I think as highly as these
critics of his dramatic merit, but still think it secondary. He was
a full man, who liked to talk; a brain exhaling thoughts and images,
which, seeking vent, found the drama next at hand. Had he been less,
we should have had to consider how well he filled his place, how good
a dramatist he was,--and he is the best in the world. But it turns
out; that what he has to say is of that weight, as to withdraw some
attention from the vehicle; and he is like some saint whose history
is to be rendered into all languages, into verse and prose, into songs
and pictures, and cut up into proverbs; so that the occasions which
gave the saint's meaning the form of a conversation, or of a prayer,
or of a code of laws, is immaterial compared with the universality of
its application. So it fares with the wise Shakspeare and his book of
life. He wrote the airs for all our modern music: he wrote the text
of modern life; the text of manners: he drew the man of England and
Europe; the father of the man in America: he drew the man and described
the day, and what is done in it: he read the hearts of men and women,
their probity, and their second thought, and wiles; the wiles of
innocence, and the transitions by which virtues and vices slide into
their contraries: he could divide the mother's part from the father's
part in the face of the child, or draw the fine demarcations of freedom
and fate: he knew the laws of repression which make the police of
nature: and all the sweets and all the terrors of human lot lay in his
mind as truly but as softly as the landscape lies on the eye.
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