Shakespeare did not rely on the stage-carpenter, or the scenic painter. He put his scenery in his lines. There you will find mountains and rivers and seas, valleys and cliffs, violets and clouds, and over all "the firmament fretted with gold and fire." He cared little for plot, little for surprise. He did not rely on stage effects, or red fire. The plays grow before your eyes, and they come as the morning comes. Plot surprises but once. There must be something in a play besides surprise. Plot in an author is a kind of strategy--that is to say, a sort of cunning, and cunning does not belong to the highest natures. There is in Shakespeare such a wealth of thought that the plot becomes almost immaterial--and such is this wealth that you can hardly know the play--there is too much. After you have heard it again and again, it seems as pathless as an untrodden forest. He belonged to all lands. "Timon of Athens" is as Greek as any tragedy of Eschylus. "Julius Caesar" and "Coriolanus" are perfect Roman, and as you read, the mighty ruins rise and the Eternal City once again becomes the mistress of the world. No play is more Egyptian than "Antony and Cleopatra"--the Nile runs through it, the shadows of the pyramids fall upon it, and from its scenes the Sphinx gazes forever on the outstretched sands. In "Lear" is the true pagan spirit. "Romeo and Juliet" is Italian--everything is sudden, love bursts into immediate flower, and in every scene is the climate of the land of poetry and passion. The reason of this is, that Shakespeare dealt with elemental things, with universal man. He knew that locality colors without changing, and that in all surroundings the human heart is substantially the same. Not all the poetry written before his time would make his sum--not all that has been written since, added to all that was written before, would equal his. There was nothing within the range of human thought, within the horizon of intellectual effort, that he did not touch. He knew the brain and heart of man--the theories, customs, superstitions, hopes, fears, hatreds, vices and virtues of the human race. He knew the thrills and ecstacies of love, the savage joys of hatred and revenge. He heard the hiss of envy's snakes and watched the eagles of ambition soar. There was no hope that did not put its star above his head--no fear he had not felt--no joy that had not shed its sunshine on his face. He experienced the emotions of mankind. He was the intellectual spendthrift of the world. He gave with the generosity, the extravagance, of madness. Read one play, and you are impressed with the idea that the wealth of the brain of a god has been exhausted--that there are no more comparisons, no more passions to be expressed, no more definitions, no more philosophy, beauty, or sublimity to be put in words--and yet, the next play opens as fresh as the dewy gates of another day.