ambition; you may say, like Doctor Slop, these things could not have
happened under a constitutional government: or, again, you may take up
your parable against superstition; you may dilate on the frightful
consequences of a belief in witches, and reflect on the superior
advantages of an age of schools and newspapers. If the bare facts of the
story had come down to us from a chronicler, and an ordinary writer of
the nineteenth century had undertaken to relate them, his account, we
may depend upon it, would have been put together upon one or other of
these principles. Yet, by the side of that unfolding of the secrets of
the prison-house of the soul, what lean and shrivelled anatomies the
best of such descriptions would seem!

Shakespeare himself, I suppose, could not have given us a theory of what
he meant; he gave us the thing itself, on which we might make whatever
theories we pleased.

Or, again, look at Homer.

The "Iliad" is from two to three thousand years older than "Macbeth,"
and yet it is as fresh as if it had been written yesterday. We have
there no lessons save in the emotions which rise in us as we read. Homer
had no philosophy; he never struggles to press upon us his views about
this or that; you can scarcely tell, indeed, whether his sympathies are
Greek or Trojan: but he represents to us faithfully the men and women
among whom he lived. He sang the tale of Troy, he touched his lyre, he
drained the golden beaker in the halls of men like those on whom he was
conferring immortality. And thus, although no Agamemnon, king of men,
ever led a Grecian fleet to Ilium; though no Priam sought the midnight
tent of Achilles; though Ulysses and Diomed and Nestor were but names,
and Helen but a dream, yet, through Homer's power of representing men