Alas, all this way of talking about “miracles,” and “the impossible,” and “genius” is quite vague and popular.  What do we mean by “genius”?  The Latin term originally designates, not a man’s everyday intellect, but a spirit from without which inspires him, like the “Daemon,” or, in Latin, “Genius” of Socrates, or the lutin which rode the pen of Moliere.  “Genius” is claimed for Shakespeare in an inscription on his Stratford monument, erected at latest some six years after his death.  Following this path of thought we come to “inspiration”:  the notion of it, as familiar to Australian savages as to any modern minds, is that, to the poet, what he produces is given by some power greater than himself, by the Boilyas (spirits) or Pundjel, the Father of all.  This palaeolithic psychology, of course, is now quite discredited, yet the term “genius” is still (perhaps superstitiously) applied to the rare persons whose intellectual faculties lightly outrun those of ordinary mortals, and who do marvels with means apparently inadequate.

In recent times some philosophers, like Mr. F. W. H. Myers, put—­in place of the Muses or the Boilyas, or the Genius—­what they call the “Subliminal Self,” something “far more deeply interfused than the everyday intellect.”  This subconscious self, capable of far more than the conscious intelligence, is genius.

On the other side, genius may fairly be regarded as faculty, only higher in degree, and not at all different in kind, from the everyday intellect which, for example, pens this page.

Thus as soon as we begin to speak of “genius,” we are involved in speculations, psychological, psychical, physical, and metaphysical; in difficulties of all sorts not at present to be solved either by physiological science or experimental psychology, or by psychical research, or by the study of heredity.  When I speak of “the genius of Shakespeare,” of Jeanne d’Arc, of Bacon, even of Wellington, I possibly have a meaning which is not in all respects the meaning of Mr. Greenwood, when he uses the term “genius”; so we are apt to misunderstand each other.  Yet we all glibly use the term “genius,” without definition and without discussion.

At once, too, in this quest, we jostle against “that fool of a word,” as Napoleon said, “impossible.”  At once, on either side, we assume that we know what is possible and what is impossible,—­and so pretend to omniscience.

Thus some “Stratfordians,” or defenders of the actor’s authorship, profess to know—­from all the signed work of Bacon, and from all that has reached us about Bacon’s occupations and preoccupations, from 1590 to 1605—­that the theory of Bacon’s authorship of the plays is “impossible.”  I, however, do not profess this omniscience.

On the other side the Baconian, arguing from all that he knows, or thinks he knows, or can imagine, of the actor’s education, conditions of life, and opportunities, argues that the authorship of the actor is “impossible.”