It Is Impossible For Us, With Our

In The Plays Of Shakespeare Man Appears As He Is, Made Up Of A Crowd Of Passions Which Contend For The Mastery Over Him, And Govern Him In Turn.

In The Infancy Of Civilization, When Our Island Was As Savage As New Guinea, When Letters And Arts Were Still Unknown To Athens, When Scarcely A Thatched Roofed Hut Stood On What Was Later The Site Of Rome, This Contemned People Had Their Fenced Cities And Cedar Palaces, Their Splendid Temple, Their Fleets Of Merchant Ships, Their Schools Of Sacred Learning, Their Great Statesmen And Soldiers, Their Natural Philosophers, Their Historians And Their Poets.

It Was Before Deity Embodied In A Human Form Walking Among Men, Partaking Of Their Infirmities, Leaning On Their Bosoms, Weeping Over Their Graves, Slumbering In The Manger, Bleeding On The Cross, That The Prejudices Of The Synagogue, And The Doubts Of The Academy, And The Pride Of The Portico, And The Fasces Of The Lictor, And The Swords Of Thirty Legions Were Humbled In The Dust.

Highest Among Those Who Have Exhibited Human Nature By Means Of Dialogue Stands Shakespeare. His Variety Is Like The Variety Of Nature,--endless Diversity, Scarcely Any Monstrosity.

Few Of The Many Wise Apothegms Which Have Been Uttered Have Prevented A Single Foolish Action.