{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_9393/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_9393","id":"gutenberg_9393","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9393","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Literature -- History and criticism","Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616 -- Criticism and interpretation"],"text":"Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Sandra Brown, and Project\nGutenberg Distributed Proofreaders\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA DISH OF ORTS\n\nBY GEORGE MACDONALD\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nSince printing throughout the title _Orts_, a doubt has arisen in my\nmind as to its fitting the nature of the volume. It could hardly,\nhowever, be imagined that I associate the idea of _worthlessness_ with\nthe work contained in it. No one would insult his readers by offering\nthem what he counted valueless scraps, and telling them they were such.\nThese papers, those two even which were caught in the net of the\nready-writer from extempore utterance, whatever their merits in\nthemselves; are the results of by no means trifling labour. So much a\nman _ought_ to be able to say for his work. And hence I might defend, if\nnot quite justify my title--for they are but fragmentary presentments of\nlarger meditation. My friends at least will accept them as such, whether\nthey like their collective title or not.\n\nThe title of the last is not quite suitable. It is that of the religious\nnewspaper which reported the sermon. I noted the fact too late for\ncorrection. It ought to be _True Greatness_.\n\nThe paper on _The Fantastic Imagination_ had its origin in the repeated\nrequest of readers for an explanation of things in certain shorter\nstories I had written. It forms the preface to an American edition of my\nso-called Fairy Tales.\n\nGEORGE MACDONALD.\n\nEDENBRIDGE, KENT. _August 5, 1893._\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\nTHE IMAGINATION: ITS FUNCTIONS AND ITS CULTURE\n\nA SKETCH OF INDIVIDUAL DEVELOPMENT\n\nST. GEORGE\u2019S DAY, 1564\n\nTHE ART OF SHAKSPERE, AS REVEALED BY HIMSELF\n\nTHE ELDER HAMLET\n\nON POLISH\n\nBROWNING\u2019S \u201cCHRISTMAS EVE\u201d\n\n\u201cESSAYS ON SOME OF THE FORMS OF LITERATURE\u201d\n\n\u201cTHE HISTORY AND HEROES OF MEDICINE\u201d\n\nWORDSWORTH\u2019S POETRY\n\nSHELLEY\n\nA SERMON\n\nTRUE CHRISTIAN MINISTERING\n\nTHE FANTASTIC IMAGINATION\n\n\n\n\nTHE IMAGINATION: ITS FUNCTIONS AND ITS CULTURE.\n\n\n[Footnote: 1867.]\n\nThere are in whose notion education would seem to consist in the\nproduction of a certain repose through the development of this and that\nfaculty, and the depression, if not eradication, of this and that other\nfaculty. But if mere repose were the end in view, an unsparing\ndepression of all the faculties would be the surest means of approaching\nit, provided always the animal instincts could be depressed likewise,\nor, better still, kept in a state of constant repletion. Happily,\nhowever, for the human race, it possesses in the passion of hunger even,\na more immediate saviour than in the wisest selection and treatment of\nits faculties. For repose is not the end of education; its end is a\nnoble unrest, an ever renewed awaking from the dead, a ceaseless\nquestioning of the past for the interpretation of the future, an urging\non of the motions of life, which had better far be accelerated into\nfever, than retarded into lethargy.\n\nBy those who consider a balanced repose the end of culture, the\nimagination must necessarily be regarded as the one faculty before all\nothers to be suppressed. \u201cAre there not facts?\u201d say they. \u201cWhy forsake\nthem for fancies? Is there not that which, may be _known_? Why forsake\nit for inventions? What God hath made, into that let man inquire.\u201d\n\nWe answer: To inquire into what God has made is the main function of the\nimagination. It is aroused by facts, is nourished by facts; seeks for\nhigher and yet higher laws in those facts; but refuses to regard science\nas the sole interpreter of nature, or the laws of science as the only\nregion of discovery.\n\nWe must begin with a definition of the word _imagination_, or rather\nsome description of the faculty to which we give the name.\n\nThe word itself means an _imaging_ or a making of likenesses. The\nimagination is that faculty which gives form to thought--not necessarily\nuttered form, but form capable of being uttered in shape or in sound, or\nin any mode upon which the senses can lay hold. It is, therefore, that\nfaculty in man which is likest to the prime operation of the power of\nGod, and has, therefore, been called the _creative_ faculty, and its\nexercise _creation_. _Poet_ means _maker_. We must not forget, however,\nthat between creator and poet lies the one unpassable gulf which\ndistinguishes--far be it from us to say _divides_--all that is God\u2019s\nfrom all that is man\u2019s; a gulf teeming with infinite revelations, but a\ngulf over which no man can pass to find out God, although God needs not\nto pass over it to find man; the gulf between that which calls, and that\nwhich is thus called into being; between that which makes in its own\nimage and that which is made in that image. It is better to keep the\nword _creation_ for that calling out of nothing which is the imagination\nof God; except it be as an occasional symbolic expression, whose daring\nis fully recognized, of the likeness of man\u2019s work to the work of his\nmaker. The necessary unlikeness between the creator and the created\nholds within it the equally necessary likeness of the thing made to him\nwho makes it, and so of the work of the made to the work of the maker.\nWhen therefore, refusing to employ the word _creation_ of the work of\nman, we yet use the word _imagination_ of the work of God, we cannot be\nsaid to dare at all. It is only to give the name of man\u2019s faculty to\nthat power after which and by which it was fashioned. The imagination of\nman is made in the image of the imagination of God. Everything of man\nmust have been of God first; and it will help much towards our\nunderstanding of the imagination and its functions in man if we first\nsucceed in regarding aright the imagination of God, in which the\nimagination of man lives and moves and has its being.\n\nAs to _what_ thought is in the mind of God ere it takes form, or what\nthe form is to him ere he utters it; in a word, what the consciousness\nof God is in either case, all we can say is, that our consciousness in\nthe resembling conditions must, afar off, resemble his. But when we come\nto consider the acts embodying the Divine thought (if indeed thought and\nact be not with him one and the same), then we enter a region of large\ndifference. We discover at once, for instance, that where a man would\nmake a machine, or a picture, or a book, God makes the man that makes\nthe book, or the picture, or the machine. Would God give us a drama? He\nmakes a Shakespere. Or would he construct a drama more immediately his\nown? He begins with the building of the stage itself, and that stage is\na world--a universe of worlds. He makes the actors, and they do not\nact,--they _are_ their part. He utters them into the visible to work out\ntheir life--his drama. When he would have an epic, he sends a thinking\nhero into his drama, and the epic is the soliloquy of his Hamlet.\nInstead of writing his lyrics, he sets his birds and his maidens\na-singing. All the processes of the ages are God\u2019s science; all the flow\nof history is his poetry. His sculpture is not in marble, but in living\nand speech-giving forms, which pass away, not to yield place to those\nthat come after, but to be perfected in a nobler studio. What he has\ndone remains, although it vanishes; and he never either forgets what he\nhas once done, or does it even once again. As the thoughts move in the\nmind of a man, so move the worlds of men and women in the mind of God,\nand make no confusion there, for there they had their birth, the\noffspring of his imagination. Man is but a thought of God.\n\nIf we now consider the so-called creative faculty in man, we shall find\nthat in no _primary_ sense is this faculty creative. Indeed, a man is\nrather _being thought_ than _thinking_, when a new thought arises in his\nmind. He knew it not till he found it there, therefore he could not even\nhave sent for it. He did not create it, else how could it be the\nsurprise that it was when it arose? He may, indeed, in rare instances\nforesee that something is coming, and make ready the place for its\nbirth; but that is the utmost relation of consciousness and will he can\nbear to the dawning idea. Leaving this aside, however, and turning to\nthe _embodiment_ or revelation of thought, we shall find that a man no\nmore _creates_ the forms by which he would reveal his thoughts, than he\ncreates those thoughts themselves.\n\nFor what are the forms by means of which a man may reveal his thoughts?\nAre they not those of nature? But although he is created in the closest\nsympathy with these forms, yet even these forms are not born in his\nmind. What springs there is the perception that this or that form is\nalready an expression of this or that phase of thought or of feeling.\nFor the world around him is an outward figuration of the condition of\nhis mind; an inexhaustible storehouse of forms whence he may choose\nexponents--the crystal pitchers that shall protect his thought and not\nneed to be broken that the light may break forth. The meanings are in\nthose forms already, else they could be no garment of unveiling. God has\nmade the world that it should thus serve his creature, developing in the\nservice that imagination whose necessity it meets. The man has but to\nlight the lamp within the form: his imagination is the light, it is not\nthe form. Straightway the shining thought makes the form visible, and\nbecomes itself visible through the form. [Footnote: We would not be\nunderstood to say that the man works consciously even in this.\nOftentimes, if not always, the vision arises in the mind, thought and\nform together.]\n\nIn illustration of what we mean, take a passage from the poet Shelley.\n\nIn his poem _Adonais_, written upon the death of Keats, representing\ndeath as the revealer of secrets, he says:--\n\n  \u201cThe one remains; the many change and pass;\n    Heaven\u2019s light for ever shines; earth\u2019s shadows fly;\n  Life, like a dome of many coloured glass,\n    Stains the white radiance of eternity,\n  Until death tramples it to fragments.\u201d\n\nThis is a new embodiment, certainly, whence he who gains not, for the\nmoment at least, a loftier feeling of death, must be dull either of\nheart or of understanding. But has Shelley created this figure, or only\nput together its parts according to the harmony of truths already\nembodied in each of the parts? For first he takes the inventions of his\nfellow-men, in glass, in colour, in dome: with these he represents life\nas finite though elevated, and as an analysis although a lovely one.\nNext he presents eternity as the dome of the sky above this dome of\ncoloured glass--the sky having ever been regarded as the true symbol of\neternity. This portion of the figure he enriches by the attribution of\nwhiteness, or unity and radiance. And last, he shows us Death as the\ndestroying revealer, walking aloft through, the upper region, treading\nout this life-bubble of colours, that the man may look beyond it and\nbehold the true, the uncoloured, the all-coloured.\n\nBut although the human imagination has no choice but to make use of the\nforms already prepared for it, its operation is the same as that of the\ndivine inasmuch as it does put thought into form. And if it be to man\nwhat creation is to God, we must expect to find it operative in every\nsphere of human activity. Such is, indeed, the fact, and that to a far\ngreater extent than is commonly supposed.\n\nThe sovereignty of the imagination, for instance, over the region of\npoetry will hardly, in the present day at least, be questioned; but not\nevery one is prepared to be told that the imagination has had nearly as\nmuch to do with the making of our language as with \u201cMacbeth\u201d or the\n\u201cParadise Lost.\u201d The half of our language is the work of the\nimagination.\n\nFor how shall two agree together what name they shall give to a thought\nor a feeling. How shall the one show the other that which is invisible?\nTrue, he can unveil the mind\u2019s construction in the face--that living\neternally changeful symbol which God has hung in front of the unseen\nspirit--but that without words reaches only to the expression of present\nfeeling. To attempt to employ it alone for the conveyance of the\nintellectual or the historical would constantly mislead; while the\nexpression of feeling itself would be misinterpreted, especially with\nregard to cause and object: the dumb show would be worse than dumb.\n\nBut let a man become aware of some new movement within him. Loneliness\ncomes with it, for he would share his mind with his friend, and he\ncannot; he is shut up in speechlessness. Thus\n\n  He _may_ live a man forbid\n  Weary seven nights nine times nine,\n\nor the first moment of his perplexity may be that of his release. Gazing\nabout him in pain, he suddenly beholds the material form of his\nimmaterial condition. There stands his thought! God thought it before\nhim, and put its picture there ready for him when he wanted it. Or, to\nexpress the thing more prosaically, the man cannot look around him long\nwithout perceiving some form, aspect, or movement of nature, some\nrelation between its forms, or between such and himself which resembles\nthe state or motion within him. This he seizes as the symbol, as the\ngarment or body of his invisible thought, presents it to his friend, and\nhis friend understands him. Every word so employed with a new meaning is\nhenceforth, in its new character, born of the spirit and not of the\nflesh, born of the imagination and not of the understanding, and is\nhenceforth submitted to new laws of growth and modification.\n\n\u201cThinkest thou,\u201d says Carlyle in \u201cPast and Present,\u201d \u201cthere were no\npoets till Dan Chaucer? No heart burning with a thought which it could\nnot hold, and had no word for; and needed to shape and coin a word\nfor--what thou callest a metaphor, trope, or the like? For every word we\nhave there was such a man and poet. The coldest word was once a glowing\nnew metaphor and bold questionable originality. Thy very ATTENTION, does\nit not mean an _attentio_, a STRETCHING-TO? Fancy that act of the mind,\nwhich all were conscious of, which none had yet named,--when this new\npoet first felt bound and driven to name it. His questionable\noriginality and new glowing metaphor was found adoptable, intelligible,\nand remains our name for it to this day.\u201d\n\nAll words, then, belonging to the inner world of the mind, are of the\nimagination, are originally poetic words. The better, however, any such\nword is fitted for the needs of humanity, the sooner it loses its poetic\naspect by commonness of use. It ceases to be heard as a symbol, and\nappears only as a sign. Thus thousands of words which were originally\npoetic words owing their existence to the imagination, lose their\nvitality, and harden into mummies of prose. Not merely in literature\ndoes poetry come first, and prose afterwards, but poetry is the source\nof all the language that belongs to the inner world, whether it be of\npassion or of metaphysics, of psychology or of aspiration. No poetry\ncomes by the elevation of prose; but the half of prose comes by the\n\u201cmassing into the common clay\u201d of thousands of winged words, whence,\nlike the lovely shells of by-gone ages, one is occasionally disinterred\nby some lover of speech, and held up to the light to show the play of\ncolour in its manifold laminations.\n\nFor the world is--allow us the homely figure--the human being turned\ninside out. All that moves in the mind is symbolized in Nature. Or, to\nuse another more philosophical, and certainly not less poetic figure,\nthe world is a sensuous analysis of humanity, and hence an inexhaustible\nwardrobe for the clothing of human thought. Take any word expressive of\nemotion--take the word _emotion_ itself--and you will find that its\nprimary meaning is of the outer world. In the swaying of the woods, in\nthe unrest of the \u201cwavy plain,\u201d the imagination saw the picture of a\nwell-known condition of the human mind; and hence the word _emotion_.\n[Footnote: This passage contains only a repetition of what is far better\nsaid in the preceding extract from Carlyle, but it was written before we\nhad read (if reviewers may be allowed to confess such ignorance) the\nbook from which that extract is taken.]\n\nBut while the imagination of man has thus the divine function of putting\nthought into form, it has a duty altogether human, which is paramount to\nthat function--the duty, namely, which springs from his immediate\nrelation to the Father, that of following and finding out the divine\nimagination in whose image it was made. To do this, the man must watch\nits signs, its manifestations. He must contemplate what the Hebrew poets\ncall the works of His hands.\n\n\u201cBut to follow those is the province of the intellect, not of the\nimagination.\u201d--We will leave out of the question at present that poetic\ninterpretation of the works of Nature with which the intellect has\nalmost nothing, and the imagination almost everything, to do. It is\nunnecessary to insist that the higher being of a flower even is\ndependent for its reception upon the human imagination; that science may\npull the snowdrop to shreds, but cannot find out the idea of suffering\nhope and pale confident submission, for the sake of which that darling\nof the spring looks out of heaven, namely, God\u2019s heart, upon us his\nwiser and more sinful children; for if there be any truth in this region\nof things acknowledged at all, it will be at the same time acknowledged\nthat that region belongs to the imagination. We confine ourselves to\nthat questioning of the works of God which is called the province of\nscience.\n\n\u201cShall, then, the human intellect,\u201d we ask, \u201ccome into readier contact\nwith the divine imagination than that human imagination?\u201d The work of\nthe Higher must be discovered by the search of the Lower in degree which\nis yet similar in kind. Let us not be supposed to exclude the intellect\nfrom a share in every highest office. Man is not divided when the\nmanifestations of his life are distinguished. The intellect \u201cis all in\nevery part.\u201d There were no imagination without intellect, however much\nit may appear that intellect can exist without imagination. What we mean\nto insist upon is, that in finding out the works of God, the Intellect\nmust labour, workman-like, under the direction of the architect,\nImagination. Herein, too, we proceed in the hope to show how much more\nthan is commonly supposed the imagination has to do with human\nendeavour; how large a share it has in the work that is done under the\nsun.\n\n\u201cBut how can the imagination have anything to do with science? That\nregion, at least, is governed by fixed laws.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue,\u201d we answer. \u201cBut how much do we know of these laws? How much of\nscience already belongs to the region of the ascertained--in other\nwords, has been conquered by the intellect? We will not now dispute,\nyour vindication of the _ascertained_ from the intrusion of the\nimagination; but we do claim for it all the undiscovered, all the\nunexplored.\u201d \u201cAh, well! There it can do little harm. There let it run\nriot if you will.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d we reply. \u201cLicence is not what we claim when we\nassert the duty of the imagination to be that of following and finding\nout the work that God maketh. Her part is to understand God ere she\nattempts to utter man. Where is the room for being fanciful or riotous\nhere? It is only the ill-bred, that is, the uncultivated imagination\nthat will amuse itself where it ought to worship and work.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the facts of Nature are to be discovered only by observation and\nexperiment.\u201d True. But how does the man of science come to think of his\nexperiments? Does observation reach to the non-present, the possible,\nthe yet unconceived? Even if it showed you the experiments which _ought_\nto be made, will observation reveal to you the experiments which _might_\nbe made? And who can tell of which kind is the one that carries in its\nbosom the secret of the law you seek? We yield you your facts. The laws\nwe claim for the prophetic imagination. \u201cHe hath set the world _in_\nman\u2019s heart,\u201d not in his understanding. And the heart must open the door\nto the understanding. It is the far-seeing imagination which beholds\nwhat might be a form of things, and says to the intellect: \u201cTry whether\nthat may not be the form of these things;\u201d which beholds or invents _a_\nharmonious relation of parts and operations, and sends the intellect to\nfind out whether that be not _the_ harmonious relation of them--that is,\nthe law of the phenomenon it contemplates. Nay, the poetic relations\nthemselves in the phenomenon may suggest to the imagination the law that\nrules its scientific life. Yea, more than this: we dare to claim for the\ntrue, childlike, humble imagination, such an inward oneness with the\nlaws of the universe that it possesses in itself an insight into the\nvery nature of things.\n\nLord Bacon tells us that a prudent question is the half of knowledge.\nWhence comes this prudent question? we repeat. And we answer, From the\nimagination. It is the imagination that suggests in what direction to\nmake the new inquiry--which, should it cast no immediate light on the\nanswer sought, can yet hardly fail to be a step towards final discovery.\nEvery experiment has its origin in hypothesis; without the scaffolding\nof hypothesis, the house of science could never arise. And the\nconstruction of any hypothesis whatever is the work of the imagination.