And I freely confess that my whole
heart would turn away with an angry impatience from the cold and
captious mortal who, the moment I had been pouring out the love and
gladness of my soul--while book after book, law, and truth, and
example, oracle, and lovely hymn, and choral song of ten thousand
thousands, and accepted prayers of saints and prophets, sent back, as
it were, from heaven, like doves, to be let loose again with a new
freight of spiritual joys and griefs and necessities, were passing
across my memory--at the first pause of my voice, and whilst my
countenance was still speaking--should ask me whether I was thinking
of the Book of Esther, or meant particularly to include the first six
chapters of Daniel, or verses 6-20 of the 109th Psalm, or the last
verse of the 137th Psalm? Would any conclusion of this sort be drawn
in any other analogous case? In the course of my lectures on
Dramatic Poetry, I, in half a score instances, referred my auditors
to the precious volume before me--Shakespeare--and spoke
enthusiastically, both in general and with detail of particular
beauties, of the plays of Shakespeare, as in all their kinds, and in
relation to the purposes of the writer, excellent.
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