But all
authors in whom imagination is a secondary quality, and whose merit lies
less in what they say than in the way they say it, are apt to become
mannerists, and to have imitators, because manner can be easily
imitated. Milton has more or less colored all blank verse since his
time, and, as those who imitate never fail to exaggerate, his influence
has in some respects been mischievous. Thomson was well-nigh ruined by
him. In him a leaf cannot fall without a Latinism, and there is
circumlocution in the crow of a cock. Cowper was only saved by mixing
equal proportions of Dryden in his verse, thus hitting upon a kind of
cross between prose and poetry. In judging Milton, however, we should
not forget that in verse the music makes a part of the meaning, and that
no one before or since has been able to give to simple pentameters the
majesty and compass of the organ. He was as much composer as poet.
How is it with Shakespeare? did he have no style? I think I find the
proof that he had it, and that of the very highest and subtlest kind, in
the fact that I can nowhere put my finger on it, and say it is here or
there.[1]
[Footnote 1: In his essay, "Shakespeare Once More" (_Works_, in, pp.
36-42), published in 1868, Mr. Lowell has treated of Shakespeare's style
in a passage of extraordinary felicity and depth of critical judgment.
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