I see Dryasdust thumbing his Concordance. Let my memory save him the
trouble. I will reel him off the one passage in which Shakespeare
spoke of Christmas in words that rise to the level of mediocrity.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.
So says Marcellus at Elsinore. This is the best our Shakespeare can
vamp up for the birthday of the Man with whom he of all men had the
most in common. And Dryasdust, eternally unable to distinguish chalk
from cheese, throws up his hands in admiration of the marvellous
poetry. If Dryasdust had written it, it would more than pass
muster. But as coming from Shakespeare, how feeble-cold--aye,
and sulky-sinister! The greatest praiser the world will ever
know!--and all he can find in his heart to sing of Christmas is a
stringing-together of old women's superstitions! Again and again he
has painted Winter for us as it never has been painted since--never
by Goethe even, though Goethe in more than one of the _Winter-Lieder_
touched the hem of his garment.
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