\nThe man who cannot invent will never discover. The imagination often\ngets a glimpse of the law itself long before it is or can be\n_ascertained_ to be a law. [Footnote: This paper was already written\nwhen, happening to mention the present subject to a mathematical friend,\na lecturer at one of the universities, he gave us a corroborative\ninstance. He had lately _guessed_ that a certain algebraic process could\nbe shortened exceedingly if the method which his imagination suggested\nshould prove to be a true one--that is, an algebraic law. He put it to\nthe test of experiment--committed the verification, that is, into the\nhands of his intellect--and found the method true. It has since been\naccepted by the Royal Society.\n\nNoteworthy illustration we have lately found in the record of the\nexperiences of an Edinburgh detective, an Irishman of the name of\nMcLevy. That the service of the imagination in the solution of the\nproblems peculiar to his calling is well known to him, we could adduce\nmany proofs. He recognizes its function in the construction of the\ntheory which shall unite this and that hint into an organic whole, and\nhe expressly sets forth the need of a theory before facts can be\nserviceable:--\n\n\u201cI would wait for my \u2018idea\u2019.... I never did any good without mine....\nChance never smiled on me unless I poked her some way; so that my\n\u2018notion,\u2019 after all, has been in the getting of it my own work only\nperfected by a higher hand.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn leaving the shop I went direct to Prince\u2019s Street,--of course with\nan idea in my mind; and somehow I have always been contented with one\nidea when I could not get another; and the advantage of sticking by one\nis, that the other don\u2019t jostle it and turn you about in a circle when\nyou should go in a straight line.\u201d (Footnote: Since quoting the above I\nhave learned that the book referred to is unworthy of confidence. But\nlet it stand as illustration where it cannot be proof.)]\n\nThe region belonging to the pure intellect is straitened: the\nimagination labours to extend its territories, to give it room. She\nsweeps across the borders, searching out new lands into which she may\nguide her plodding brother. The imagination is the light which redeems\nfrom the darkness for the eyes of the understanding. Novalis says, \u201cThe\nimagination is the stuff of the intellect\u201d--affords, that is, the\nmaterial upon which the intellect works. And Bacon, in his \u201cAdvancement\nof Learning,\u201d fully recognizes this its office, corresponding to the\nforesight of God in this, that it beholds afar off. And he says:\n\u201cImagination is much akin to miracle-working faith.\u201d [Footnote: We are\nsorry we cannot verify this quotation, for which we are indebted to Mr.\nOldbuck the Antiquary, in the novel of that ilk. There is, however,\nlittle room for doubt that it is sufficiently correct.]\n\nIn the scientific region of her duty of which we speak, the Imagination\ncannot have her perfect work; this belongs to another and higher sphere\nthan that of intellectual truth--that, namely, of full-globed humanity,\noperating in which she gives birth to poetry--truth in beauty. But her\nfunction in the complete sphere of our nature, will, at the same time,\ninfluence her more limited operation in the sections that belong to\nscience. Coleridge says that no one but a poet will make any further\n_great_ discoveries in mathematics; and Bacon says that \u201cwonder,\u201d that\nfaculty of the mind especially attendant on the child-like imagination,\n\u201cis the seed of knowledge.\u201d The influence of the poetic upon the\nscientific imagination is, for instance, especially present in the\nconstruction of an invisible whole from the hints afforded by a visible\npart; where the needs of the part, its uselessness, its broken\nrelations, are the only guides to a multiplex harmony, completeness, and\nend, which is the whole. From a little bone, worn with ages of death,\nolder than the man can think, his scientific imagination dashed with the\npoetic, calls up the form, size, habits, periods, belonging to an animal\nnever beheld by human eyes, even to the mingling contrasts of scales and\nwings, of feathers and hair. Through the combined lenses of science and\nimagination, we look back into ancient times, so dreadful in their\nincompleteness, that it may well have been the task of seraphic faith,\nas well as of cherubic imagination, to behold in the wallowing\nmonstrosities of the terror-teeming earth, the prospective, quiet,\nage-long labour of God preparing the world with all its humble, graceful\nservice for his unborn Man. The imagination of the poet, on the other\nhand, dashed with the imagination of the man of science, revealed to\nGoethe the prophecy of the flower in the leaf. No other than an artistic\nimagination, however, fulfilled of science, could have attained to the\ndiscovery of the fact that the leaf is the imperfect flower.\n\nWhen we turn to history, however, we find probably the greatest\noperative sphere of the intellectuo-constructive imagination. To\ndiscover its laws; the cycles in which events return, with the reasons\nof their return, recognizing them notwithstanding metamorphosis; to\nperceive the vital motions of this spiritual body of mankind; to learn\nfrom its facts the rule of God; to construct from a succession of broken\nindications a whole accordant with human nature; to approach a scheme of\nthe forces at work, the passions overwhelming or upheaving, the\naspirations securely upraising, the selfishnesses debasing and\ncrumbling, with the vital interworking of the whole; to illuminate all\nfrom the analogy with individual life, and from the predominant phases\nof individual character which are taken as the mind of the people--this\nis the province of the imagination. Without her influence no process of\nrecording events can develop into a history. As truly might that be\ncalled the description of a volcano which occupied itself with a\ndelineation of the shapes assumed by the smoke expelled from the\nmountain\u2019s burning bosom. What history becomes under the full sway of\nthe imagination may be seen in the \u201cHistory of the French Revolution,\u201d\n by Thomas Carlyle, at once a true picture, a philosophical revelation, a\nnoble poem.\n\nThere is a wonderful passage about _Time_ in Shakespere\u2019s \u201cRape of\nLucrece,\u201d which shows how he understood history. The passage is really\nabout history, and not about time; for time itself does nothing--not\neven \u201cblot old books and alter their contents.\u201d It is the forces at work\nin time that produce all the changes; and they are history. We quote for\nthe sake of one line chiefly, but the whole stanza is pertinent.\n\n  \u201cTime\u2019s glory is to calm contending kings,\n  To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light,\n  To stamp the seal of time in aged things,\n  To wake the morn and sentinel the night,\n  _To wrong the wronger till he render right;_\n  To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,\n  And smear with dust their glittering golden towers.\u201d\n\n_To wrong the wronger till he render right._ Here is a historical cycle\nworthy of the imagination of Shakespere, yea, worthy of the creative\nimagination of our God--the God who made the Shakespere with the\nimagination, as well as evolved the history from the laws which that\nimagination followed and found out.\n\nIn full instance we would refer our readers to Shakespere\u2019s historical\nplays; and, as a side-illustration, to the fact that he repeatedly\nrepresents his greatest characters, when at the point of death, as\nrelieving their overcharged minds by prophecy. Such prophecy is the\nresult of the light of imagination, cleared of all distorting dimness by\nthe vanishing of earthly hopes and desires, cast upon the facts of\nexperience. Such prophecy is the perfect working of the historical\nimagination.\n\nIn the interpretation of individual life, the same principles hold; and\nnowhere can the imagination be more healthily and rewardingly occupied\nthan in endeavouring to construct the life of an individual out of the\nfragments which are all that can reach us of the history of even the\nnoblest of our race. How this will apply to the reading of the gospel\nstory we leave to the earnest thought of our readers.\n\nWe now pass to one more sphere in which the student imagination works in\nglad freedom--the sphere which is understood to belong more immediately\nto the poet.\n\nWe have already said that the forms of Nature (by which word _forms_ we\nmean any of those conditions of Nature which affect the senses of man)\nare so many approximate representations of the mental conditions of\nhumanity. The outward, commonly called the material, is _informed_ by,\nor has form in virtue of, the inward or immaterial--in a word, the\nthought. The forms of Nature are the representations of human thought in\nvirtue of their being the embodiment of God\u2019s thought. As such,\ntherefore, they can be read and used to any depth, shallow or profound.\nMen of all ages and all developments have discovered in them the means\nof expression; and the men of ages to come, before us in every path\nalong which we are now striving, must likewise find such means in those\nforms, unfolding with their unfolding necessities. The man, then, who,\nin harmony with nature, attempts the discovery of more of her meanings,\nis just searching out the things of God. The deepest of these are far\ntoo simple for us to understand as yet. But let our imagination\ninterpretive reveal to us one severed significance of one of her parts,\nand such is the harmony of the whole, that all the realm of Nature is\nopen to us henceforth--not without labour--and in time. Upon the man who\ncan understand the human meaning of the snowdrop, of the primrose, or of\nthe daisy, the life of the earth blossoming into the cosmical flower of\na perfect moment will one day seize, possessing him with its prophetic\nhope, arousing his conscience with the vision of the \u201crest that\nremaineth,\u201d and stirring up the aspiration to enter into that rest:\n\n  \u201cThine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!\n  But long as godlike wish, or hope divine,\n  Informs my spirit, ne\u2019er can I believe\n  That this magnificence is wholly thine!\n  --From worlds not quickened by the sun\n  A portion of the gift is won;\n  An intermingling of Heaven\u2019s pomp is spread\n  On ground which British shepherds tread!\u201d\n\nEven the careless curve of a frozen cloud across the blue will calm some\ntroubled thoughts, may slay some selfish thoughts. And what shall be\nsaid of such gorgeous shows as the scarlet poppies in the green corn,\nthe likest we have to those lilies of the field which spoke to the\nSaviour himself of the care of God, and rejoiced His eyes with the glory\nof their God-devised array? From such visions as these the imagination\nreaps the best fruits of the earth, for the sake of which all the\nscience involved in its construction, is the inferior, yet willing and\nbeautiful support.\n\nFrom what we have now advanced, will it not then appear that, on the\nwhole, the name given by our Norman ancestors is more fitting for the\nman who moves in these regions than the name given by the Greeks? Is not\nthe _Poet_, the _Maker_, a less suitable name for him than the\n_Trouv\u00e8re_, the _Finder_? At least, must not the faculty that finds\nprecede the faculty that utters?\n\nBut is there nothing to be said of the function of the imagination from\nthe Greek side of the question? Does it possess no creative faculty? Has\nit no originating power?\n\nCertainly it would be a poor description of the Imagination which\nomitted the one element especially present to the mind that invented the\nword _Poet_.--It can present us with new thought-forms--new, that is, as\nrevelations of thought. It has created none of the material that goes to\nmake these forms. Nor does it work upon raw material. But it takes forms\nalready existing, and gathers them about a thought so much higher than\nthey, that it can group and subordinate and harmonize them into a whole\nwhich shall represent, unveil that thought. [Footnote: Just so Spenser\ndescribes the process of the embodiment of a human soul in his Platonic\n\u201cHymn in Honour of Beauty.\u201d\n\n  \u201cShe frames her house in which she will be placed\n  Fit for herself....\n  And the gross matter by a sovereign might\n  Tempers so trim....\n  For of the soul the body form doth take;\n  For soul is form, and doth the body make.\u201d]\n\nThe nature of this process we will illustrate by an examination of the\nwell-known _Bugle Song_ in Tennyson\u2019s \u201cPrincess.\u201d\n\nFirst of all, there is the new music of the song, which does not even\nremind one of the music of any other. The rhythm, rhyme, melody, harmony\nare all an embodiment in sound, as distinguished from word, of what can\nbe so embodied--the _feeling_ of the poem, which goes before, and\nprepares the way for the following thought--tunes the heart into a\nreceptive harmony. Then comes the new arrangement of thought and figure\nwhereby the meaning contained is presented as it never was before. We\ngive a sort of paraphrastical synopsis of the poem, which, partly in\nvirtue of its disagreeableness, will enable the lovers of the song to\nreturn to it with an increase of pleasure.\n\nThe glory of midsummer mid-day upon mountain, lake, and ruin. Give\nnature a voice for her gladness. Blow, bugle.\n\nNature answers with dying echoes, sinking in the midst of her splendour\ninto a sad silence.\n\nNot so with human nature. The echoes of the word of truth gather volume\nand richness from every soul that re-echoes it to brother and sister\nsouls.\n\nWith poets the _fashion_ has been to contrast the stability and\nrejuvenescence of nature with the evanescence and unreturning decay of\nhumanity:--\n\n  \u201cYet soon reviving plants and flowers, anew shall deck the plain;\n  The woods shall hear the voice of Spring, and flourish green again.\n  But man forsakes this earthly scene, ah! never to return:\n  Shall any following Spring revive the ashes of the urn?\u201d\n\nBut our poet vindicates the eternal in humanity:--\n\n  \u201cO Love, they die in yon rich sky,\n     They faint on hill or field or river:\n      Our echoes roll from soul to soul,\n        And grow for ever and for ever.\n  Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;\n  And answer, echoes, answer, Dying, dying, dying.\u201d\n\nIs not this a new form to the thought--a form which makes us feel the\ntruth of it afresh? And every new embodiment of a known truth must be a\nnew and wider revelation. No man is capable of seeing for himself the\nwhole of any truth: he needs it echoed back to him from every soul in\nthe universe; and still its centre is hid in the Father of Lights. In so\nfar, then, as either form or thought is new, we may grant the use of the\nword Creation, modified according to our previous definitions.\n\nThis operation of the imagination in choosing, gathering, and vitally\ncombining the material of a new revelation, may be well illustrated from\na certain employment of the poetic faculty in which our greatest poets\nhave delighted. Perceiving truth half hidden and half revealed in the\nslow speech and stammering tongue of men who have gone before them, they\nhave taken up the unfinished form and completed it; they have, as it\nwere, rescued the soul of meaning from its prison of uninformed crudity,\nwhere it sat like the Prince in the \u201cArabian Nights,\u201d half man, half\nmarble; they have set it free in its own form, in a shape, namely, which\nit could \u201cthrough every part impress.\u201d Shakespere\u2019s keen eye suggested\nmany such a rescue from the tomb--of a tale drearily told--a tale which\nno one now would read save for the glorified form in which he has\nre-embodied its true contents. And from Tennyson we can produce one\nspecimen small enough for our use, which, a mere chip from the great\nmarble re-embodying the old legend of Arthur\u2019s death, may, like the hand\nof Achilles holding his spear in the crowded picture,\n\n  \u201cStand for the whole to be imagined.\u201d\n\nIn the \u201cHistory of Prince Arthur,\u201d when Sir Bedivere returns after\nhiding Excalibur the first time, the king asks him what he has seen, and\nhe answers--\n\n  \u201cSir, I saw nothing but waves and wind.\u201d\n\nThe second time, to the same question, he answers--\n\n  \u201cSir, I saw nothing but the water[1] wap, and the waves wan.\u201d\n\n[Footnote 1: The word _wap_ is plain enough; the word _wan_ we cannot\nsatisfy ourselves about. Had it been used with regard to the water, it\nmight have been worth remarking that _wan_, meaning dark, gloomy,\nturbid, is a common adjective to a river in the old Scotch ballad. And\nit might be an adjective here; but that is not likely, seeing it is\nconjoined with the verb _wap_. The Anglo-Saxon _wanian_, to decrease,\nmight be the root-word, perhaps, (in the sense of _to ebb_,) if this\nwater had been the sea and not a lake. But possibly the meaning is, \u201cI\nheard the water _whoop_ or _wail aloud_\u201d (from _W\u00f3pan_); and \u201cthe waves\n_whine_ or _bewail_\u201d (from _W\u00e1nian_ to lament). But even then the two\nverbs would seem to predicate of transposed subjects.]\n\nThis answer Tennyson has expanded into the well-known lines--\n\n  \u201cI heard the ripple washing in the reeds,\n  And the wild water lapping on the crag;\u201d\n\nslightly varied, for the other occasion, into--\n\n  \u201cI heard the water lapping on the crag,\n  And the long ripple washing in the reeds.\u201d\n\nBut, as to this matter of _creation_, is there, after all, I ask yet,\nany genuine sense in which a man may be said to create his own\nthought-forms? Allowing that a new combination of forms already existing\nmight be called creation, is the man, after all, the author of this new\ncombination? Did he, with his will and his knowledge, proceed wittingly,\nconsciously, to construct a form which should embody his thought? Or did\nthis form arise within him without will or effort of his--vivid if not\nclear--certain if not outlined? Ruskin (and better authority we do not\nknow) will assert the latter, and we think he is right: though perhaps\nhe would insist more upon the absolute perfection of the vision than we\nare quite prepared to do. Such embodiments are not the result of the\nman\u2019s intention, or of the operation of his conscious nature. His\nfeeling is that they are given to him; that from the vast unknown, where\ntime and space are not, they suddenly appear in luminous writing upon\nthe wall of his consciousness. Can it be correct, then, to say that he\ncreated them? Nothing less so, as it seems to us. But can we not say\nthat they are the creation of the unconscious portion of his nature?\nYes, provided we can understand that that which is the individual, the\nman, can know, and not know that it knows, can create and yet be\nignorant that virtue has gone out of it. From that unknown region we\ngrant they come, but not by its own blind working. Nor, even were it so,\ncould any amount of such production, where no will was concerned, be\ndignified with the name of creation. But God sits in that chamber of our\nbeing in which the candle of our consciousness goes out in darkness, and\nsends forth from thence wonderful gifts into the light of that\nunderstanding which is His candle. Our hope lies in no most perfect\nmechanism even of the spirit, but in the wisdom wherein we live and move\nand have our being. Thence we hope for endless forms of beauty informed\nof truth. If the dark portion of our own being were the origin of our\nimaginations, we might well fear the apparition of such monsters as\nwould be generated in the sickness of a decay which could never\nfeel--only declare--a slow return towards primeval chaos. But the Maker\nis our Light.\n\nOne word more, ere we turn to consider the culture of this noblest\nfaculty, which we might well call the creative, did we not see a\nsomething in God for which we would humbly keep our mighty word:--the\nfact that there is always more in a work of art--which is the highest\nhuman result of the embodying imagination--than the producer himself\nperceived while he produced it, seems to us a strong reason for\nattributing to it a larger origin than the man alone--for saying at the\nlast, that the inspiration of the Almighty shaped its ends.\n\nWe return now to the class which, from the first, we supposed hostile to\nthe imagination and its functions generally. Those belonging to it will\nnow say: \u201cIt was to no imagination such as you have been setting forth\nthat we were opposed, but to those wild fancies and vague reveries in\nwhich young people indulge, to the damage and loss of the real in the\nworld around them.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd,\u201d we insist, \u201cyou would rectify the matter by smothering the young\nmonster at once--because he has wings, and, young to their use, flutters\nthem about in a way discomposing to your nerves, and destructive to\nthose notions of propriety of which this creature--you stop not to\ninquire whether angel or pterodactyle--has not yet learned even the\nexistence. Or, if it is only the creature\u2019s vagaries of which you\ndisapprove, why speak of them as _the_ exercise of the imagination? As\nwell speak of religion as the mother of cruelty because religion has\ngiven more occasion of cruelty, as of all dishonesty and devilry, than\nany other object of human interest. Are we not to worship, because our\nforefathers burned and stabbed for religion? It is more religion we\nwant. It is more imagination we need. Be assured that these are but the\nfirst vital motions of that whose results, at least in the region of\nscience, you are more than willing to accept.