Think, not of growths
as forests primeval, or Yellowstone geysers, or Colorado ravines, but
of costly marble palaces, and palace rooms, and the noblest fixings
and furniture, and noble owners and occupants to correspond--think of
carefully built gardens from the beautiful but sophisticated gardening
art at its best, with walks and bowers and artificial lakes, and
appropriate statue-groups and the finest cultivated roses and lilies
and japonicas in plenty--and you have the tally of Shakspere. The low
characters, mechanics, even the loyal henchmen--all in themselves
nothing--serve as capital foils to the aristocracy. The comedies
(exquisite as they certainly are) bringing in admirably portray'd
common characters, have the unmistakable hue of plays, portraits, made
for the divertisement only of the elite of the castle, and from its
point of view. The comedies are altogether non-acceptable to America
and Democracy.
But to the deepest soul, it seems a shame to pick and choose from
the riches Shakspere has left us--to criticise his infinitely royal,
multiform quality--to gauge, with optic glasses, the dazzle of his
sun-like beams.
The best poetic utterance, after all, can merely hint, or remind,
often very indirectly, or at distant removes. Aught of real
perfection, or the solution of any deep problem, or any completed
statement of the moral, the true, the beautiful, eludes the greatest,
deftest poet--flies away like an always uncaught bird.
ROBERT BURNS AS POET AND PERSON
What the future will decide about Robert Burns and his works--what
place will be assign'd them on that great roster of geniuses and
genius which can only be finish'd by the slow but sure balancing of
the centuries with their ample average--I of course cannot tell.
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