My conviction is, that it is the very consummateness of
Shakspere's art, that exposes his work to the doubt that springs from
loving anxiety for his honour; the dramatist, like the sculptor,
avoiding every avoidable hint of the process, in order to render the
result a vital whole. But, fortunately, we are not left to argue
entirely from probabilities. He has himself given us a peep into his
studio--let me call it _workshop_, as more comprehensive.
It is not, of course, in the shape of _literary_ criticism, that we
should expect to meet such a revelation; for to use art even
consciously, and to regard it as an object of contemplation, or to
theorize about it, are two very different mental operations. The
productive and critical faculties are rarely found in equal combination;
and even where they are, they cannot operate equally in regard to the
same object. There is a perfect satisfaction in producing, which does
not demand a re-presentation to the critical faculty. In other words,
the criticism which a great writer brings to bear upon his own work, is
from within, regarding it upon the hidden side, namely, in relation to
his own idea; whereas criticism, commonly understood, has reference to
the side turned to the public gaze.
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