\u201d That evil may spring from\nthe imagination, as from everything except the perfect love of God,\ncannot be denied. But infinitely worse evils would be the result of its\nabsence. Selfishness, avarice, sensuality, cruelty, would flourish\ntenfold; and the power of Satan would be well established ere some\nchildren had begun to choose. Those who would quell the apparently\nlawless tossing of the spirit, called the youthful imagination, would\nsuppress all that is to grow out of it. They fear the enthusiasm they\nnever felt; and instead of cherishing this divine thing, instead of\ngiving it room and air for healthful growth, they would crush\nand confine it--with but one result of their victorious\nendeavours--imposthume, fever, and corruption. And the disastrous\nconsequences would soon appear in the intellect likewise which they\nworship. Kill that whence spring the crude fancies and wild day-dreams\nof the young, and you will never lead them beyond dull facts--dull\nbecause their relations to each other, and the one life that works in\nthem all, must remain undiscovered. Whoever would have his children\navoid this arid region will do well to allow no teacher to approach\nthem--not even of mathematics--who has no imagination.\n\n\u201cBut although good results may appear in a few from the indulgence of\nthe imagination, how will it be with the many?\u201d\n\nWe answer that the antidote to indulgence is development, not restraint,\nand that such is the duty of the wise servant of Him who made the\nimagination.\n\n\u201cBut will most girls, for instance, rise to those useful uses of the\nimagination? Are they not more likely to exercise it in building castles\nin the air to the neglect of houses on the earth? And as the world\naffords such poor scope for the ideal, will not this habit breed vain\ndesires and vain regrets? Is it not better, therefore, to keep to that\nwhich is known, and leave the rest?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the world so poor?\u201d we ask in return. The less reason, then, to be\nsatisfied with it; the more reason to rise above it, into the region of\nthe true, of the eternal, of things as God thinks them. This outward\nworld is but a passing vision of the persistent true. We shall not live\nin it always. We are dwellers in a divine universe where no desires are\nin vain, if only they be large enough. Not even in this world do all\ndisappointments breed only vain regrets. [Footnote:\n  \u201cWe will grieve not, rather find\n  Strength in what remains behind;\n  In the primal sympathy\n  Which, having been, must ever be;\n  In the soothing thoughts that spring\n  Out of human suffering;\n  In the faith that looks through death,\n  In years that bring the philosophic mind.\u201d]\n\nAnd as to keeping to that which is known and leaving the rest--how many\naffairs of this world are so well-defined, so capable of being clearly\nunderstood, as not to leave large spaces of uncertainty, whose very\ncorrelate faculty is the imagination? Indeed it must, in most things,\nwork after some fashion, filling the gaps after some possible plan,\nbefore action can even begin. In very truth, a wise imagination, which\nis the presence of the spirit of God, is the best guide that man or\nwoman can have; for it is not the things we see the most clearly that\ninfluence us the most powerfully; undefined, yet vivid visions of\nsomething beyond, something which eye has not seen nor ear heard, have\nfar more influence than any logical sequences whereby the same things\nmay be demonstrated to the intellect. It is the nature of the thing, not\nthe clearness of its outline, that determines its operation. We live by\nfaith, and not by sight. Put the question to our mathematicians--only be\nsure the question reaches them--whether they would part with the\nwell-defined perfection of their diagrams, or the dim, strange, possibly\nhalf-obliterated characters woven in the web of their being; their\nscience, in short, or their poetry; their certainties, or their hopes;\ntheir consciousness of knowledge, or their vague sense of that which\ncannot be known absolutely: will they hold by their craft or by their\ninspirations, by their intellects or their imaginations? If they say the\nformer in each alternative, I shall yet doubt whether the objects of the\nchoice are actually before them, and with equal presentation.\n\nWhat can be known must be known severely; but is there, therefore, no\nfaculty for those infinite lands of uncertainty lying all about the\nsphere hollowed out of the dark by the glimmering lamp of our knowledge?\nAre they not the natural property of the imagination? there, _for_ it,\nthat it may have room to grow? there, that the man may learn to imagine\ngreatly like God who made him, himself discovering their mysteries, in\nvirtue of his following and worshipping imagination?\n\nAll that has been said, then, tends to enforce the culture of the\nimagination. But the strongest argument of all remains behind. For, if\nthe whole power of pedantry should rise against her, the imagination\nwill yet work; and if not for good, then for evil; if not for truth,\nthen for falsehood; if not for life, then for death; the evil\nalternative becoming the more likely from the unnatural treatment she\nhas experienced from those who ought to have fostered her. The power\nthat might have gone forth in conceiving the noblest forms of action, in\nrealizing the lives of the true-hearted, the self-forgetting, will go\nforth in building airy castles of vain ambition, of boundless riches, of\nunearned admiration. The imagination that might be devising how to make\nhome blessed or to help the poor neighbour, will be absorbed in the\ninvention of the new dress, or worse, in devising the means of procuring\nit. For, if she be not occupied with the beautiful, she will be occupied\nby the pleasant; that which goes not out to worship, will remain at home\nto be sensual. Cultivate the mere intellect as you may, it will never\nreduce the passions: the imagination, seeking the ideal in everything,\nwill elevate them to their true and noble service. Seek not that your\nsons and your daughters should not see visions, should not dream dreams;\nseek that they should see true visions, that they should dream noble\ndreams. Such out-going of the imagination is one with aspiration, and\nwill do more to elevate above what is low and vile than all possible\ninculcations of morality. Nor can religion herself ever rise up into her\nown calm home, her crystal shrine, when one of her wings, one of the\ntwain with which she flies, is thus broken or paralyzed.\n\n  \u201cThe universe is infinitely wide,\n  And conquering Reason, if self-glorified,\n  Can nowhere move uncrossed by some new wall\n  Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone,\n  Imaginative Faith! canst overleap,\n  In progress towards the fount of love.\u201d\n\nThe danger that lies in the repression of the imagination may be well\nillustrated from the play of \u201cMacbeth.\u201d The imagination of the hero (in\nhim a powerful faculty), representing how the deed would appear to\nothers, and so representing its true nature to himself, was his great\nimpediment on the path to crime. Nor would he have succeeded in reaching\nit, had he not gone to his wife for help--sought refuge from his\ntroublesome imagination with her. She, possessing far less of the\nfaculty, and having dealt more destructively with what she had, took his\nhand, and led him to the deed. From her imagination, again, she for her\npart takes refuge in unbelief and denial, declaring to herself and her\nhusband that there is no reality in its representations; that there is\nno reality in anything beyond the present effect it produces on the mind\nupon which it operates; that intellect and courage are equal to any,\neven an evil emergency; and that no harm will come to those who can rule\nthemselves according to their own will. Still, however, finding her\nimagination, and yet more that of her husband, troublesome, she effects\na marvellous combination of materialism and idealism, and asserts that\nthings are not, cannot be, and shall not be more or other than people\nchoose to think them. She says,--\n\n              \u201cThese deeds must not be thought\n  After these ways; so, it will make us mad.\u201d\n\n               \u201cThe sleeping and the dead\n  Are but as pictures.\u201d\n\nBut she had over-estimated the power of her will, and under-estimated\nthat of her imagination. Her will was the one thing in her that was bad,\nwithout root or support in the universe, while her imagination was the\nvoice of God himself out of her own unknown being. The choice of no man\nor woman can long determine how or what he or she shall think of things.\nLady Macbeth\u2019s imagination would not be repressed beyond its appointed\nperiod--a time determined by laws of her being over which she had no\ncontrol. It arose, at length, as from the dead, overshadowing her with\nall the blackness of her crime. The woman who drank strong drink that\nshe might murder, dared not sleep without a light by her bed; rose and\nwalked in the night, a sleepless spirit in a sleeping body, rubbing the\nspotted hand of her dreams, which, often as water had cleared it of the\ndeed, yet smelt so in her sleeping nostrils, that all the perfumes of\nArabia would not sweeten it. Thus her long down-trodden imagination rose\nand took vengeance, even through those senses which she had thought to\nsubordinate to her wicked will.\n\nBut all this is of the imagination itself, and fitter, therefore, for\nillustration than for argument. Let us come to facts.--Dr. Pritchard,\nlately executed for murder, had no lack of that invention, which is, as\nit were, the intellect of the imagination--its lowest form. One of the\nclergymen who, at his own request, attended the prisoner, went through\nindescribable horrors in the vain endeavour to induce the man simply to\ncease from lying: one invention after another followed the most earnest\nasseverations of truth. The effect produced upon us by this clergyman\u2019s\nreport of his experience was a moral dismay, such as we had never felt\nwith regard to human being, and drew from us the exclamation, \u201cThe man\ncould have had no imagination.\u201d The reply was, \u201cNone whatever.\u201d Never\nseeking true or high things, caring only for appearances, and,\ntherefore, for inventions, he had left his imagination all undeveloped,\nand when it represented his own inner condition to him, had repressed it\nuntil it was nearly destroyed, and what remained of it was set on fire\nof hell. [Footnote: One of the best weekly papers in London, evidently\nas much in ignorance of the man as of the facts of the case, spoke of\nDr. MacLeod as having been engaged in \u201cwhite-washing the murderer for\nheaven.\u201d So far is this from a true representation, that Dr. MacLeod\nactually refused to pray with him, telling him that if there was a hell\nto go to, he must go to it.]\n\nMan is \u201cthe roof and crown of things.\u201d He is the world, and more.\nTherefore the chief scope of his imagination, next to God who made him,\nwill he the world in relation to his own life therein. Will he do better\nor worse in it if this imagination, touched to fine issues and having\nfree scope, present him with noble pictures of relationship and duty, of\npossible elevation of character and attainable justice of behaviour, of\nfriendship and of love; and, above all, of all these in that life to\nunderstand which as a whole, must ever be the loftiest aspiration of\nthis noblest power of humanity? Will a woman lead a more or a less\ntroubled life that the sights and sounds of nature break through the\ncrust of gathering anxiety, and remind her of the peace of the lilies\nand the well-being of the birds of the air? Or will life be less\ninteresting to her, that the lives of her neighbours, instead of passing\nlike shadows upon a wall, assume a consistent wholeness, forming\nthemselves into stories and phases of life? Will she not hereby love\nmore and talk less? Or will she be more unlikely to make a good\nmatch----? But here we arrest ourselves in bewilderment over the word\n_good_, and seek to re-arrange our thoughts. If what mothers mean by a\n_good_ match, is the alliance of a man of position and means--or let\nthem throw intellect, manners, and personal advantages into the same\nscale--if this be all, then we grant the daughter of cultivated\nimagination may not be manageable, will probably be obstinate. \u201cWe hope\nshe will be obstinate enough. [Footnote: Let women who feel the wrongs\nof their kind teach women to be high-minded in their relation to men,\nand they will do more for the social elevation of women, and the\nestablishment of their rights, whatever those rights may be, than by any\namount of intellectual development or assertion of equality. Nor, if\nthey are other than mere partisans, will they refuse the attempt because\nin its success men will, after all, be equal, if not greater gainers, if\nonly thereby they should be \u201cfeelingly persuaded\u201d what they are.] But\nwill the girl be less likely to marry a _gentleman_, in the grand old\nmeaning of the sixteenth century? when it was no irreverence to call our\nLord\n\n  \u201cThe first true gentleman that ever breathed;\u201d\n\nor in that of the fourteenth?--when Chaucer teaching \u201cwhom is worthy to\nbe called gentill,\u201d writes thus:--\n\n  \u201cThe first stocke was full of rightwisnes,\n  Trewe of his worde, sober, pitous and free,\n  Clene of his goste, and loved besinesse,\n  Against the vice of slouth in honeste;\n  And but his heire love vertue as did he,\n  He is not gentill though he rich seme,\n  All weare he miter, crowne, or diademe.\u201d\n\nWill she be less likely to marry one who honours women, and for their\nsakes, as well as his own, honours himself? Or to speak from what many\nwould regard as the mother\u2019s side of the question--will the girl be more\nlikely, because of such a culture of her imagination, to refuse the\nwise, true-hearted, generous rich man, and fall in love with the\ntalking, verse-making fool, _because_ he is poor, as if that were a\nvirtue for which he had striven? The highest imagination and the\nlowliest common sense are always on one side.\n\nFor the end of imagination is _harmony_. A right imagination, being the\nreflex of the creation, will fall in with the divine order of things as\nthe highest form of its own operation; \u201cwill tune its instrument here at\nthe door\u201d to the divine harmonies within; will be content alone with\ngrowth towards the divine idea, which includes all that is beautiful in\nthe imperfect imaginations of men; will know that every deviation from\nthat growth is downward; and will therefore send the man forth from its\nloftiest representations to do the commonest duty of the most wearisome\ncalling in a hearty and hopeful spirit. This is the work of the right\nimagination; and towards this work every imagination, in proportion to\nthe rightness that is in it, will tend. The reveries even of the wise\nman will make him stronger for his work; his dreaming as well as his\nthinking will render him sorry for past failure, and hopeful of future\nsuccess.\n\nTo come now to the culture of the imagination. Its development is one of\nthe main ends of the divine education of life with all its efforts and\nexperiences. Therefore the first and essential means for its culture\nmust be an ordering of our life towards harmony with its ideal in the\nmind of God. As he that is willing to do the will of the Father, shall\nknow of the doctrine, so, we doubt not, he that will do the will of THE\nPOET, shall behold the Beautiful. For all is God\u2019s; and the man who is\ngrowing into harmony with His will, is growing into harmony with\nhimself; all the hidden glories of his being are coming out into the\nlight of humble consciousness; so that at the last he shall be a pure\nmicrocosm, faithfully reflecting, after his manner, the mighty\nmacrocosm. We believe, therefore, that nothing will do so much for the\nintellect or the imagination as _being good_--we do not mean after any\nformula or any creed, but simply after the faith of Him who did the will\nof his Father in heaven.\n\nBut if we speak of direct means for the culture of the imagination, the\nwhole is comprised in two words--food and exercise. If you want strong\narms, take animal food, and row. Feed your imagination with food\nconvenient for it, and exercise it, not in the contortions of the\nacrobat, but in the movements of the gymnast. And first for the food.\n\nGoethe has told us that the way to develop the aesthetic faculty is to\nhave constantly before our eyes, that is, in the room we most frequent,\nsome work of the best attainable art. This will teach us to refuse the\nevil and choose the good. It will plant itself in our minds and become\nour counsellor. Involuntarily, unconsciously, we shall compare with its\nperfection everything that comes before us for judgment. Now, although\nno better advice could be given, it involves one danger, that of\nnarrowness. And not easily, in dread of this danger, would one change\nhis tutor, and so procure variety of instruction. But in the culture of\nthe imagination, books, although not the only, are the readiest means of\nsupplying the food convenient for it, and a hundred books may be had\nwhere even one work of art of the right sort is unattainable, seeing\nsuch must be of some size as well as of thorough excellence. And in\nvariety alone is safety from the danger of the convenient food becoming\nthe inconvenient model.\n\nLet us suppose, then, that one who himself justly estimates the\nimagination is anxious to develop its operation in his child. No doubt\nthe best beginning, especially if the child be young, is an acquaintance\nwith nature, in which let him be encouraged to observe vital phenomena,\nto put things together, to speculate from what he sees to what he does\nnot see. But let earnest care be taken that upon no matter shall he go\non talking foolishly. Let him be as fanciful as he may, but let him not,\neven in his fancy, sin against fancy\u2019s sense; for fancy has its laws as\ncertainly as the most ordinary business of life. When he is silly, let\nhim know it and be ashamed.\n\nBut where this association with nature is but occasionally possible,\nrecourse must be had to literature. In books, we not only have store of\nall results of the imagination, but in them, as in her workshop, we may\nbehold her embodying before our very eyes, in music of speech, in wonder\nof words, till her work, like a golden dish set with shining jewels, and\nadorned by the hands of the cunning workmen, stands finished before us.\nIn this kind, then, the best must be set before the learner, that he may\neat and not be satisfied; for the finest products of the imagination are\nof the best nourishment for the beginnings of that imagination. And the\nmind of the teacher must mediate between the work of art and the mind of\nthe pupil, bringing them together in the vital contact of intelligence;\ndirecting the observation to the lines of expression, the points of\nforce; and helping the mind to repose upon the whole, so that no\nseparable beauties shall lead to a neglect of the scope--that is the\nshape or form complete. And ever he must seek to _show_ excellence\nrather than talk about it, giving the thing itself, that it may grow\ninto the mind, and not a eulogy of his own upon the thing; isolating the\npoint worthy of remark rather than making many remarks upon the point.\n\nEspecially must he endeavour to show the spiritual scaffolding or\nskeleton of any work of art; those main ideas upon which the shape is\nconstructed, and around which the rest group as ministering\ndependencies.\n\nBut he will not, therefore, pass over that intellectual structure\nwithout which the other could not be manifested. He will not forget the\nbuilder while he admires the architect. While he dwells with delight on\nthe relation of the peculiar arch to the meaning of the whole cathedral,\nhe will not think it needless to explain the principles on which it is\nconstructed, or even how those principles are carried out in actual\nprocess. Neither yet will the tracery of its windows, the foliage of its\ncrockets, or the fretting of its mouldings be forgotten. Every beauty\nwill have its word, only all beauties will be subordinated to the final\nbeauty--that is, the unity of the whole.\n\nThus doing, he shall perform the true office of friendship. He will\nintroduce his pupil into the society which he himself prizes most,\nsurrounding him with the genial presence of the high-minded, that this\ngood company may work its own kind in him who frequents it.\n\nBut he will likewise seek to turn him aside from such company, whether\nof books or of men, as might tend to lower his reverence, his choice, or\nhis standard. He will, therefore, discourage indiscriminate reading, and\nthat worse than waste which consists in skimming the books of a\ncirculating library. He knows that if a book is worth reading at all, it\nis worth reading well; and that, if it is not worth reading, it is only\nto the most accomplished reader that it _can_ be worth skimming. He will\nseek to make him discern, not merely between the good and the evil, but\nbetween the good and the not so good. And this not for the sake of\nsharpening the intellect, still less of generating that\nself-satisfaction which is the closest attendant upon criticism, but for\nthe sake of choosing the best path and the best companions upon it. A\nspirit of criticism for the sake of distinguishing only, or, far worse,\nfor the sake of having one\u2019s opinion ready upon demand, is not merely\nrepulsive to all true thinkers, but is, in itself, destructive of all\nthinking. A spirit of criticism for the sake of the truth--a spirit that\ndoes not start from its chamber at every noise, but waits till its\npresence is desired--cannot, indeed, garnish the house, but can sweep it\nclean. Were there enough of such wise criticism, there would be ten\ntimes the study of the best writers of the past, and perhaps one-tenth\nof the admiration for the ephemeral productions of the day. A gathered\nmountain of misplaced worships would be swept into the sea by the study\nof one good book; and while what was good in an inferior book would\nstill be admired, the relative position of the book would be altered and\nits influence lessened.