of a want of taste, a want of sensibility.  At the same time, we may really be honester than those who have led us to expect this or that of him, and more truly his friends.  I wish the time might come when we could read Shakespeare, and Dante, and Homer, as sincerely and as fairly as we read any new book by the least known of our contemporaries.  The course of criticism is towards this, but when I began to read Shakespeare I should not have ventured to think that he was not at every moment great.  I should no more have thought of questioning the poetry of any passage in him than of questioning the proofs of holy writ.  All the same, I knew very well that much which I read was really poor stuff, and the persons and positions were often preposterous.  It is a great pity that the ardent youth should not be permitted and even encouraged to say this to himself, instead of falling slavishly before a great author and accepting him at all points as infallible.  Shakespeare is fine enough and great enough when all the possible detractions are made, and I have no fear of saying now that he would be finer and greater for the loss of half his work, though if I had heard any one say such a thing then I should have held him as little better than one of the wicked.

Upon the whole it was well that I had not found my way to Shakespeare earlier, though it is rather strange that I had not.  I knew him on the stage in most of the plays that used to be given.  I had shared the conscience of Macbeth, the passion of Othello, the doubt of Hamlet; many times, in my natural affinity for villains, I had mocked and suffered with Richard III.

Probably no dramatist ever needed the stage less, and none ever brought more to it.  There have been few joys for me in life comparable to that of seeing the curtain rise on “Hamlet,” and hearing the guards begin to talk about the ghost; and yet how fully this joy imparts itself without any material embodiment!  It is the same in the whole range of his plays:  they fill the scene, but if there is no scene they fill the soul.  They are neither worse nor better because of the theatre.  They are so great that it cannot hamper them; they are so vital that they enlarge it to their own proportions and endue it with something of their own living force.  They make it the size of life, and yet they retire it so wholly that you think no more of it than you think of the physiognomy of one who talks importantly to you.  I have heard people say that they would rather not see Shakespeare played than to see him played ill, but I cannot agree with them.  He can better afford to be played ill than any other man that ever wrote.  Whoever is on the stage, it is always Shakespeare who is speaking to me, and perhaps this is the reason why in the past I can trace no discrepancy between reading his plays and seeing them.

The effect is so equal from either experience that I am not sure as to some plays whether I read them or saw them first, though as to most of them I am aware that I never saw them at all; and if the whole truth must be told there is still one of his plays that I have not read, and I believe it is esteemed one of his greatest.  There are several, with all my reading of others, that I had not read till within a few years; and I do not think I should have lost much if I, had never read “Pericles” and “Winter’s Tale.”