The
description of the two hosts: the wornout, jaded English; the dread
hour, big with destiny, when the battle shall begin; and then that
deathless valour: "Ye good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England!"
There is a noble Patriotism in it--far other than the "indifference" you
sometimes hear ascribed to Shakespeare. A true English heart breathes,
calm and strong, through the whole business; not boisterous, protrusive;
all the better for that. There is a sound in it like the ring of steel.
This man too had a right stroke in him, had it come to that!
But I will say, of Shakespeare's works generally, that we have no full
impress of him there; even as full as we have of many men. His works are
so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in
him. All his works seem, comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect,
written under cramping circumstances; giving only here and there a note
of the full utterance of the man. Passages there are that come upon you
like splendour out of Heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating the very
heart of the thing: you say, "That is _true_, spoken once and forever;
wheresoever and whensoever there is an open human soul, that will be
recognised as true!" Such bursts, however, make us feel that the
surrounding matter is not radiant; that it is in part, temporary,
conventional.
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