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—It is a nobler thing to know that such a man as Shakspere was created than to be familiar with the shelves of whole libraries of dusty tomes. The advent of a soul so richly gifted, of a nature so intensely ideal and so richly passionate, is an era in the history of man. No poet ever reached a hight so lofty, described so grandly, speculated so daringly, or felt so deeply; and none ever seemed so little conscious of an effect. His grandest thoughts flow so naturally, that it is easy to see that they are familiar and accustomed to his mind; and his gayety and mirth are equally characteristic of himself. Hamlet and Mercutio, Macbeth and Romeo, Prospero and Benedick, are all Shakspere in his different moods; the [illegible]ver, the wit, the idealist, soldier and sage, each and all bear the impress of having originated from the same mind. There is probably less known of Shakspere personally than of any man of mark in English history. He lived in an age of heroes, and he was a foremost man among them. His contemporaries bowed before his master spirit, and the most colossal minds of all Europe have acknowledged his sovereignty. And yet we have a better knowledge of men who died a thousand years ago, before printing perpetuated tradition, when chroniclers were few, than of this wondrous man. There is not, we have reason to think, a single letter of his writing preserved, and scarcely a contemporary anecdote. There are portraits not one of which can be proved to be authentic; a bust which seems genuine, but cannot be warranted. This man, the real spiritual king of England, is in his individuality as much a myth as Homer. But this we do know, a man there lived whose intellectual and moral nature was a microcosm which embraced the ideal of humanity, and that he left behind a hundred representatives of his own mind, none like each other, but all like himself,
[begin surface 15]by whom every passing speculation or reasoning is best illustrated, and in whom every emotion finds its noblest and most genuine utterance.
[begin surface 16]The Elizebethan theatre must be viewed as little better than Richardson's shows, as far as appliances go. The curtains pull apart, and there is a tapestry representing a town—that in Troy. To make sure of it, there's a board overhead with the name written upon it, like a finger-post. At the back of the stage is a platform and balcony—that is the city-wall, where Helen will see the armies, of eight men each, pass in awful procession—the Greeks a little knock-kneed, the Trojans two of them squinting. The musicians are in a high stage-box. The actors enter—Troilus in hose and doublet, and Cressida, a plump boy of fourteen, in fardingale and scarf. A man in a black velvet cloak, heralded by a trumpet, has before this entered as Prologue. Such is Shakspeare's stage. On the boards at each side are gallant's smoking and laughing. The pit is standing, and the second gallery cracking nuts and pelting Hector with rotten apples. But in the best boxes we see some rather eminent men—Burleigh, for instance, and Sidney and Raleigh, while Shakspeare acts Archilles .—Thornbury's Shakspeare's England.
a paper read by William Henry
Smith, author of "Was Lord Bacon
the author of Shakespeare's Plays?"
—"What Pope says of some of the Plays
of Shakespeare is probably of true of
all—that they were pieces of unknown
authors, or fitted up for the theatre
while under his administration,—revised
and added to by him."
It seems according to Malone
that "the London Prodigal" was
acted at his theatre and afterwards
printed with his Shakespeare's name on the
title page—and, though he had
never written a line of it he
was indifferent to the cheat
and to the printer's impudence.
—Bacon, according to W.H. Smith,
was most probably the ^real author
—he goes on with his reasons
therefor , some of them very curious
and plausible, especially a contemporary
letter ^to Viscount St Albans calling Bacon saying "the most
prodigious wit that ever I knew of
any my nation, or thi of this side of the sea,
was of your Lordship's name, though he
be known by another."
Many little things are too much
overcolored, in Shakespeare—far too
much.— The features of beloved women, ^compliments,
the descriptions of ^moderately brave actions, ^professions of service and
hundreds more, are painted too intensely.
It is no answer to this, to say that
a lover would so state the case
about a woman he loved, or that
a strong rich nature would be
apt to describe incidents in that
manner; and ^that therefore Shakespeare
is ^therefore correct in so presenting them.—
Immensely too much is unnaturally
colored—the sentiment is piled
on, similes, comparaisons, defiances,
exaltations, divinities, immortalities,
are all bestowed upon themes certainly not
worthy the same,—^—thus losing proportion.— (Also, ?? many most
of the discursive speeches of the
great and little characters are
glaringly inappropriate, both words
and sentiments such as could not
have come from their mouths, ^in real life and
therefore should not in the plays.—).— Yet on great
occasion the character and action are
perfect.— This is what saves Shakespeare
—Is he imitative of Homer? If so, where and how?