My object, then, in respect to this poem, is to produce, from many
instances, a few examples of the metamorphosis of such excellences as he
describes in the picture, into the corresponding forms of the drama; in
the hope that it will not then be necessary to urge the probability that
the presence of those artistic virtues in his own practice, upon which
he expatiates in his representation of another man's art, were
accompanied by the corresponding consciousness--that, namely, of the
artist as differing from that of the critic, its objects being regarded
from the concave side of the hammered relief. If this probability be
granted, I would, from it, advance to a higher and far more important
conclusion--how unlikely it is that if the writer was conscious of such
fitnesses, he should be unconscious of those grand embodiments of truth,
which are indubitably present in his plays, whether he knew it or not.
This portion of my argument will be strengthened by an instance to show
that Shakspere was himself quite at home in the contemplation of such
truths.
Let me adduce, then, some of those corresponding embodiments in words
instead of in forms; in which colours yield to tones, lines to phrases.
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