almness
and continence in the statue. As soon as the statue was begun for
itself, and with no reference to the temple or palace, the art began
to decline; freak, extravagance, and exhibition, took the place of the
old temperance. This balance-wheel, which the sculptor found in
architecture, the perilous irritability of poetic talent found in the
accumulated dramatic materials to which the people were already
wonted, and which had a certain excellence which no single genius,
however extraordinary, could hope to create.

In point of fact, it appears that Shakespeare did owe debts in all
directions, and was able to use whatever he found; and the amount of
indebtedness may be inferred from Malone's laborious computations in
regard to the First, Second, and Third parts of _Henry VI_, in which,
'out of 6043 lines, 1771 were written by some author preceding
Shakespeare; 2373 by him, on the foundation laid by his predecessors;
and 1899 were entirely his own.' And the proceeding investigation
hardly leaves a single drama of his absolute invention. Malone's
sentence is an important piece of external history. In _Henry VIII_, I
think I see plainly the cropping out of the original rock on which his
own finer stratum was laid. The first play was written by a superior,
thoughtful man, with a vicious ear. I can mark his lines, and know
well their cadence. See Wolsey's soliloquy, and the following scene
with Cromwell, where,--instead of the metre of Shakespeare, whose
secret is, that the thought constructs the tune, so that reading for
the sense will best bring out the rhythm,--here the lines are
constructed on a given tune, and the verse has even a trace of pulpit
eloquence. But the play contains, through all its length, unmistakable
traits of Shakespeare's hand, and some passages, as the account of the
coronation, are like autographs. What is odd, the compliment to Queen
Elizabeth is in the bad rhythm.

Shakespeare knew that tradition supplies a better fable than any
invention can. If he lost any credit of design, he augmented his
resources; and, at that day, our petulant demand for originality was
not so much pressed. There was no literature for the million. The
universal reading, the cheap press, were unknown. A great poet, who
appears in illiterate times, absorbs into his sphere all the light
which is anywhere radiating. Every intellectual jewel, every flower of
sentiment, it is his fine office to bring to his people; and he com