We have the rather availed ourselves of this testimony of a foreign critic in behalf of Shakespeare, because our own countryman, Dr. Johnson, has not been so favourable to him.  It may be said of Shakespeare, that ‘those who are not for him are against him’:  for indifference is here the height of injustice.  We may sometimes, in order ‘to do a great right, do a little wrong’.  An over-strained enthusiasm is more pardonable with respect to Shakespeare than the want of it; for our admiration cannot easily surpass his genius.  We have a high respect for Dr. Johnson’s character and understanding, mixed with something like personal attachment:  but he was neither a poet nor a judge of poetry.  He might in one sense be a judge of poetry as it falls within the limits and rules of prose, but not as it is poetry.  Least of all was he qualified to be a judge of Shakespeare, who ‘alone is high fantastical’.  Let those who have a prejudice against Johnson read Boswell’s Life of him:  as those whom he has prejudiced against Shakespeare should read his Irene.  We do not say that a man to be a critic must necessarily be a poet:  but to be a good critic, he ought not to be a bad poet.  Such poetry as a man deliberately writes, such, and such only will he like.  Dr. Johnson’s Preface to his edition of Shakespeare looks like a laborious attempt to bury the characteristic merits of his author under a load of cumbrous phraseology, and to weigh his excellences and defects in equal scales, stuffed full of ’swelling figures and sonorous epithets’.  Nor could it well be otherwise; Dr. Johnson’s general powers of reasoning overlaid his critical susceptibility.  All his ideas were cast in a given mould, in a set form:  they were made out by rule and system, by climax, inference, and antithesis:—­ Shakespeare’s were the reverse.  Johnson’s understanding dealt only in round numbers:  the fractions were lost upon him.  He reduced everything to the common standard of conventional propriety; and the most exquisite refinement or sublimity produced an effect on his mind, only as they could be translated into the language of measured prose.  To him an excess of beauty was a fault; for it appeared to him like an excrescence; and his imagination was dazzled by the blaze of light.  His writings neither shone with the beams of native genius, nor reflected them.  The shifting shapes of fancy, the rainbow hues of things, made no impression on him:  he seized only on the permanent and tangible.  He had no idea of natural objects but ’such as he could measure with a two-fool rule, or tell upon ten fingers’:  he judged of human nature in the same way, by mood and figure:  he saw only the definite, the positive, and the practical, the average forms of things, not their striking differences—­their classes, not their degrees.  He was a man of strong common sense and practical wisdom, rather than of genius or feeling.  He retained the regular, habitual impressions of actual objects, but he could not follow