\n\nSpeaking of true learning, Lord Bacon says: \u201cIt taketh away vain\nadmiration of anything, _which is the root of all weakness_.\u201d\n\nThe right teacher would have his pupil easy to please, but ill to\nsatisfy; ready to enjoy, unready to embrace; keen to discover beauty,\nslow to say, \u201cHere I will dwell.\u201d\n\nBut he will not confine his instructions to the region of art. He will\nencourage him to read history with an eye eager for the dawning figure\nof the past. He will especially show him that a great part of the Bible\nis only thus to be understood; and that the constant and consistent way\nof God, to be discovered in it, is in fact the key to all history.\n\nIn the history of individuals, as well, he will try to show him how to\nput sign and token together, constructing not indeed a whole, but a\nprobable suggestion of the whole.\n\nAnd, again, while showing him the reflex of nature in the poets, he will\nnot be satisfied without sending him to Nature herself; urging him in\ncountry rambles to keep open eyes for the sweet fashionings and\nblendings of her operation around him; and in city walks to watch the\n\u201chuman face divine.\u201d\n\nOnce more: he will point out to him the essential difference between\nreverie and thought; between dreaming and imagining. He will teach him\nnot to mistake fancy, either in himself or in others for imagination,\nand to beware of hunting after resemblances that carry with them no\ninterpretation.\n\nSuch training is not solely fitted for the possible development of\nartistic faculty. Few, in this world, will ever be able to utter what\nthey feel. Fewer still will be able to utter it in forms of their own.\nNor is it necessary that there should be many such. But it is necessary\nthat all should feel. It is necessary that all should understand and\nimagine the good; that all should begin, at least, to follow and find\nout God.\n\n\u201cThe glory of God is to conceal a thing, but the glory of the king is to\nfind it out,\u201d says Solomon. \u201cAs if,\u201d remarks Bacon on the passage,\n\u201caccording to the innocent play of children, the Divine Majesty took\ndelight to hide his works, to the end to have them found out; and as if\nkings could not obtain a greater honour than to be God\u2019s playfellows in\nthat game.\u201d\n\nOne more quotation from the book of Ecclesiastes, setting forth both the\nnecessity we are under to imagine, and the comfort that our imagining\ncannot outstrip God\u2019s making.\n\n\u201cI have seen the travail which God hath given to the sons of men to be\nexercised in it. He hath made everything beautiful in his time; also he\nhath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work\nthat God maketh from the beginning to the end.\u201d\n\nThus to be playfellows with God in this game, the little ones may gather\ntheir daisies and follow their painted moths; the child of the kingdom\nmay pore upon the lilies of the field, and gather faith as the birds of\nthe air their food from the leafless hawthorn, ruddy with the stores God\nhas laid up for them; and the man of science\n\n      \u201cMay sit and rightly spell\n  Of every star that heaven doth shew,\n  And every herb that sips the dew;\n  Till old experience do attain\n  To something like prophetic strain.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nA SKETCH OF INDIVIDUAL DEVELOPMENT.\n\n\n[Footnote: 1880.]\n\n\u201cI wish I had thought to watch when God was making me!\u201d said a child\nonce to his mother. \u201cOnly,\u201d he added, \u201cI was not made till I was\nfinished, so I couldn\u2019t.\u201d We cannot recall whence we came, nor tell how\nwe began to be. We know approximately how far back we can remember, but\nhave no idea how far back we may not have forgotten. Certainly we knew\nonce much that we have forgotten now. My own earliest definable memory\nis of a great funeral of one of the Dukes of Gordon, when I was between\ntwo and three years of age. Surely my first knowledge was not of death.\nI must have known much and many things before, although that seems my\nearliest memory. As in what we foolishly call maturity, so in the dawn\nof consciousness, both before and after it has begun to be buttressed\nwith _self_-consciousness, each succeeding consciousness dims--often\nobliterates--that which went before, and with regard to our past as well\nas our future, imagination and faith must step into the place vacated of\nknowledge. We are aware, and we know that we are aware, but when or how\nwe began to be aware, is wrapt in a mist that deepens on the one side\ninto deepest night, and on the other brightens into the full assurance\nof existence. Looking back we can but dream, looking forward we lose\nourselves in speculation; but we may both speculate and dream, for all\nspeculation is not false, and all dreaming is not of the unreal. What\nmay we fairly imagine as to the inward condition of the child before the\nfirst moment of which his memory affords him testimony?\n\nIt is one, I venture to say, of absolute, though, no doubt, largely\nnegative faith. Neither memory of pain that is past, nor apprehension of\npain to come, once arises to give him the smallest concern. In some way,\ndoubtless very vague, for his being itself is a border-land of awful\nmystery, he is aware of being surrounded, enfolded with an atmosphere of\nlove; the sky over him is his mother\u2019s face; the earth that nourishes\nhim is his mother\u2019s bosom. The source, the sustentation, the defence of\nhis being, the endless mediation betwixt his needs and the things that\nsupply them, are all one. There is no type so near the highest idea of\nrelation to a God, as that of the child to his mother. Her face is God,\nher bosom Nature, her arms are Providence--all love--one love--to him an\nundivided bliss.\n\nThe region beyond him he regards from this vantage-ground of\nunquestioned security. There things may come and go, rise and vanish--he\nneither desires nor bemoans them. Change may grow swift, its swiftness\ngrow fierce, and pass into storm: to him storm is calm; his haven is\nsecure; his rest cannot be broken: he is accountable for nothing, knows\nno responsibility. Conscience is not yet awake, and there is no\nconflict. His waking is full of sleep, yet his very being is enough for\nhim.\n\nBut all the time his mother lives in the hope of his growth. In the\npresent babe, her heart broods over the coming boy--the unknown marvel\nclosed in the visible germ. Let mothers lament as they will over the\nchange from childhood to maturity, which of them would not grow weary of\nnursing for ever a child in whom no live law of growth kept unfolding an\ninfinite change! The child knows nothing of growth--desires none--but\ngrows. Within him is the force of a power he can no more resist than the\npeach can refuse to swell and grow ruddy in the sun. By slow,\ninappreciable, indivisible accretion and outfolding, he is lifted,\nfloated, drifted on towards the face of the awful mirror in which he\nmust encounter his first foe--must front himself.\n\nBy degrees he has learned that the world is around, and not within\nhim--that he is apart, and that is apart; from consciousness he passes\nto self-consciousness. This is a second birth, for now a higher life\nbegins. When a man not only lives, but knows that he lives, then first\nthe possibility of a real life commences. By _real life_, I mean life\nwhich has a share in its own existence.\n\nFor now, towards the world around him--the world that is not his mother,\nand, actively at least, neither loves him nor ministers to him, reveal\nthemselves certain relations, initiated by fancies, desires,\npreferences, that arise within himself--reasonable or not matters\nlittle:--founded in reason, they can in no case be _devoid_ of reason.\nEvery object concerned in these relations presents itself to the man as\nlovely, desirable, good, or ugly, hateful, bad; and through these\nrelations, obscure and imperfect, and to a being weighted with a strong\nfaculty for mistake, begins to be revealed the existence and force of\nBeing other and higher than his own, recognized as _Will_, and first of\nall in its opposition to his desires. Thereupon begins the strife\nwithout which there never was, and, I presume, never can be, any growth,\nany progress; and the first result is what I may call the third birth of\nthe human being.\n\nThe first opposing glance of the mother wakes in the child not only\nanswering opposition, which is as the rudimentary sac of his own coming\nwill, but a new something, to which for long he needs no name, so\nnatural does it seem, so entirely a portion of his being, even when most\nhe refuses to listen to and obey it. This new something--we call it\n_Conscience_--sides with his mother, and causes its presence and\njudgment to be felt not only before but after the event, so that he soon\ncomes to know that it is well with him or ill with him as he obeys or\ndisobeys it. And now he not only knows, not only knows that he knows,\nbut knows he knows that he knows--knows that he is self-conscious--that\nhe has a conscience. With the first sense of resistance to it, the power\nabove him has drawn nearer, and the deepest within him has declared\nitself on the side of the highest without him. At one and the same\nmoment, the heaven of his childhood has, as it were, receded and come\nnigher. He has run from under it, but it claims him. It is farther, yet\ncloser--immeasurably closer: he feels on his being the grasp and hold of\nhis mother\u2019s. Through the higher individuality he becomes aware of his\nown. Through the assertion of his mother\u2019s will, his own begins to\nawake. He becomes conscious of himself as capable of action--of doing or\nof not doing; his responsibility has begun.\n\nHe slips from her lap; he travels from chair to chair; he puts his\ncircle round the room; he dares to cross the threshold; he braves the\nprecipice of the stair; he takes the greatest step that, according to\nGeorge Herbert, is possible to man--that out of doors, changing the\nhouse for the universe; he runs from flower to flower in the garden;\ncrosses the road; wanders, is lost, is found again. His powers expand,\nhis activity increases; he goes to school, and meets other boys like\nhimself; new objects of strife are discovered, new elements of strife\ndeveloped; new desires are born, fresh impulses urge. The old heaven,\nthe face and will of his mother, recede farther and farther; a world of\nmen, which he foolishly thinks a nobler as it is a larger world, draws\nhim, claims him. More or less he yields. The example and influence of\nsuch as seem to him more than his mother like himself, grow strong upon\nhim. His conscience speaks louder. And here, even at this early point in\nhis history, what I might call his fourth birth _may_ begin to take\nplace: I mean the birth in him of the Will--the real Will--not the\npseudo-will, which is the mere Desire, swayed of impulse, selfishness,\nor one of many a miserable motive. When the man, listening to his\nconscience, wills and does the right, irrespective of inclination as of\nconsequence, then is the man free, the universe open before him. He is\nborn from above. To him conscience needs never speak aloud, needs never\nspeak twice; to him her voice never grows less powerful, for he never\nneglects what she commands. And when he becomes aware that he can will\nhis will, that God has given him a share in essential life, in the\ncausation of his own being, then is he a man indeed. I say, even here\nthis birth may begin; but with most it takes years not a few to complete\nit. For, the power of the mother having waned, the power of the\nneighbour is waxing. If the boy be of common clay, that is, of clay\nwilling to accept dishonour, this power of the neighbour over him will\nincrease and increase, till individuality shall have vanished from him,\nand what his friends, what society, what the trade or the profession\nsay, will be to him the rule of life. With such, however, I have to do\nno more than with the deaf dead, who sleep too deep for words to reach\nthem.\n\nMy typical child of man is not of such. He is capable not of being\ninfluenced merely, but of influencing--and first of all of influencing\nhimself; of taking a share in his own making; of determining actively,\nnot by mere passivity, what he shall be and become; for he never ceases\nto pay at least a little heed, however poor and intermittent, to the\nvoice of his conscience, and to-day he pays more heed than he did\nyesterday.\n\nLong ere now the joy of space, of room, has laid hold upon him--the more\npowerfully if he inhabit a wild and broken region. The human animal\ndelights in motion and change, motions of his members even violent, and\nswiftest changes of place. It is as if he would lay hold of the infinite\nby ceaseless abandonment and choice of a never-abiding stand-point, as\nif he would lay hold of strength by the consciousness of the strength he\nhas. He is full of unrest. He must know what lies on the farther shore\nof every river, see how the world looks from every hill: _What is\nbehind? What is beyond?_ is his constant cry. To learn, to gather into\nhimself, is his longing. Nor do many years pass thus, it may be not many\nmonths, ere the world begins to come alive around him. He begins to feel\nthat the stars are strange, that the moon is sad, that the sunrise is\nmighty. He begins to see in them all the something men call beauty. He\nwill lie on the sunny bank and gaze into the blue heaven till his soul\nseems to float abroad and mingle with the infinite made visible, with\nthe boundless condensed into colour and shape. The rush of the water\nthrough the still twilight, under the faint gleam of the exhausted west,\nmakes in his ears a melody he is almost aware he cannot understand.\nDissatisfied with his emotions he desires a deeper waking, longs for a\ngreater beauty, is troubled with the stirring in his bosom of an unknown\nideal of Nature. Nor is it an ideal of Nature alone that is forming\nwithin him. A far more precious thing, a human ideal namely, is in his\nsoul, gathering to itself shape and consistency. The wind that at night\nfills him with sadness--he cannot tell why, in the daytime haunts him\nlike a wild consciousness of strength which has neither difficulty nor\ndanger enough to spend itself upon. He would be a champion of the weak,\na friend to the great; for both he would fight--a merciless foe to every\noppressor of his kind. He would be rich that he might help, strong that\nhe might rescue, brave--that he counts himself already, for he has not\nproved his own weakness. In the first encounter he fails, and the bitter\ncup of shame and confusion of face, wholesome and saving, is handed him\nfrom the well of life. He is not yet capable of understanding that one\nsuch as he, filled with the glory and not the duty of victory, could not\nbut fail, and therefore ought to fail; but his dismay and chagrin are\nsoothed by the forgetfulness the days and nights bring, gently wiping\nout the sins that are past, that the young life may have a fresh chance,\nas we say, and begin again unburdened by the weight of a too much\npresent failure.\n\nAnd now, probably at school, or in the first months of his college-life,\na new phase of experience begins. He has wandered over the border of\nwhat is commonly called science, and the marvel of facts multitudinous,\nstrung upon the golden threads of law, has laid hold upon him. His\nintellect is seized and possessed by a new spirit. For a time knowledge\nis pride; the mere consciousness of knowing is the reward of its labour;\nthe ever recurring, ever passing contact of mind with a new fact is a\njoy full of excitement, and promises an endless delight. But ever the\nthing that is known sinks into insignificance, save as a step of the\nendless stair on which he is climbing--whither he knows not; the unknown\ndraws him; the new fact touches his mind, flames up in the contact, and\ndrops dark, a mere fact, on the heap below. Even the grandeur of law as\nlaw, so far from adding fresh consciousness to his life, causes it no\nsmall suffering and loss. For at the entrance of Science, nobly and\ngracefully as she bears herself, young Poetry shrinks back startled,\ndismayed. Poetry is true as Science, and Science is holy as Poetry; but\nyoung Poetry is timid and Science is fearless, and bears with her a\ncolder atmosphere than the other has yet learned to brave. It is not\nthat Madam Science shows any antagonism to Lady Poetry; but the\natmosphere and plane on which alone they can meet as friends who\nunderstand each other, is the mind and heart of the sage, not of the\nboy. The youth gazes on the face of Science, cold, clear, beautiful;\nthen, turning, looks for his friend--but, alas! Poetry has fled. With a\ngreat pang at the heart he rushes abroad to find her, but descries only\nthe rainbow glimmer of her skirt on the far horizon. At night, in his\ndreams, she returns, but never for a season may he look on her face of\nloveliness. What, alas! have evaporation, caloric, atmosphere,\nrefraction, the prism, and the second planet of our system, to do with\n\u201csad Hesper o\u2019er the buried sun?\u201d From quantitative analysis how shall\nhe turn again to \u201cthe rime of the ancient mariner,\u201d and \u201cthe moving\nmoon\u201d that \u201cwent up the sky, and nowhere did abide\u201d? From his window he\ngazes across the sands to the mightily troubled ocean: \u201cWhat is the\nstorm to me any more!\u201d he cries; \u201cit is but the clashing of countless\nwater-drops!\u201d He finds relief in the discovery that, the moment you\nplace man in the midst of it, the clashing of water-drops becomes a\nstorm, terrible to heart and brain: human thought and feeling, hope,\nfear, love, sacrifice, make the motions of nature alive with mystery and\nthe shadows of destiny. The relief, however, is but partial, and may be\nbut temporary; for what if this mingling of man and Nature in the mind\nof man be but the casting of a coloured shadow over her cold\nindifference? What if she means nothing--never was meant to mean\nanything! What if in truth \u201cwe receive but what we give, and in our life\nalone doth Nature live!\u201d What if the language of metaphysics as well as\nof poetry be drawn, not from Nature at all, but from human fancy\nconcerning her!\n\nAt length, from the unknown, whence himself he came, appears an angel to\ndeliver him from this horror--this stony look--ah, God! of soulless law.\nThe woman is on her way whose part it is to meet him with a life other\nthan his own, at once the complement of his, and the visible presentment\nof that in it which is beyond his own understanding. The enchantment of\nwhat we specially call _love_ is upon him--a deceiving glamour, say\nsome, showing what is not, an opening of the eyes, say others, revealing\nthat of which a man had not been aware: men will still be divided into\nthose who believe that the horses of fire and the chariots of fire are\never present at their need of them, and those who class the prophet and\nthe drunkard in the same category as the fools of their own fancies. But\nwhat this love is, he who thinks he knows least understands. Let foolish\nmaidens and vulgar youths simper and jest over it as they please, it is\none of the most potent mysteries of the living God. The man who can love\na woman and remain a lover of his wretched self, is fit only to be cast\nout with the broken potsherds of the city, as one in whom the very salt\nhas lost its savour. With this love in his heart, a man puts on at least\nthe vision robes of the seer, if not the singing robes of the poet. Be\nhe the paltriest human animal that ever breathed, for the time, and in\nhis degree, he rises above himself. His nature so far clarifies itself,\nthat here and there a truth of the great world will penetrate, sorely\ndimmed, through the fog-laden, self-shadowed atmosphere of his\nmicrocosm. For the time, I repeat, he is not a lover only, but something\nof a friend, with a reflex touch of his own far-off childhood. To the\nyouth of my history, in the light of his love--a light that passes\noutward from the eyes of the lover--the world grows alive again, yea\nradiant as an infinite face. He sees the flowers as he saw them in\nboyhood, recovering from an illness of all the winter, only they have a\nyet deeper glow, a yet fresher delight, a yet more unspeakable soul. He\nbecomes pitiful over them, and not willingly breaks their stems, to hurt\nthe life he more than half believes they share with him. He cannot think\nanything created only for him, any more than only for itself. Nature is\nno longer a mere contention of forces, whose heaven and whose hell in\none is the dull peace of an equilibrium; but a struggle, through\nsplendour of colour, graciousness of form, and evasive vitality of\nmotion and sound, after an utterance hard to find, and never found but\nmarred by the imperfection of the small and weak that would embody and\nset forth the great and mighty. The waving of the tree-tops is the\nbillowy movement of a hidden delight. The sun lifts his head with intent\nto be glorious. No day lasts too long, no night comes too soon: the\ntwilight is woven of shadowy arms that draw the loving to the bosom of\nthe Night. In the woman, the infinite after which he thirsts is given\nhim for his own.