The consequence is, that in the eagerness to
enlighten, they are often apt to obscure; and I have occasionally
seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the
officiousness of his followers.
In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare. Every
writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of
his character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion.
The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of
dissertations; the common herd of editors send up mists of
obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each page; and every
casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or
research to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke.
As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I
thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the
memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however,
sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found
myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; every
doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, and
perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation; and as to fine
passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers;
nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with
panegyric by a great German critic that it was difficult now to
find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty.
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