These tricks of his
magic spoil for us the illusions of the green-room. Can any biography
shed light on the localities into which the Midsummer Night's Dream
admits me? Did Shakspeare confide to any notary or parish recorder,
sacristan, or surrogate, in Stratford, the genesis of that delicate
creation? The forest of Arden, the nimble air of Scone Castle, the
moonlight of Portia's villa, "the antres vast and desarts idle," of
Othello's captivity,--where is the third cousin, or grand-nephew, the
chancellor's file of accounts, or private letter, that has kept one
word of those transcendent secrets. In fine, in this drama, as in all
great works of art,--in the Cyclopaean architecture of Egypt and India;
in the Phidian sculpture; the Gothic minsters; the Italian painting;
the Ballads of Spain and Scotland,--the Genius draws up the ladder
after him, when the creative age goes up to heaven, and gives way to
a new, who see the works, and ask in vain for a history.
Shakspeare is the only biographer of Shakspeare; and even he can tell
nothing, except to the Shakspeare in us; that is, to our most
apprehensive and sympathetic hour.
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