\n\nMan\u2019s occupation with himself turns his eyes from the great life beyond\nhis threshold: when love awakes, he forgets himself for a time, and many\na glimpse of strange truth finds its way through his windows, blocked no\nlonger by the shadow of himself. He may now catch even a glimpse of the\npossibilities of his own being--may dimly perceive for a moment the\nimage after which he was made. But alas! too soon, self, radiant of\ndarkness, awakes; every window becomes opaque with shadow, and the man\nis again a prisoner. For it is not the highest word alone that the cares\nof this world, the deceitfulness of riches, and the lust of other things\nentering in, choke, and render unfruitful. Waking from the divine\nvision, if that can be called waking which is indeed dying into the\ncommon day, the common man regards it straightway as a foolish dream;\nthe wise man believes in it still, holds fast by the memory of the\nvanished glory, and looks to have it one day again a present portion of\nthe light of his life. He knows that, because of the imperfection and\ndulness and weakness of his nature, after every vision follow the\ninclosing clouds, with the threat of an ever during dark; knows that,\neven if the vision could tarry, it were not well, for the sake of that\nwhich must yet be done with him, yet be made of him, that it should\ntarry. But the youth whose history I am following is not like the\nformer, nor as yet like the latter.\n\nFrom whatever cause, then, whether of fault, of natural law, or of\nsupernal will, the flush that seemed to promise the dawn of an eternal\nday, shrinks and fades, though, with him, like the lagging skirt of the\nsunset in the northern west, it does not vanish, but travels on, a\nwithered pilgrim, all the night, at the long last to rise the aureole of\nthe eternal Aurora. And now new paths entice him--or old paths opening\nfresh horizons. With stronger thews and keener nerves he turns again to\nthe visible around him. The changelessness amid change, the law amid\nseeming disorder, the unity amid units, draws him again. He begins to\ndescry the indwelling poetry of science. The untiring forces at work in\nmeasurable yet inconceivable spaces of time and room, fill his soul with\nan awe that threatens to uncreate him with a sense of littleness; while,\non the other side, the grandeur of their operations fills him with such\nan informing glory, the mere presence of the mighty facts, that he no\nmore thinks of himself, but in humility is great, and knows it not. Rapt\nspectator, seer entranced under the magic wand of Science, he beholds\nthe billions of billions of miles of incandescent vapour begin a slow,\nscarce perceptible revolution, gradually grow swift, and gather an awful\nspeed. He sees the vapour, as it whirls, condensing through slow\neternities to a plastic fluidity. He notes ring after ring part from the\ncircumference of the mass, break, rush together into a globe, and the\nglowing ball keep on through space with the speed of its parent bulk. It\ncools and still cools and condenses, but still fiercely glows.\nPresently--after tens of thousands of years is the creative\n_presently_--arises fierce contention betwixt the glowing heart and its\naccompanying atmosphere. The latter invades the former with antagonistic\nelement. He listens in his soul, and hears the rush of ever descending\ntorrent rains, with the continuous roaring shock of their evanishment in\nvapour--to turn again to water in the higher regions, and again rush to\nthe attack upon the citadel of fire. He beholds the slow victory of the\nwater at last, and the great globe, now glooming in a cloak of darkness,\ncovered with a wildly boiling sea--not boiling by figure of speech,\nunder contending forces of wind and tide, but boiling high as the hills\nto come, with veritable heat. He sees the rise of the wrinkles we call\nhills and mountains, and from their sides the avalanches of water to the\nlower levels. He sees race after race of living things appear, as the\nearth becomes, for each new and higher kind, a passing home; and he\nwatches the succession of terrible convulsions dividing kind from kind,\nuntil at length the kind he calls his own arrives. Endless are the\nvisions of material grandeur unfathomable, awaked in his soul by the\nbare facts of external existence.\n\nBut soon comes a change. So far as he can see or learn, all the motion,\nall the seeming dance, is but a rush for death, a panic flight into the\nmoveless silence. The summer wind, the tropic tornado, the softest tide,\nthe fiercest storm, are alike the tumultuous conflict of forces,\nrushing, and fighting as they rush, into the arms of eternal negation.\nOn and on they hurry--down and down, to a cold stirless solidity, where\nwind blows not, water flows not, where the seas are not merely tideless\nand beat no shores, but frozen cleave with frozen roots to their gulfy\nbasin. All things are on the steep-sloping path to final evanishment,\nuncreation, non-existence. He is filled with horror--not so much of the\ndreary end, as at the weary hopelessness of the path thitherward. Then a\ndim light breaks upon him, and with it a faint hope revives, for he\nseems to see in all the forms of life, innumerably varied, a spirit\nrushing upward from death--a something in escape from the terror of the\ndownward cataract, of the rest that knows not peace. \u201cIs it not,\u201d he\nasks, \u201cthe soaring of the silver dove of life from its potsherd-bed--the\nheavenward flight of some higher and incorruptible thing? Is not\nvitality, revealed in growth, itself an unending resurrection?\u201d\n\nThe vision also of the oneness of the universe, ever reappearing through\nthe vapours of question, helps to keep hope alive in him. To find, for\ninstance, the law of the relation of the arrangements of the leaves on\ndiffering plants, correspond to the law of the relative distances of the\nplanets in approach to their central sun, wakes in him that hope of a\ncentral Will, which alone can justify one ecstatic throb at any seeming\nloveliness of the universe. For without the hope of such a centre,\ndelight is unreason--a mockery not such as the skeleton at the Egyptian\nfeast, but such rather as a crowned corpse at a feast of skeletons. Life\nwithout the higher glory of the unspeakable, the atmosphere of a God, is\nnot life, is not worth living. He would rather cease to be, than walk\nthe dull level of the commonplace--than live the unideal of men in whose\ncompany he can take no pleasure--men who are as of a lower race, whom he\nfain would lift, who will not rise, but for whom as for himself he would\ncherish the hope they do their best to kill. Those who seem to him\ngreat, recognize the unseen--believe the roots of science to be therein\nhid--regard the bringing forth into sight of the things that are\ninvisible as the end of all Art and every art--judge the true leader of\nmen to be him who leads them closer to the essential facts of their\nbeing. Alas for his love and his hope, alas for himself, if the visible\nshould exist for its own sake only!--if the face of a flower means\nnothing--appeals to no region beyond the scope of the science that would\nunveil its growth. He cannot believe that its structure exists for the\nsake of its laws; that would be to build for the sake of its joints a\nscaffold where no house was to stand. Those who put their faith in\nScience are trying to live in the scaffold of the house invisible.\n\nHe finds harbour and comfort at times in the written poetry of his\nfellows. He delights in analyzing and grasping the thought that informs\nthe utterance. For a moment, the fine figure, the delicate phrase, make\nhim jubilant and strong; but the jubilation and the strength soon pass,\nfor it is not any of the _forms_, even of the thought-forms of truth\nthat can give rest to his soul.\n\nHistory attracts him little, for he is not able to discover by its\nrecords the operation of principles yielding hope for his race. Such\nthere may be, but he does not find them. What hope for the rising wave\nthat knows in its rise only its doom to sink, and at length be dashed on\nthe low shore of annihilation?\n\nBut the time would fail me to follow the doubling of the soul coursed by\nthe hounds of Death, or to set down the forms innumerable in which the\ngolden Haemony springs in its path,\n\n                             Of sovran use\n  \u2018Gainst all enchantments, mildew blast, or damp.\n\nAnd now the shadows are beginning to lengthen towards the night, which,\nwhether there be a following morn or no, is the night, and spreads out\nthe wings of darkness. And still as it approaches the more aware grows\nthe man of a want that differs from any feeling I have already sought to\ndescribe--a sense of insecurity, in no wise the same as the doubt of\nlife beyond the grave--a need more profound even than that which cries\nfor a living Nature. And now he plainly knows, that, all his life, like\na conscious duty unfulfilled, this sense has haunted his path, ever and\nanon descending and clinging, a cold mist, about his heart. What if this\nlack was indeed the root of every other anxiety! Now freshly revived,\nthis sense of not having, of something, he knows not what, for lack of\nwhich his being is in pain at its own incompleteness, never leaves him\nmore. And with it the terror has returned and grows, lest there should\nbe no Unseen Power, as his fathers believed, and his mother taught him,\nfilling all things and _meaning_ all things,--no Power with whom, in his\nlast extremity, awaits him a final refuge. With the quickening doubt\nfalls a tenfold blight on the world of poetry, both that in Nature and\nthat in books. Far worse than that early chill which the assertions of\nscience concerning what it knows, cast upon his inexperienced soul, is\nnow the shivering death which its pretended denials concerning what it\nknows not, send through all his vital frame. The soul departs from the\nface of beauty, when the eye begins to doubt if there be any soul behind\nit; and now the man feels like one I knew, affected with a strange\ndisease, who saw in the living face always the face of a corpse. What\ncan the world be to him who lives for thought, if there be no supreme\nand perfect Thought,--none but such poor struggles after thought as he\nfinds in himself? Take the eternal thought from the heart of things, no\nlonger can any beauty be real, no more can shape, motion, aspect of\nnature have significance in itself, or sympathy with human soul. At best\nand most the beauty he thought he saw was but the projected perfection\nof his own being, and from himself as the crown and summit of things,\nthe soul of the man shrinks with horror: it is the more imperfect being\nwho knows the least his incompleteness, and for whom, seeing so little\nbeyond himself, it is easiest to imagine himself the heart and apex of\nthings, and rejoice in the fancy. The killing power of a godless science\nreturns upon him with tenfold force. The ocean-tempest is once more a\nmere clashing of innumerable water-drops; the green and amber sadness of\nthe evening sky is a mockery of sorrow; his own soul and its sadness is\na mockery of himself. There is nothing in the sadness, nothing in the\nmockery. To tell him as comfort, that in his own thought lives the\nmeaning if nowhere else, is mockery worst of all; for if there be no\ntruth in them, if these things be no embodiment, to make them serve as\nsuch is to put a candle in a death\u2019s-head to light the dying through the\nplace of tombs. To his former foolish fancy a primrose might preach a\nchildlike trust; the untoiling lilies might from their field cast seeds\nof a higher growth into his troubled heart; now they are no better than\nthe colour the painter leaves behind him on the doorpost of his\nworkshop, when, the day\u2019s labour over, he wipes his brush on it ere he\ndepart for the night. The look in the eyes of his dog, happy in that he\nis short-lived, is one of infinite sadness. All graciousness must\nhenceforth be a sorrow: it has to go with the sunsets. That a thing must\ncease takes from it the joy of even an aeonian endurance--for its _kind_\nis mortal; it belongs to the nature of things that cannot live. The\nsorrow is not so much that it shall perish as that it could not\nlive--that it is not in its nature a real, that is, an eternal thing.\nHis children are shadows--their life a dance, a sickness, a corruption.\nThe very element of unselfishness, which, however feeble and beclouded\nit may be, yet exists in all love, in giving life its only dignity adds\nto its sorrow. Nowhere at the root of things is love--it is only a\nsomething that came after, some sort of fungous excrescence in the\nhearts of men grown helplessly superior to their origin. Law, nothing\nbut cold, impassive, material law, is the root of things--lifeless\nhappily, so not knowing itself, else were it a demon instead of a\ncreative nothing. Endeavour is paralyzed in him. \u201cWork for posterity,\u201d\n says he of the skyless philosophy; answers the man, \u201cHow can I work\nwithout hope? Little heart have I to labour, where labour is so little\nhelp. What can I do for my children that would render their life less\nhopeless than my own! Give me all you would secure for them, and my life\nwould be to me but the worse mockery. The true end of labour would be,\nto lessen the number doomed to breathe the breath of this despair.\u201d\n\nStraightway he developes another and a deeper mood. He turns and regards\nhimself. Suspicion or sudden insight has directed the look. And there,\nin himself, he discovers such imperfection, such wrong, such shame, such\nweakness, as cause him to cry out, \u201cIt were well I should cease! Why\nshould I mourn after life? Where were the good of prolonging it in a\nbeing like me? \u2018What should such fellows as I do crawling between heaven\nand earth!\u2019\u201d Such insights, when they come, the seers do their best, in\ngeneral, to obscure; suspicion of themselves they regard as a monster,\nand would stifle. They resent the waking of such doubt. Any attempt at\nthe raising in them of their buried best they regard as an offence\nagainst intercourse. A man takes his social life in his hand who dares\nit. Few therefore understand the judgment of Hamlet upon himself; the\ncommon reader is so incapable of imagining he could mean it of his own\ngeneral character as a man, that he attributes the utterance to shame\nfor the postponement of a vengeance, which indeed he must have been such\nas his critic to be capable of performing upon no better proof than he\nhad yet had. When the man whose unfolding I would now represent, regards\neven his dearest love, he finds it such a poor, selfish, low-lived\nthing, that in his heart he shames himself before his children and his\nfriends. How little labour, how little watching, how little pain has he\nendured for their sakes! He reads of great things in this kind, but in\nhimself he does not find them. How often has he not been wrongfully\ndispleased--wrathful with the innocent! How often has he not hurt a\nheart more tender than his own! Has he ever once been faithful to the\nheight of his ideal? Is his life on the whole a thing to regard with\ncomplacency, or to be troubled exceedingly concerning? Beyond him rise\nand spread infinite seeming possibilities--height beyond height, glory\nbeyond glory, each rooted in and rising from his conscious being, but\nalas! where is any hope of ascending them? These hills of peace, \u201cin a\nseason of calm weather,\u201d seem to surround and infold him, as a land in\nwhich he could dwell at ease and at home: surely among them lies the\nplace of his birth!--while against their purity and grandeur the being\nof his consciousness shows miserable--dark, weak, and undefined--a\nshadow that would fain be substance--a dream that would gladly be born\ninto the light of reality. But alas if the whole thing be only in\nhimself--if the vision be a dream of nothing, a revelation of lies, the\noutcome of that which, helplessly existent, is yet not created,\ntherefore cannot create--if not the whole thing only be a dream of the\nimpotent, but the impotent be himself but a dream--a dream of his own--a\nself-dreamed dream--with no master of dreams to whom to cry! Where then\nthe cherished hope of one day atoning for his wrongs to those who loved\nhim!--they are nowhere--vanished for ever, upmingled and dissolved in\nthe primeval darkness! If truth be but the hollow of a sphere, ah, never\nshall he cast himself before them, to tell them that now at last, after\nlong years of revealing separation, he knows himself and them, and that\nnow the love of them is a part of his very being--to implore their\nforgiveness on the ground that he hates, despises, contemns, and scorns\nthe self that showed them less than absolute love and devotion! Never\nthus shall he lay his being bare to their eyes of love! They do not even\nrest, for they do not and will not know it. There is no voice nor\nhearing in them, and how can there be in him any heart to live! The one\ncomfort left him is, that, unable to follow them, he shall yet die and\ncease, and fare as they--go also nowhither!\n\nTo a man under the dismay of existence dissociated from power, unrooted\nin, unshadowed by a creating Will, who is Love, the Father of Man--to\nhim who knows not being and God together, the idea of death--a death\nthat knows no reviving, must be, and ought to be the blessedest thought\nleft him. \u201cO land of shadows!\u201d well may such a one cry! \u201cland where the\nshadows love to ecstatic self-loss, yet forget, and love no more! land\nof sorrows and despairs, that sink the soul into a deeper Tophet than\ndeath has ever sounded! broken kaleidoscope! shaken camera! promiser,\nspeaking truth to the ear, but lying to the sense! land where the heart\nof my friend is sorrowful as my heart--the more sorrowful that I have\nbeen but a poor and far-off friend! land where sin is strong and\nrighteousness faint! where love dreams mightily and walks abroad so\nfeeble! land where the face of my father is dust, and the hand of my\nmother will never more caress! where my children will spend a few years\nof like trouble to mine, and then drop from the dream into the no-dream!\ngladly, O land of sickliest shadows--gladly, that is, with what power of\ngladness is in me, I take my leave of thee! Welcome the cold,\npain-soothing embrace of immortal Death! Hideous are his looks, but I\nlove him better than Life: he is true, and will not deceive us. Nay, he\nonly is our saviour, setting us free from the tyranny of the false that\nought to be true, and sets us longing in vain.\u201d\n\nBut through all the man\u2019s doubts, fears, and perplexities, a certain\nwhisper, say rather, an uncertain rumour, a vague legendary murmur, has\nbeen at the same time about, rather than in, his ears--never ceasing to\nhaunt his air, although hitherto he has hardly heeded it. He knows it\nhas come down the ages, and that some in every age have been more or\nless influenced by a varied acceptance of it. Upon those, however, with\nwhom he has chiefly associated, it has made no impression beyond that of\na remarkable legend. It is the story of a man, represented as at least\ngreater, stronger, and better than any other man. With the hero of this\ntale he has had a constantly recurring, though altogether undefined\nsuspicion that he has something to do. It is strongest, though not even\nthen strong, at such times when he is most aware of evil and\nimperfection in himself. Betwixt the two, the idea of this man and his\nknowledge of himself, seems to lie, dim-shadowy, some imperative duty.\nHe knows that the whole matter concerning the man is commemorated in\nmany of the oldest institutions of his country, but up to this time he\nhas shrunk from the demands which, by a kind of spiritual insight, he\nforesaw would follow, were he once to admit certain things to be true.\nHe has, however, known some and read of more who by their faith in the\nman conquered all anxiety, doubt, and fear, lived pure, and died in\ngladsome hope. On the other hand, it seems to him that the faith which\nwas once easy has now become almost an impossibility. And what is it he\nis called upon to believe? One says one thing, another another. Much\nthat is asserted is simply unworthy of belief, and the foundation of the\nwhole has in his eyes something of the look of a cunningly devised\nfable. Even should it be true, it cannot help him, he thinks, for it\ndoes not even touch the things that make his woe: the God the tale\npresents is not the being whose very existence can alone be his cure.\n\nBut he meets one who says to him, \u201cHave you then come to your time of\nlife, and not yet ceased to accept hearsay as ground of action--for\nthere is action in abstaining as well as in doing? Suppose the man in\nquestion to have taken all possible pains to be understood, does it\nfollow of necessity that he is now or ever was fairly represented by the\nbulk of his followers? With such a moral distance between him and them,\nis it possible?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the whole thing has from first to last a strange aspect!\u201d our\nthinker replies.\n\n\u201cAs to the _last_ that is not yet come. And as to its _aspect_, its\nreality must be such as human eye could never convey to reading heart.\nEvery human idea of it _must_ be more or less wrong. And yet perhaps the\ntruer the aspect the stranger it would be. But is it not just with\nordinary things you are dissatisfied? And should not therefore the very\nstrangeness of these to you little better than rumours incline you to\nexamine the object of them? Will you assert that nothing strange can\nhave to do with human affairs? Much that was once scarce credible is now\nso ordinary that men have grown stupid to the wonder inherent in it.\nNothing around you serves your need: try what is at least of another\nclass of phenomena. What if the things rumoured belong to a _more_\nnatural order than these, lie nearer the roots of your dissatisfied\nexistence, and look strange only because you have hitherto been living\nin the outer court, not in the _penetralia_ of life? The rumour has been\nvital enough to float down the ages, emerging from every storm: why not\nsee for yourself what may be in it? So powerful an influence on human\nhistory, surely there will be found in it signs by which to determine\nwhether the man understood himself and his message, or owed his apparent\ngreatness to the deluded worship of his followers! That he has always\nhad foolish followers none will deny, and none but a fool would judge\nany leader from such a fact. Wisdom as well as folly will serve a fool\u2019s\npurpose; he turns all into folly. I say nothing now of my own\nconclusions, because what you imagine my opinions are as hateful to me\nas to you disagreeable and foolish.