantles the myth of instantaneous genius and replaces it with something far more inspiring: growth.
In doing so, he gives us permission to admire Shakespeare not only for what he achieved, but for how he arrived there.
Matthews is careful when dealing with biography, acknowledging how little we truly know. His restraint here is admirable. In an age where speculation often masquerades as insight, Matthews maintains intellectual honesty. He avoids sensationalism, preferring solid ground over seductive myth.
Yet, paradoxically, this restraint makes Shakespeare feel more real. The silences become meaningful. The gaps invite imagination without distortion.
Reading this book today, I appreciate Matthews’ integrity far more than I did as a teenager. It taught me something invaluable: scholarship is as much about what you refuse to claim as what you assert.
No reading of this book is complete for me without remembering 1998. I can still see the classroom — high windows, dusty fans, the afternoon lethargy of pre-monsoon heat. And there was Mr. Biswajit Chatterjee, insisting that we read beyond textbooks.
At that age, one rarely recognises the quiet revolutions teachers plant. He didn’t dramatise the importance of Matthews. He simply handed it to us, almost casually, as if sharing a secret. Only later did I realise what a gift that was.
On my second reading, I thought of him with nostalgia. On this third reading, I think of him with reverence. Some books are tied to memory. This one is tied to mentorship.
If I must be honest, the book is not without its limitations. Certain arguments feel dated, particularly in light of modern performance studies and textual scholarship. Matthews occasionally reflects the intellectual climate of the early 20th century — confident in ways contemporary criticism might question.
There is also a certain cultural distance. Matthews writes from an Anglo-American academic world far removed from our postcolonial classrooms. Reading it today, one is aware of that gap.
And yet, these limitations do not diminish the book’s value. If anything, they make it historically richer. We are not just reading about Shakespeare; we are witnessing how Shakespeare was read in 1913.
So why return to this book in 2026? Why read Matthews when shelves now groan under newer Shakespeare criticism? Because this book reminds us of something fundamental: literature lives in perspective. Matthews does not overwhelm you with theory. He gives you a lens — and once you see through it, you cannot unsee.
Even now, after multiple readings and many more Shakespeare books, Matthews remains one of the clearest voices in my mental library. Not the loudest, not the most fashionable, but among the most formative.
It is the kind of book that quietly reframes how you think.
Reading it now, decades after that first encounter, I felt an unexpected calm. There was no urgency to underline, no anxiety to extract meaning. Instead, there was a sense of return — like revisiting an old town where the roads have not changed, but you have.
I noticed sentences I had missed earlier. I lingered where I once hurried. And I realised that the book had not changed. I had.
Perhaps that is the true test of a lasting work — not that it remains relevant in every argument, but that it remains alive in memory.
If my first reading was academic and my second nostalgic, this third reading feels almost personal. Matthews is no longer just a critic; he is part of a long conversation that began in a classroom in 1998.
And at the centre of that memory stands Mr. Biswajit Chatterjee — not imposing Shakespeare upon us, but opening a door. Books like this remind us that reading is rarely solitary. It is threaded with voices — teachers, moments, younger selves.
‘Shakspere as a Playwright’ may not be the most cited Shakespeare book today. It may not dominate syllabi or academic debates. But for me, it remains something far more enduring: a bridge between student and reader, between past and present.
There are books, which are read once and shelved. A few are revisited in adulthood out of nostalgia. But then there are rare books that accompany us like a quiet teacher across decades. Brander Matthews’ book belongs, for me, to that last category.
Most recommended
Displaying 1 of 1 review