There rise authors now and
then who seem proof against the mutability of language because
they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human
nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the
banks of a stream, which by their vast and deep roots,
penetrating through the mere surface and laying hold on the very
foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from
being swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up many a
neighboring plant, and perhaps worthless weed, to perpetuity.
Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom we behold defying the
encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the language and
literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent
author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. But even
he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and
his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who,
like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant
that upholds them."
Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle,
until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter
that had wellnigh choked him by reason of his excessive
corpulency. "Mighty well!" cried he, as soon as he could recover
breath, "mighty well! and so you would persuade me that the
literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond
deer-stealer! by a man without learning! by a poet! forsooth--a
poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter.
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