\u201d\n\nSo says the friend; the man hears, takes up the old story, and says to\nhimself, \u201cLet me see then what I can see!\u201d\n\nI will not follow him through the many shadows and slow dawns by which\nat length he arrives at this much: A man claiming to be the Son of God\nsays he has come to be the light of men; says, \u201cCome to me, and I will\ngive you rest;\u201d says, \u201cFollow me, and you shall find my Father; to know\nhim is the one thing you cannot do without, for it is eternal life.\u201d He\nhas learned from the reported words of the man, and from the man himself\nas in the tale presented, that the bliss of his conscious being is his\nFather; that his one delight is to do the will of that Father--the only\nthing in his eyes worthy of being done, or worth having done; that he\nwould make men blessed with his own blessedness; that the cry of\ncreation, the cry of humanity shall be answered into the deepest soul of\ndesire; that less than the divine mode of existence, the godlike way of\nbeing, can satisfy no man, that is, make him content with his\nconsciousness; that not this world only, but the whole universe is the\ninheritance of those who consent to be the children of their Father in\nheaven, who put forth the power of their will to be of the same sort as\nhe; that to as many as receive him he gives power to become the sons of\nGod; that they shall be partakers of the divine nature, of the divine\njoy, of the divine power--shall have whatever they desire, shall know no\nfear, shall love perfectly, and shall never die; that these things are\nbeyond the grasp of the knowing ones of the world, and to them the\nmessage will be a scorn; but that the time will come when its truth\nshall be apparent, to some in confusion of face, to others in joy\nunspeakable; only that we must beware of judging, for many that are\nfirst shall be last, and there are last that shall be first.\n\nTo find himself in such conscious as well as vital relation with the\nsource of his being, with a Will by which his own will exists, with a\nConsciousness by and through which he is conscious, would indeed be the\nend of all the man\u2019s ills! nor can he imagine any other, not to say\nbetter way, in which his sorrows could be met, understood and\nannihilated. For the ills that oppress him are both within him and\nwithout, and over each kind he is powerless. If the message were but a\ntrue one! If indeed this man knew what he talked of! But if there should\nbe help for man from anywhere beyond him, some _one_ might know it\nfirst, and may not this be the one? And if the message be so great, so\nperfect as this man asserts, then only a perfect, an eternal man, at\nhome in the bosom of the Father, could know, or bring, or tell it.\nAccording to the tale, it had been from the first the intent of the\nFather to reveal himself to man as man, for without the knowledge of the\nFather after man\u2019s own modes of being, he could not grow to real\nmanhood. The grander the whole idea, the more likely is it to be what it\nclaims to be! and if not high as the heavens above the earth, beyond us\nyet within our reach, it is not for us, it cannot be true. Fact or not,\nthe existence of a God such as Christ, a God who is a good man\ninfinitely, is the only idea containing hope enough for man! If such a\nGod has come to be known, marvel must surround the first news at least\nof the revelation of him. Because of its marvel, shall men find it in\nreason to turn from the gracious rumour of what, if it be true, must be\nthe event of all events? And could marvel be lovelier than the marvel\nreported? But the humble men of heart alone can believe in the\nhigh--they alone can perceive, they alone can embrace grandeur. Humility\nis essential greatness, the inside of grandeur.\n\nSomething of such truths the man glimmeringly sees. But in his mind\nawake, thereupon, endless doubts and questions. What if the whole idea\nof his mission was a deception born of the very goodness of the man?\nWhat if the whole matter was the invention of men pretending themselves\nthe followers of such a man? What if it was a little truth greatly\nexaggerated? Only, be it what it may, less than its full idea would not\nbe enough for the wants and sorrows that weaken and weigh him down!\n\nHe passes through many a thorny thicket of inquiry; gathers evidence\nupon evidence; reasons upon the goodness of the men who wrote: they\nmight be deceived, but they dared not invent; holds with himself a\nthousand arguments, historical, psychical, metaphysical--which for their\nsetting-forth would require volumes; hears many an opposing, many a\nscoffing word from men \u201cwho surely know, else would they speak?\u201d and\nfinds himself much where he was before. But at least he is haunting the\npossible borders of discovery, while those who turn their backs upon the\nidea are divided from him by a great gulf--it may be of moral\ndifference. To him there is still a grand auroral hope about the idea,\nand it still draws him; the others, taking the thing from merest report\nof opinion, look anywhere but thitherward. He who would not trust his\nbest friend to set forth his views of life, accepts the random\njudgements of unknown others for a sufficing disposal of what the\nhighest of the race have regarded as a veritable revelation from the\nFather of men. He sees in it therefore nothing but folly; for what he\ntakes for the thing nowhere meets his nature. Our searcher at least\nholds open the door for the hearing of what voice may come to him from\nthe region invisible: if there be truth there, he is where it will find\nhim.\n\nAs he continues to read and reflect, the perception gradually grows\nclear in him, that, if there be truth in the matter, he must, first of\nall, and beyond all things else, give his best heed to the reported\nwords of the man himself--to what he says, not what is said about him,\nvaluable as that may afterwards prove to be. And he finds that\nconcerning these words of his, the man says, or at least plainly\nimplies, that only the obedient, childlike soul can understand them. It\nfollows that the judgement of no man who does not obey can be received\nconcerning them or the speaker of them--that, for instance, a man who\nhates his enemy, who tells lies, who thinks to serve God and Mammon,\nwhether he call himself a Christian or no, has not the right of an\nopinion concerning the Master or his words--at least in the eyes of the\nMaster, however it may be in his own. This is in the very nature of\nthings: obedience alone places a man in the position in which he can see\nso as to judge that which is above him. In respect of great truths\ninvestigation goes for little, speculation for nothing; if a man would\nknow them, he must obey them. Their nature is such that the only door\ninto them is obedience. And the truth-seeker perceives--which allows\nhim no loophole of escape from life--that what things the Son of Man\nrequires of him, are either such as his conscience backs for just, or\nsuch as seem too great, too high for any man. But if there be help for\nhim, it must be a help that recognizes the highest in him, and urges him\nto its use. Help cannot come to one made in the image of God, save in\nthe obedient effort of what life and power are in him, for God is\naction. In such effort alone is it possible for need to encounter help.\nIt is the upstretched that meets the downstretched hand. He alone who\nobeys can with confidence pray--to him alone does an answer seem a thing\nthat may come. And should anything spoken by the Son of Man seem to the\nseeker unreasonable, he feels in the rest such a majesty of duty as\ncompels him to judge with regard to the other, that he has not yet\nperceived its true nature, or its true relation to life.\n\nAnd now comes the crisis: if here the man sets himself honestly to do\nthe thing the Son of Man tells him, he so, and so first, sets out\npositively upon the path which, if there be truth in these things, will\nconduct him to a knowledge of the whole matter; not until then is he a\ndisciple. If the message be a true one, the condition of the knowledge\nof its truth is not only reasonable but an unavoidable necessity. If\nthere be help for him, how otherways should it draw nigh? He has to be\nassured of the highest truth of his being: there can be no other\nassurance than that to be gained thus, and thus alone; for not only by\nobedience does a man come into such contact with truth as to know what\nit is, and in regard to truth knowledge and belief are one. That things\nwhich cannot appear save to the eye capable of seeing them, that things\nwhich cannot be recognized save by the mind of a certain development,\nshould be examined by eye incapable, and pronounced upon by mind\nundeveloped, is absurd. The deliverance the message offers is a change\nsuch that the man shall _be_ the rightness of which he talked: while his\nsoul is not a hungered, athirst, aglow, a groaning after\nrighteousness--that is, longing to be himself honest and upright, it is\nan absurdity that he should judge concerning the way to this rightness,\nseeing that, while he walks not in it, he is and shall be a dishonest\nman: he knows not whither it leads and how can he know the way! What he\n_can_ judge of is, his duty at a given moment--and that not in the\nabstract, but as something to be by him _done_, neither more, nor less,\nnor other than _done_. Thus judging and doing, he makes the only\npossible step nearer to righteousness and righteous judgement; doing\notherwise, he becomes the more unrighteous, the more blind. For the man\nwho knows not God, whether he believes there is a God or not, there can\nbe, I repeat, no judgement of things pertaining to God. To our supposed\nsearcher, then, the crowning word of the Son of Man is this, \u201cIf any man\nis willing to do the will of the Father, he shall know of the doctrine,\nwhether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself.\u201d\n\nHaving thus accompanied my type to the borders of liberty, my task for\nthe present is over. The rest let him who reads prove for himself.\nObedience alone can convince. To convince without obedience I would take\nno bootless labour; it would be but a gain for hell. If any man call\nthese things foolishness, his judgement is to me insignificant. If any\nman say he is open to conviction, I answer him he can have none but on\nthe condition, by the means of obedience. If a man say, \u201cThe thing is\nnot interesting to me,\u201d I ask him, \u201cAre you following your conscience?\nBy that, and not by the interest you take or do not take in a thing,\nshall you be judged. Nor will anything be said to you, or of you, in\nthat day, whatever _that day_ mean, of which your conscience will not\necho every syllable.\u201d\n\nOneness with God is the sole truth of humanity. Life parted from its\ncausative life would be no life; it would at best be but a barrack of\ncorruption, an outpost of annihilation. In proportion as the union is\nincomplete, the derived life is imperfect. And no man can be one with\nneighbour, child, dearest, except as he is one with his origin; and he\nfails of his perfection so long as there is one being in the universe he\ncould not love.\n\nOf all men he is bound to hold his face like a flint in witness of this\ntruth who owes everything that makes for eternal good, to the belief\nthat at the heart of things and causing them to be, at the centre of\nmonad, of world, of protoplastic mass, of loving dog, and of man most\ncruel, is an absolute, perfect love; and that in the man Christ Jesus\nthis love is with us men to take us home. To nothing else do I for one\nowe any grasp upon life. In this I see the setting right of all things.\nTo the man who believes in the Son of God, poetry returns in a mighty\nwave; history unrolls itself in harmony; science shows crowned with its\nown aureole of holiness. There is no enlivener of the imagination, no\nenabler of the judgment, no strengthener of the intellect, to compare\nwith the belief in a live Ideal, at the heart of all personality, as of\nevery law. If there be no such live Ideal, then a falsehood can do more\nfor the race than the facts of its being; then an unreality is needful\nfor the development of the man in all that is real, in all that is in\nthe highest sense true; then falsehood is greater than fact, and an idol\nnecessary for lack of a God. They who deny cannot, in the nature of\nthings, know what they deny. When one sees a chaos begin to put on the\nshape of an ordered world, he will hardly be persuaded it is by the\npower of a foolish notion bred in a diseased fancy.\n\nLet the man then who would rise to the height of his being, be persuaded\nto test the Truth by the deed--the highest and only test that can be\napplied to the loftiest of all assertions. To every man I say, \u201cDo the\ntruth you know, and you shall learn the truth you need to know.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nST. GEORGE\u2019S DAY, 1564.\n\n\n[Footnote: 1864.]\n\nAll England knows that this year (1864) is the three hundredth since\nShakspere was born. The strong probability is likewise that this month\nof April is that in which he first saw the earthly light. On the\ntwenty-sixth of April he was baptized. Whether he was born on the\ntwenty-third, to which effect there may once have been a tradition, we\ndo not know; but though there is nothing to corroborate that statement,\nthere are two facts which would incline us to believe it if we could:\nthe one that he _died_ on the twenty-third of April, thus, as it were,\ncompleting a cycle; and the other that the twenty-third of April is St.\nGeorge\u2019s Day. If there is no harm in indulging in a little fanciful\nsentiment about such a grand fact, we should say that certainly it was\n_St. George for merry England_ when Shakspere was born. But had St.\nGeorge been the best saint in the calendar--which we have little enough\nground for supposing he was--it would better suit our subject to say\nthat the Highest was thinking of his England when he sent Shakspere into\nit, to be a strength, a wonder, and a gladness to the nations of his\nearth.\n\nBut if we write thus about Shakspere, influenced only by the fashion of\nthe day, we shall be much in the condition of those _fashionable_\narchitects who with their vain praises built the tombs of the prophets,\nwhile they had no regard to the lessons they taught. We hope to be able\nto show that we have good grounds for our rejoicing in the birth of that\nchild whom after-years placed highest on the rocky steep of Art, up\nwhich so many of those who combine feeling and thought are always\nstriving.\n\nFirst, however, let us look at some of the more powerful of the\ninfluences into the midst of which he was born. For a child is born into\nthe womb of the time, which indeed enclosed and fed him before he was\nborn. Not the least subtle and potent of those influences which tend to\nthe education of the child (in the true sense of the word _education_)\nare those which are brought to bear upon him _through_ the mind, heart,\njudgement of his parents. We mean that those powers which have operated\nstrongly upon them, have a certain concentrated operation, both\nantenatal and psychological, as well as educational and spiritual, upon\nthe child. Now Shakspere was born in the sixth year of Queen Elizabeth.\nHe was the eldest son, but the third child. His father and mother must\nhave been married not later than the year 1557, two years after Cranmer\nwas burned at the stake, one of the two hundred who thus perished in\nthat time of pain, resulting in the firm establishment of a reformation\nwhich, like all other changes for the better, could not be verified and\nsecured without some form or other of the _trial by fire_. Events such\nas then took place in every part of the country could not fail to make a\nstrong impression upon all thinking people, especially as it was not\nthose of high position only who were thus called upon to bear witness to\ntheir beliefs. John Shakspere and Mary Arden were in all likelihood\nthemselves of the Protestant party; and although, as far as we know,\nthey were never in any especial danger of being denounced, the whole of\nthe circumstances must have tended to produce in them individually, what\nseems to have been characteristic of the age in which they lived,\nearnestness. In times such as those, people are compelled to think.\n\nAnd here an interesting question occurs: Was it in part to his mother\nthat Shakspere was indebted for that profound knowledge of the Bible\nwhich is so evident in his writings? A good many copies of the\nScriptures must have been by this time, in one translation or another,\nscattered over the country. [Footnote: And it seems to us probable that\nthis diffusion of the Bible, did more to rouse the slumbering literary\npower of England, than any influences of foreign literature whatever.]\nNo doubt the word was precious in those days, and hard to buy; but there\nmight have been a copy, notwithstanding, in the house of John Shakspere,\nand it is possible that it was from his mother\u2019s lips that the boy first\nheard the Scripture tales. We have called his acquaintance with\nScripture _profound_, and one peculiar way in which it manifests itself\nwill bear out the assertion; for frequently it is the very spirit and\nessential aroma of the passage that he reproduces, without making any\nuse of the words themselves. There are passages in his writings which we\ncould not have understood but for some acquaintance with the New\nTestament. We will produce a few specimens of the kind we mean,\nconfining ourselves to one play, \u201cMacbeth.\u201d\n\nJust mentioning the phrase, \u201ctemple-haunting martlet\u201d (act i. scene 6),\nas including in it a reference to the verse, \u201cYea, the sparrow hath\nfound an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay\nher young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts,\u201d we pass to the following\npassage, for which we do not believe there is any explanation but that\nsuggested to us by the passage of Scripture to be cited.\n\nMacbeth, on his way to murder Duncan, says,--\n\n                  \u201cThou sure and firm-set earth,\n  Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear\n  Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,\n  And take the present horror from the time\n  Which now suits with it.\u201d\n\nWhat is meant by the last two lines? It seems to us to be just another\nform of the words, \u201cFor there is nothing covered, that shall not be\nrevealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. Therefore whatsoever ye\nhave spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye\nhave spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the\nhouse-tops.\u201d Of course we do not mean that Macbeth is represented as\nhaving this passage in his mind, but that Shakspere had the feeling of\nit when he wrote thus. What Macbeth means is, \u201cEarth, do not hear me in\nthe dark, which is suitable to the present horror, lest the very stones\nprate about it in the daylight, which is not suitable to such things;\nthus taking \u2018the present horror _from_ the time which now suits with\nit.\u2019\u201d\n\nAgain, in the only piece of humour in the play--if that should be called\nhumour which, taken in its relation to the consciousness of the\nprincipal characters, is as terrible as anything in the piece--the\nporter ends off his fantastic soliloquy, in which he personates the\nporter of hell-gate, with the words, \u201cBut this place is too cold for\nhell: I\u2019ll devil-porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some\nof all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting\nbonfire.\u201d Now what else had the writer in his mind but the verse from\nthe Sermon on the Mount, \u201cFor wide is the gate, and broad is the way,\nthat leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat\u201d?\n\nIt may be objected that such passages as these, being of the most\ncommonly quoted, imply no profound acquaintance with Scripture, such as\nwe have said Shakspere possessed. But no amount of knowledge of the\n_words_ of the Bible would be sufficient to justify the use of the word\n_profound_. What is remarkable in the employment of these passages, is\nnot merely that they are so present to his mind that they come up for\nuse in the most exciting moments of composition, but that he embodies\nthe spirit of them in such a new form as reveals to minds saturated and\ndeadened with the _sound_ of the words, the very visual image and\nspiritual meaning involved in them. \u201c_The primrose way!_\u201d And to what?\n\nWe will confine ourselves to one passage more:--\n\n                              \u201cMacbeth\n  Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above\n  Put on their instruments.\u201d\n\nIn the end of the 14th chapter of the Revelation we have the words,\n\u201cThrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap;\nfor the harvest of the earth is ripe.\u201d We suspect that Shakspere wrote,\nripe _to_ shaking.\n\nThe instances to which we have confined ourselves do not by any means\nbelong to the most evident kind of proof that might be adduced of\nShakspere\u2019s acquaintance with Scripture. The subject, in its ordinary\naspect, has been elsewhere treated with far more fulness than our design\nwould permit us to indulge in, even if it had not been done already. Our\nobject has been to bring forward a few passages which seem to us to\nbreathe the very spirit of individual passages in sacred writ, without\ndirect use of the words themselves; and, of course, in such a case we\ncan only appeal to the (no doubt) very various degrees of conviction\nwhich they may rouse in the minds of our readers.\n\nBut there is one singular correspondence in another _almost_ literal\nquotation from the Gospel, which is to us wonderfully interesting. We\nare told that the words \u201ceye of a needle,\u201d in the passage about a rich\nman entering the kingdom of heaven, mean the small side entrance in a\ncity gate. Now, in \u201cRichard II,\u201d act v. scene 5, _Richard_ quotes the\npassage thus:--\n\n  \u201cIt is as hard to come as for a camel\n  To thread the postern of a needle\u2019s eye;\u201d\n\nshowing that either the imagination of Shakspere suggested the real\nexplanation, or he had taken pains to acquaint himself with the\nsignificance of the simile. We can hardly say that the correspondence\nmight be _merely_ fortuitous; because, at the least, Shakspere looked\nfor and found a suitable figure to associate with the words _eye of a\nneedle_, and so fell upon the real explanation; except, indeed, he had\nno particular significance in using the word that meant a _little_ gate,\ninstead of a word meaning any kind of entrance, which, with him, seems\nunlikely.\n\nWe have not by any means proven that Shakspere\u2019s acquaintance with the\nScriptures had an early date in his history; but certainly the Bible\nmust have had a great influence upon him who was the highest\nrepresentative mind of the time, its influence on the general\ndevelopment of the nation being unquestionable. This, therefore, seeing\nthe Bible itself was just dawning full upon the country while Shakspere\nwas becoming capable of understanding it, seems the suitable sequence in\nwhich to take notice of that influence, and of some of those passages in\nhis works which testify to it.\n\nBut, besides _the_ Bible, every nation has _a_ Bible, or at least _an_\nOld Testament, in its own history; and that Shakspere paid especial\nattention to this, is no matter of conjecture. We suspect his mode of\nwriting historical plays is more after the fashion of the Bible\nhistories than that of most writers of history. Indeed, the development\nand consequences of character and conduct are clear to those that read\nhis histories with open eyes. Now, in his childhood Shakspere may have\nhad some special incentive to the study of history springing out of the\nfact that his mother\u2019s grandfather had been \u201cgroom of the chamber to\nHenry VII.,\u201d while there is sufficient testimony that a further removed\nancestor of his father, as well, had stood high in the favour of the\nsame monarch. Therefore the history of the troublous times of the\npreceding century, which were brought to a close by the usurpation of\nHenry VII., would naturally be a subject of talk in the quiet household,\nwhere books and amusements such as now occupy our boys, were scarce or\nwanting altogether. The proximity of such a past of strife and\ncommotion, crowded with eventful change, must have formed a background\nfull of the material of excitement to an age which lived in the midst of\na peculiarly exciting history of its own.\n\nPerhaps the chief intellectual characteristic of the age of Elizabeth\nwas _activity_; this activity accounting even for much that is\nobjectionable in its literature. Now this activity must have been\ngrowing in the people throughout the fifteenth century; the wars of the\nRoses, although they stifled literature, so that it had, as it were, to\nbe born again in the beginning of the following century, being, after\nall, but as the \u201ceager strife\u201d of the shadow-leaves above the \u201cgenuine\nlife\u201d of the grass,--\n\n         \u201cAnd the mute repose\n  Of sweetly breathing flowers.\u201d\n\nBut when peace had fallen on the land, it would seem as if the impulse\nto action springing from strife still operated, as the waves will go on\nraving upon the shore after the wind has ceased, and found one outlet,\namongst others, in literature, and peculiarly in dramatic literature.\nPeace, rendered yet more intense by the cessation of the cries of the\ntormentors, and the groans of the noble army of suffering martyrs, made,\nas it were, a kind of vacuum; and into that vacuum burst up the\ntorrent-springs of a thousand souls--the thoughts that were no longer\nrepressed--in the history of the past and the Utopian speculation on the\nfuture; in noble theology, capable statesmanship, and science at once\nbrilliant and profound; in the voyage of discovery, and the change of\nthe swan-like merchantman into a very fire-drake of war for the defence\nof the threatened shores; in the first brave speech of the Puritan in\nElizabeth\u2019s Parliament, the first murmurs of the voice of liberty, soon\nto thunder throughout the land; in the naturalizing of foreign genius by\ntranslation, and the invention, or at least adoption, of a new and\ntranscendent rhythm; in the song, in the epic, in the drama.\n\nSo much for the general. Let us now, following the course of his life,\nrecall, in a few sentences, some of the chief events which must have\nimpressed the all-open mind of Shakspere in the earlier portion of his\nhistory.\n\nPerhaps it would not be going back too far to begin with the Massacre of\nParis, which took place when he was eight years old. It caused so much\nhorror in England, that it is not absurd to suppose that some black rays\nfrom the deed of darkness may have fallen on the mind of such a child as\nShakspere.\n\nIn strong contrast with the foregoing is the next event to which we\nshall refer.\n\nWhen he was eleven years old, Leicester gave the Queen that magnificent\nreception at Kenilworth which is so well known from its memorials in our\nliterature. It has been suggested as probable, with quite enough of\nlikelihood to justify a conjecture, that Shakspere may have been present\nat the dramatic representations then so gorgeously accumulated before\nher Majesty. If such was the fact, it is easy to imagine what an\ninfluence the shows must have had on the mind of the young dramatic\ngenius, at a time when, happily, the critical faculty is not by any\nmeans so fully awake as are the receptive and exultant faculties, and\nwhen what the nature chiefly needs is excitement to growth, without\nwhich all pruning, the most artistic, is useless, as having nothing to\noperate upon.\n\nWhen he was fifteen years old, Sir Thomas North\u2019s translation of\nPlutarch (through the French) was first published. Any reader who has\ncompared one of Shakspere\u2019s Roman plays with the corresponding life in\nPlutarch, will not be surprised that we should mention this as one of\nthose events which must have been of paramount influence upon Shakspere.\nIt is not likely that he became acquainted with the large folio with its\nmedallion portraits first placed singly, and then repeated side by side\nfor comparison, as soon as it made its appearance, but as we cannot tell\nwhen he began to read it, it seems as well to place it in the order its\npublication would assign to it. Besides, it evidently took such a hold\nof the man, that it is most probable his acquaintance with it began at a\nvery early period of his history. Indeed, it seems to us to have been\none of the most powerful aids to the development of that perception and\ndiscrimination of character with which he was gifted to such a\nremarkable degree. Nor would it be any derogation from the originality\nof his genius to say, that in a very pregnant sense he must have been a\ndisciple of Plutarch. In those plays founded on Plutarch\u2019s stories he\npicked out every dramatic point, and occasionally employed the very\nphrases of North\u2019s nervous, graphic, and characteristic English. He\nseems to have felt that it was an honour to his work to embody in it the\nwords of Plutarch himself, as he knew them first. From him he seems\nespecially to have learned how to bring out the points of a character,\nby putting one man over against another, and remarking wherein they\nresembled each other and wherein they differed; after which fashion, in\nother plays as well as those, he partly arranged his dramatic\ncharacters.\n\nNot long after he went to London, when he was twenty-two, the death of\nSir Philip Sidney at the age of thirty-two, must have had its\nunavoidable influence on him, seeing all Europe was in mourning for the\ndeath of its model, almost ideal man. In England the general mourning,\nboth in the court and the city, which lasted for months, is supposed by\nDr. Zouch to have been the first instance of the kind; that is, for the\ndeath of a private person. Renowned over the civilized world for\neverything for which a man could be renowned, his literary fame must\nhave had a considerable share in the impression his death would make on\nsuch a man as Shakspere. For although none of his works were published\ntill after his death, the first within a few months of that event, his\nfame as a writer was widely spread in private, and report of the same\ncould hardly fail to reach one who, although he had probably no friends\nof rank as yet, kept such keen open ears for all that was going on\naround him. But whether or not he had heard of the literary greatness of\nSir Philip before his death, the \u201cArcadia,\u201d which was first published\nfour years after his death (1590), and which in eight years had reached\nthe third edition--with another still in Scotland the following\nyear--must have been full of interest to Shakspere. This book is very\ndifferent indeed from the ordinary impression of it which most minds\nhave received through the confident incapacity of the critics of last\ncentury. Few books have been published more fruitful in the results and\ncauses of thought, more sparkling with fancy, more evidently the outcome\nof rich and noble habit, than this \u201cArcadia\u201d of Philip Sidney. That\nShakspere read it, is sufficiently evident from the fact that from it he\nhas taken the secondary but still important plots in two of his plays.\n\nAlthough we are anticipating, it is better to mention here another book,\npublished in the same year, namely, 1590, when Shakspere was\nsix-and-twenty: the first three books of Spenser\u2019s \u201cFaery Queen.\u201d Of its\nreception and character it is needless here to say anything further\nthan, of the latter, that nowadays the depths of its teaching, heartily\nprized as that was by no less a man than Milton, are seldom explored.\nBut it would be a labour of months to set out the known and imagined\nsources of the knowledge and spiritual pabulum of the man who laid every\nmental region so under contribution, that he has been claimed by almost\nevery profession as having been at one time or another a student of its\npeculiar science, so marvellously in him was the power of assimilation\ncombined with that of reproduction.\n\nTo go back a little: in 1587, when he was three-and-twenty, Mary Queen\nof Scots was executed. In the following year came that mighty victory of\nEngland, and her allies the winds and the waters, over the towering\npride of the Spanish Armada. Out from the coasts, like the birds from\ntheir cliffs to defend their young, flew the little navy, many of the\nvessels only able to carry a few guns; and fighting, fire-ships and\ntempest left this island,--\n\n  \u201cThis precious stone set in the silver sea,\u201d\n\nstill a \u201cblessed plot,\u201d with an accumulated obligation to liberty which\ncan only be paid by helping others to be free; and when she utterly\nforgets which, her doom is sealed, as surely as that of the old empires\nwhich passed away in their self-indulgence and wickedness.\n\nWhen Shakspere was about thirty-two, Sir Walter Raleigh published his\nglowing account of Guiana, which instantly provided the English mind\nwith an earthly paradise or fairy-land. Raleigh himself seems to have\nbeen too full of his own reports for us to be able to suppose that he\neither invented or disbelieved them; especially when he represents the\nheavenly country to which, in expectation of his execution, he is\nlooking forward, after the fashion of those regions of the wonderful\nWest:--\n\n  \u201cThen the blessed Paths wee\u2019l travel,\n  Strow\u2019d with Rubies thick as gravel;\n  Sealings of Diamonds, Saphire floors,\n  High walls of Coral, and Pearly Bowers.\u201d\n\nSuch were some of the influences which widened the region of thought,\nand excited the productive power, in the minds of the time. After this\nperiod there were fewer of such in Shakspere\u2019s life; and if there had\nbeen more of them they would have been of less import as to their\noperation on a mind more fully formed and more capable of choosing its\nown influences. Let us now give a backward glance at the history of the\nart which Shakspere chose as the means of easing his own mind of that\nwealth which, like the gold and the silver, has a moth and rust of its\nown, except it be kept in use by being sent out for the good of our\nneighbours.\n\nIt was a mighty gain for the language and the people when, in the middle\nof the fourteenth century, by permission of the Pope, the miracle-plays,\nmost probably hitherto represented in Norman-French, as Mr. Collier\nsupposes, began to be represented in English. Most likely there had been\ndramatic representations of a sort from the very earliest period of the\nnation\u2019s history; for, to begin with the lowest form, at what time would\nthere not, for the delight of listeners, have been the imitation of\nanimal sounds, such as the drama of the conversation between an\nattacking poodle and a fiercely repellent puss? Through innumerable\ngradations of childhood would the art grow before it attained the first\nformal embodiment in such plays as those, so-called, of miracles,\nconsisting just of Scripture stories, both canonical and apocryphal,\ndramatized after the rudest fashion. Regarded from the height which the\nart had reached two hundred and fifty years after, \u201chow dwarfed a growth\nof cold and night\u201d do these miracle-plays show themselves! But at a time\nwhen there was no printing, little preaching, and Latin prayers, we\ncannot help thinking that, grotesque and ill-imagined as they are, they\nmust have been of unspeakable value for the instruction of a people\nwhose spiritual digestion was not of a sort to be injured by the\npresence of a quite abnormal quantity of husk and saw-dust in their\nfood. And occasionally we find verses of true poetic feeling, such as\nthe following, in \u201cThe Fall of Man:\u201d--\n\n  _Deus._ Adam, that with myn handys I made,\n        Where art thou now? What hast thou wrought?\n\n  _Adam._ A! lord, for synne oure floures do ffade,\n        I here thi voys, but I se the nought;\n\nimplying that the separation between God and man, although it had\ndestroyed the beatific vision, was not yet so complete as to make the\ncreature deaf to the voice of his Maker. Nor are the words of Eve, with\nwhich she begs her husband, in her shame and remorse, to strangle her,\nodd and quaint as they are, without an almost overpowering pathos:--\n\n  \u201cNow stomble we on stalk and ston;\n  My wyt awey is fro me gon:\n  Wrythe on to my necke bon\n    With, hardnesse of thin honde.\u201d\n\nTo this Adam commences his reply with the verses,--\n\n  \u201cWyff, thi wytt is not wurthe a rosche.\n  Leve woman, turn thi thought.\u201d\n\nAnd this portion of the general representation ends with these verses,\nspoken by Eve:--\n\n  \u201cAlas! that ever we wrought this synne.\n  Oure bodely sustenauns for to wynne,\n  Ye must delve and I xal spynne,\n    In care to ledyn oure lyff.\u201d\n\nIn connexion with these plays, one of the contemplations most\ninteresting to us is, the contrast between them and the places in which\nthey were occasionally represented. For though the scaffolds on which\nthey were shown were usually erected in market-places or churchyards,\nsometimes they rose in the great churches, and the plays were\nrepresented with the aid of ecclesiastics. Here, then, we have the rude\nbeginnings of the dramatic art, in which the devil is the unfortunate\nbuffoon, giving occasion to the most exuberant laughter of the\npeople--here is this rude boyhood, if we may so say, of the one art,\nroofed in with the perfection of another, of architecture; a perfection\nwhich now we can only imitate at our best: below, the clumsy contrivance\nand the vulgar jest; above, the solemn heaven of uplifted arches, their\nmysterious glooms ringing with the delight of the multitude: the play of\nchildren enclosed in the heart of prayer aspiring in stone. But it was\nnot by any means all laughter; and so much, nearer than architecture is\nthe drama to the ordinary human heart, that we cannot help thinking\nthese grotesque representations did far more to arouse the inward life\nand conscience of the people than all the glory into which the\nout-working spirit of the monks had compelled the stubborn stone to\nbourgeon and blossom.\n\nBut although, no doubt, there was some kind of growth going on in the\ndrama even during the dreary fifteenth century, we must not suppose that\nit was by any regular and steady progression that it arrived at the\ngrandeur of the Elizabethan perfection. It was rather as if a dry,\nknotty, uncouth, but vigorous plant suddenly opened out its inward life\nin a flower of surpassing splendour and loveliness. When the\nrepresentation of real historical persons in the miracle-plays gave way\nbefore the introduction of unreal allegorical personages, and the\nmiracle-play was almost driven from the stage by the \u201cplay of morals\u201d as\nit was called, there was certainly no great advance made in dramatic\nrepresentation. The chief advantage gained was room for more variety;\nwhile in some important respects these plays fell off from the merits of\nthe preceding kind. Indeed, any attempt to teach morals allegorically\nmust lack that vivifying fire of faith working in the poorest\nrepresentations of a history which the people heartily believed and\nloved. Nor when we come to examine the favourite amusement of later\nroyalty, do we find that the interludes brought forward in the pauses of\nthe banquets of Henry VIII. have a claim to any refinement upon those\nold miracle-plays. They have gained in facility and wit; they have lost\nin poetry. They have lost pathos too, and have gathered grossness. In\nthe comedies which soon appear, there is far more of fun than of art;\nand although the historical play had existed for some time, and the\nstreams of learning from the inns of court had flowed in to swell that\nof the drama, it is not before the appearance of Shakspere that we find\nany _whole_ of artistic or poetic value. And this brings us to another\nbranch of the subject, of which it seems to us that the importance has\nnever been duly acknowledged. We refer to the use, if not invention, of\n_blank verse_ in England, and its application to the purposes of the\ndrama. It seems to us that in any contemplation of Shakspere and his\ntimes, the consideration of these points ought not to be omitted.\n\nWe have in the present day one grand master of blank verse, the Poet\nLaureate. But where would he have been if Milton had not gone before\nhim; or if the verse amidst which he works like an informing spirit had\nnot existed at all? No doubt he might have invented it himself; but how\ndifferent would the result have been from the verse which he will now\nleave behind him to lie side by side for comparison with that of the\nmaster of the epic! All thanks then to Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey!\nwho, if, dying on the scaffold at the early age of thirty, he has left\nno poetry in itself of much value, yet so wrote that he refined the\npoetic usages of the language, and, above all, was the first who ever\nmade blank verse in English. He used it in translating the second and\nfourth books of Virgil\u2019s \u201cAeneid.\u201d This translation he probably wrote\nnot long before his execution, which took place in 1547, seventeen years\nbefore the birth of Shakspere. There are passages of excellence in the\nwork, and very rarely does a verse quite fail. But, as might be\nexpected, it is somewhat stiff, and, as it were, stunted in sound;\npartly from the fact that the lines are too much divided, where\n_distinction_ would have been sufficient. It would have been strange,\nindeed, if he had at once made a free use of a rhythm which every\nboy-poet now thinks he can do what he pleases with, but of which only a\nfew ever learn the real scope and capabilities. Besides, the difficulty\nwas increased by the fact that the nearest approach to it in measure was\nthe heroic couplet, so well known in our language, although scarce one\nwho has used it has come up to the variousness of its modelling in the\nhands of Chaucer, with whose writings Surrey was of course familiar. But\nvarious as is its melody in Chaucer, the fact of there being always an\nanticipation of the perfecting of a rhyme at the end of the couplet\nwould make one accustomed to heroic verse ready to introduce a\nrhythmical fall and kind of close at the end of every blank verse in\ntrying to write that measure for the first time. Still, as we say, there\nis good verse in Surrey\u2019s translation. Take the following lines for a\nspecimen, in which the fault just mentioned is scarcely perceptible.\nMercury is the subject of them.\n\n  \u201cHis golden wings he knits, which him transport,\n  With a light wind above the earth and seas;\n  And then with him his wand he took, whereby\n  He calls from hell pale ghosts.\n         *       *       *       *       *\n  \u201cBy power whereof he drives the winds away,\n  And passeth eke amid the troubled clouds,\n  Till in his flight he \u2018gan descry the top\n  And the steep flanks of rocky Atlas\u2019 hill\n  That with his crown sustains the welkin up;\n  Whose head, forgrown with pine, circled alway\n  With misty clouds, is beaten with wind and storm;\n  His shoulders spread with snow; and from his chin\n  The springs descend; his beard frozen with ice.\n  Here Mercury with equal shining wings\n  First touched.\u201d\n\nIn all comparative criticism justice demands that he who began any mode\nshould not be compared with those who follow only on the ground of\nabsolute merit in the productions themselves; for while he may be\ninferior in regard to quality, he stands on a height, as the inventor,\nto which they, as imitators, can never ascend, although they may climb\nother and loftier heights, through the example he has set them. It is\ndoubtful, however, whether Surrey himself invented this verse, or only\nfollowed the lead of some poet of Italy or Spain; in both which\ncountries it is said that blank verse had been used before Surrey wrote\nEnglish in that measure.\n\nHere then we have the low beginnings of blank verse. It was nearly a\nhundred and twenty years before Milton took it up, and, while it served\nhim well, glorified it; nor are we aware of any poem of worth written in\nthat measure between. Here, of course, we speak of the epic form of the\nverse, which, as being uttered _ore rotundo_, is necessarily of\nconsiderable difference from the form it assumes in the drama.\n\nLet us now glance for a moment at the forms of composition in use for\ndramatic purposes before blank verse came into favour with play-writers.\nThe nature of the verse employed in the miracle-plays will be\nsufficiently seen from the short specimens already given. These plays\nwere made up of carefully measured and varied lines, with correct and\nsuperabundant rhymes, and no marked lack of melody or rhythm. But as far\nas we have made acquaintance with the moral and other rhymed plays which\nfollowed, there was a great falling off in these respects. They are in\ngreat measure composed of long, irregular lines, with a kind of\nrhythmical progress rather than rhythm in them. They are exceedingly\ndifficult to read musically, at least to one of our day. Here are a few\nverses of the sort, from the dramatic poem, rather than drama, called\nsomewhat improperly \u201cThe Moral Play of God\u2019s Promises,\u201d by John Bale,\nwho died the year before Shakspere was born. It is the first in\nDodsley\u2019s collection. The verses have some poetic merit. The rhythm will\nbe allowed to be difficult at least. The verses are arranged in stanzas,\nof which we give two. In most plays the verses are arranged in rhyming\ncouplets only.\n\n  _Pater Coelestis._\n\n  I have with fearcenesse mankynde oft tymes corrected,\n  And agayne, I have allured hym by swete promes.\n  I have sent sore plages, when he hath me neglected,\n  And then by and by, most comfortable swetnes.\n  To wynne hym to grace, bothe mercye and ryghteousnes\n  I have exercysed, yet wyll he not amende.\n  Shall I now lose hym, or shall I him defende?\n\n  In hys most myschefe, most hygh grace will I sende,\n  To overcome hym by favoure, if it may be.\n  With hys abusyons no longar wyll I contende,\n  But now accomplysh my first wyll and decre.\n  My worde beynge flesh, from hens shall set hym fre,\n  Hym teachynge a waye of perfyght ryhteousnesse,\n  That he shall not nede to perysh in hys weaknesse.\n\nTo our ears, at least, the older miracle-plays were greatly superior. It\nis interesting to find, however, in this apparently popular mode of\n\u201cbuilding the rhyme\u201d--certainly not the _lofty_ rhyme, for no such\ncrumbling foundation could carry any height of superstructure--the\nelements of the most popular rhythm of the present day; a rhythm\nadmitting of any number of syllables in the line, from four up to\ntwelve, or even more, and demanding only that there shall be not more\nthan four accented syllables in the line. A song written with any spirit\nin this measure has, other things _not_ being quite equal, yet almost a\ncertainty of becoming more popular than one written in any other\nmeasure. Most of Barry Cornwall\u2019s and Mrs. Heman\u2019s songs are written in\nit. Scott\u2019s \u201cLay of the Last Minstrel,\u201d Coleridge\u2019s \u201cChristabel,\u201d\n Byron\u2019s \u201cSiege of Corinth,\u201d Shelley\u2019s \u201cSensitive Plant,\u201d are examples of\nthe rhythm. Spenser is the first who has made good use of it. One of the\nmonths in the \u201cShepherd\u2019s Calendar\u201d is composed in it. We quote a few\nlines from this poem, to show at once the kind we mean:--\n\n  \u201cNo marvel, Thenot, if thou can bear\n  Cheerfully the winter\u2019s wrathful cheer;\n  For age and winter accord full nigh;\n  This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry;\n  And as the lowering weather looks down,\n  So seemest thou like Good Friday to frown:\n  But my flowering youth is foe to frost;\n  My ship unwont in storms to be tost.\u201d\n\nWe can trace it slightly in Sir Thomas Wyatt, and we think in others who\npreceded Spenser. There is no sign of it in Chaucer. But we judge it to\nbe the essential rhythm of Anglo-Saxon poetry, which will quite\nharmonize with, if it cannot explain, the fact of its being the most\npopular measure still. Shakspere makes a little use of it in one, if not\nin more, of his plays, though it there partakes of the irregular\ncharacter of that of the older plays which he is imitating. But we\nsuspect the clowns of the authorship of some of the rhymes, \u201cspeaking\nmore than was set down for them,\u201d evidently no uncommon offence.\n\nProse was likewise in use for the drama at an early period.\n\nBut we must now regard the application of blank verse to the use of the\ndrama. And in this part of our subject we owe most to the investigations\nof Mr. Collier, than whom no one has done more to merit our gratitude\nfor such aids. It is universally acknowledged that \u201cFerrex and Porrex\u201d\n was the first drama in blank verse. But it was never represented on the\npublic stage. It was the joint production of Thomas Sackville,\nafterwards Lord Buckhurst and Earl of Dorset, and Thomas Norton, both\ngentlemen of the Inner Temple, by the members of which it was played\nbefore the Queen at Whitehall in 1561, three years before Shakspere was\nborn. As to its merits, the impression left by it upon our minds is such\nthat, although the verse is decent, and in some respects irreproachable,\nwe think the time spent in reading it must be all but lost to any but\nthose who must verify to themselves their literary profession; a\nprofession which, like all other professions, involves a good deal of\ndisagreeable duty. We spare our readers all quotation, there being no\noccasion to show what blank verse of the commonest description is. But\nwe beg to be allowed to state that this drama by no means represents the\npoetic powers of Thomas Sackville. For although we cannot agree with\nHallam\u2019s general criticism, either for or against Sackville, and\nalthough we admire Spenser, we hope, as much as that writer could have\nadmired him, we yet venture to say that not only may some of Sackville\u2019s\npersonifications \u201cfairly be compared with some of the most poetical\npassages in Spenser,\u201d but that there is in this kind in Sackville a\nstrength and simplicity of representation which surpasses that of\nSpenser in passages in which the latter probably imitated the former. We\nrefer to the allegorical personages in Sackville\u2019s \u201cInduction to the\nMirrour of Magistrates,\u201d and in Spenser\u2019s description of the \u201cHouse of\nPride.\u201d\n\nMr. Collier judges that the play in blank verse first represented on the\npublic stage was the \u201cTamburlaine\u201d of Christopher Marlowe, and that it\nwas acted before 1587, at which date Shakspere would be twenty-three.\nThis was followed by other and better plays by the same author. Although\nwe cannot say much for the dramatic art of Marlowe, he has far surpassed\nevery one that went before him in dramatic _poetry_. The passages that\nmight worthily be quoted from Marlowe\u2019s writings for the sake of their\npoetry are innumerable, notwithstanding that there are many others which\noccupy a border land between poetry and bombast, and are such that it is\nto us impossible to say to which class they rather belong. Of course it\nis easy for a critic to gain the credit of common-sense at the same time\nthat he saves himself the trouble of doing what he too frequently shows\nhimself incapable of doing to any good purpose--we mean _thinking_--by\nclassing all such passages together as bombastical nonsense; but even in\nthe matter of poetry and bombast, a wise reader will recognize that\nextremes so entirely meet, without being in the least identical, that\nthey are capable of a sort of chemico-literary admixture, if not of\ncombination. Goethe himself need not have been ashamed to have written\none or two of the scenes in Marlowe\u2019s \u201cFaust;\u201d not that we mean to imply\nthat they in the least resemble Goethe\u2019s handiwork. His verse is, for\ndramatic purposes, far inferior to Shakspere\u2019s; but it was a great\nmatter for Shakspere that Marlowe preceded him, and helped to prepare to\nhis hand the tools and fashions he needed. The provision of blank verse\nfor Shakspere\u2019s use seems to us worthy of being called providential,\neven in a system in which we cannot believe that there is any chance.\nFor as the stage itself is elevated a few feet above the ordinary level,\nbecause it is the scene of a _representation_, just so the speech of the\ndrama, dealing not with unreal but with ideal persons, the fool being a\nworthy fool, and the villain a worthy villain, needs to be elevated some\ntones above that of ordinary life, which is generally flavoured with so\nmuch of the _commonplace_. Now the commonplace has no place at all in\nthe drama of Shakspere, which fact at once elevates it above the tone of\nordinary life. And so the mode of the speech must be elevated as well;\ntherefore from prose into blank verse. If we go beyond this, we cease to\nbe natural for the stage as well as life; and the result is that kind of\ncomposition well enough known in Shakspere\u2019s time, which he ridicules in\nthe recitations of the player in \u201cHamlet,\u201d about _Priam_ and _Hecuba_.\nWe could show the very passages of the play-writer Nash which Shakspere\nimitates in these. To use another figure, Shakspere, in the same play,\ninstructs the players \u201cto hold, as \u2018twere, the mirror up to nature.\u201d Now\nevery one must have felt that somehow there is a difference between the\nappearance of any object or group of objects immediately presented to\nthe eye, and the appearance of the same object or objects in a mirror.\nNature herself is not the same in the mirror held up to her. Everything\nchanges sides in this representation; and the room which is an ordinary,\nwell-known, homely room, gains something of the strange and poetic when\nregarded in the mirror over the fire. Now for this representation, for\nthis mirror-reflection on the stage, blank verse is just the suitable\nglass to receive the silvering of the genius-mind behind it.\n\nBut if Shakspere had had to sit down and make his tools first, and then\nquarry his stone and fell his timber for the building of his house,\ninstead of finding everything ready to his hand for dressing his stone\nalready hewn, for sawing and carving the timber already in logs and\nplanks beside him, no doubt his house would have been built; but can we\nwith any reason suppose that it would have proved such \u201ca lordly\npleasure-house\u201d? Not even Shakspere could do without his poor little\nbrothers who preceded him, and, like the goblins and gnomes of the\ndrama, got everything out of the bowels of the dark earth, ready for the\nmaster, whom it would have been a shame to see working in the gloom and\nthe dust instead of in the open eye of the day. Nor is anything so\nhelpful to the true development of power as the possibility of free\naction for as much of the power as is already operative. This room for\nfree action was provided by blank verse.\n\nYet when Shakspere came first upon the scene of dramatic labour, he had\nto serve his private apprenticeship, to which the apprenticeship of the\nage in the drama, had led up. He had to act first of all. Driven to\nLondon and the drama by an irresistible impulse, when the choice of some\nprofession was necessary to make him independent of his father, seeing\nhe was himself, though very young, a married man, the first form in\nwhich the impulse to the drama would naturally show itself in him would\nbe the desire to act; for the outside relations would first operate. As\nto the degree of merit he possessed as an actor we have but scanty means\nof judging; for afterwards, in his own plays, he never took the best\ncharacters, having written them for his friend Richard Burbage. Possibly\nthe dramatic impulse was sufficiently appeased by the writing of the\nplay, and he desired no further satisfaction from personal\nrepresentation; although the amount of study spent upon the higher\ndepartment of the art might have been more than sufficient to render him\nunrivalled as well in the presentation of his own conceptions. But the\ndramatic spring, having once broken the upper surface, would scoop out a\ndeeper and deeper well for itself to play in, and the actor would soon\nbegin to work upon the parts he had himself to study for presentation.\nIt being found that he greatly bettered his own parts, those of others\nwould be submitted to him, and at length whole plays committed to his\nrevision, of which kind there may be several in the collection of his\nworks. If the feather-end of his pen is just traceable in \u201cTitus\nAndronicus,\u201d the point of it is much more evident, and to as good\npurpose as Beaumont or Fletcher could have used his to, at the best, in\n\u201cPericles, Prince of Tyre.\u201d Nor would it be long before he would submit\none of his own plays for approbation; and then the whole of his dramatic\ncareer lies open before him, with every possible advantage for\nperfecting the work, for the undertaking of which he was better\nqualified by nature than probably any other man whosoever; for he knew\neverything about acting, practically--about the play-house and its\ncapabilities, about stage necessities, about the personal endowments and\nindividual qualifications of each of the company--so that, when he was\nwriting a play, he could distribute the parts before they even appeared\nupon paper, and write for each actor with the very living form of the\nideal person present \u201cin his mind\u2019s eye,\u201d and often to his bodily sight;\nso that the actual came in aid of the ideal, as it always does if the\nideal be genuine, and the loftiest conceptions proved the truest to\nvisible nature.\n\nThis close relation of Shakspere to the actual leads us to a general and\nremarkable fact, which again will lead us back to Shakspere. All the\ngreat writers of Queen Elizabeth\u2019s time were men of affairs; they were\nnot literary men merely, in the general acceptation of the word at\npresent. Hooker was a hard-working, sheep-keeping, cradle-rocking pastor\nof a country parish. Bacon\u2019s legal duties were innumerable before he\nbecame Lord Keeper and Lord Chancellor. Raleigh was soldier, sailor,\nadventurer, courtier, politician, discoverer: indeed, it is to his\nimprisonment that we are indebted for much the most ambitious of his\nliterary undertakings, \u201cThe History of the World,\u201d a work which for\nsimple majesty of subject and style is hardly to be surpassed in prose.\nSidney, at the age of three-and-twenty, received the highest praise for\nthe management of a secret embassy to the Emperor of Germany; took the\ndeepest and most active interest in the political affairs of his\ncountry; would have sailed with Sir Francis Drake for South American\ndiscovery; and might probably have been king of poor Poland, if the\nqueen had not been too selfish or wise to spare him. The whole of his\nliterary productions was the work of his spare hours. Spenser himself,\nwho was, except Shakspere, the most purely a literary man of them all,\nwas at one time Secretary to the Lord Deputy of Ireland, and, later in\nlife, Sheriff of Cork. Nor is the remark true only of the writers of\nElizabeth\u2019s period, or of the country of England.\n\nIt seems to us one of the greatest advantages that can befall a poet, to\nbe drawn out of his study, and still more out of the chamber of imagery\nin his own thoughts, to behold and speculate upon the embodiment of\nDivine thoughts and purposes in men and their affairs around him. Now\nShakspere had no public appointment, but he reaped all the advantage\nwhich such could have given him, and more, from the perfection of his\ndramatic position. It was not with making plays alone that he had to do;\nbut, himself an actor, himself in a great measure the owner of more than\none theatre, with a little realm far more difficult to rule than many a\nkingdom--a company, namely, of actors--although possibly less difficult\nfrom the fact that they were only men and boys; with the pecuniary\naffairs of the management likewise under his supervision--he must have\nfound, in the relations and necessities of his own profession, not\nmerely enough of the actual to keep him real in his representations, but\nalmost sufficient opportunity for his one great study, that of mankind,\nindependently of social and friendly relations, which in his case were\nof the widest and deepest.\n\nBut Shakspere had not business relations merely: he was a man of\nbusiness. There is a common blunder manifested, both in theory on the\none side, and in practice on the other, which the life of Shakspere sets\nfull in the light. The theory is, that genius is a sort of abnormal\ndevelopment of the imagination, to the detriment and loss of the\npractical powers, and that a genius is therefore a kind of incapable,\nincompetent being, as far as worldly matters are concerned. The most\ncomplete refutation of this notion lies in the fact that the greatest\ngenius the world has known was a successful man in common affairs. While\nhis genius grew in strength, fervour, and executive power, his worldly\ncondition rose as well; he became a man of importance in the eyes of his\ntownspeople, by whom he would not have been honoured if he had not made\nmoney; and he purchased landed property in his native place with the\nresults of his management of his theatres.\n\nThe practical blunder lies in the notion cherished occasionally by young\npeople ambitious of literary distinction, that in the pursuit of such\nthings they must be content with the poverty to which the world dooms\nits greatest men; accepting their very poverty as an additional proof of\ntheir own genius. If this means that the poet is not to make money his\nobject, it means well: no man should. But if it means either that the\nworld is unkind, or that the poet is not to \u201cgather up the fragments,\nthat nothing be lost,\u201d it means ill. Shakspere did not make haste to be\nrich. He neither blamed, courted, nor neglected the world: he was\nfriendly with it. He _could_ not have pinched and scraped; but neither\ndid he waste or neglect his worldly substance, which is God\u2019s gift too.\nMany immense fortunes have been made, not by absolute dishonesty, but in\nways to which a man of genius ought to be yet more ashamed than another\nto condescend; but it does not therefore follow that if a man of genius\nwill do honest work he will not make a fair livelihood by it, which for\nall good results of intellect and heart is better than a great fortune.\nBut then Shakspere began with doing what he could. He did not consent to\nstarve until the world should recognize his genius, or grumble against\nthe blindness of the nation in not seeing what it was impossible it\nshould see before it was fairly set forth. He began at once to supply\nsomething which the world wanted; for it wants many an honest thing. He\nwent on the stage and acted, and so gained power to reveal the genius\nwhich he possessed; and the world, in its possible measure, was not slow\nto recognize it. Many a young fellow who has entered life with the one\nambition of being a poet, has failed because he did not perceive that it\nis better to be a man than to be a poet, that it is his first duty to\nget an honest living by doing some honest work that he can do, and for\nwhich there is a demand, although it may not be the most pleasant\nemployment. Time would have shown whether he was meant to be a poet or\nnot; and if he had been no poet he would have been no beggar; and if he\nhad turned out a poet, it would have been partly in virtue of that\nexperience of life and truth, gained in his case in the struggle for\nbread, without which, gained somehow, a man may be a sweet dreamer, but\ncan be no strong maker, no poet. In a word, here is _the_ Englishman of\ngenius, beginning life with nothing, and dying, not rich, but easy and\nhonoured; and this by doing what no one else could do, writing dramas in\nwhich the outward grandeur or beauty is but an exponent of the inward\nworth; hiding pearls for the wise even within the jewelled play of the\nvariegated bubbles of fancy, which he blew while he wrought, for the\ninnocent delight of his thoughtless brothers and sisters. Wherever the\nrainbow of Shakspere\u2019s genius stands, there lies, indeed, at the foot of\nits glorious arch, a golden key, which will open the secret doors of\ntruth, and admit the humble seeker into the presence of Wisdom, who,\nhaving cried in the streets in vain, sits at home and waits for him who\nwill come to find her. And Shakspere had cakes and ale, although he was\nvirtuous.\n\nBut what do we know about the character of Shakspere? How can we tell\nthe inner life of a man who has uttered himself in dramas, in which of\ncourse it is impossible that he should ever speak in his own person? No\ndoubt he may speak his own sentiments through the mouths of many of his\npersons; but how are we to know in what cases he does so?--At least we\nmay assert, as a self-evident negative, that a passage treating of a\nwide question put into the mouth of a person despised and rebuked by the\nbest characters in the play, is not likely to contain any cautiously\nformed and cherished opinion of the dramatist. At first sight this may\nseem almost a truism; but we have only to remind our readers that one of\nthe passages oftenest quoted with admiration, and indeed separately\nprinted and illuminated, is \u201cThe Seven Ages of Man,\u201d a passage full of\ninhuman contempt for humanity and unbelief in its destiny, in which not\none of the seven ages is allowed to pass over its poor sad stage without\na sneer; and that this passage is given by Shakspere to the _blas\u00e9_\nsensualist _Jaques_ in \u201cAs You Like it,\u201d a man who, the good and wise\n_Duke_ says, has been as vile as it is possible for man to be, so vile\nthat it would be an additional sin in him to rebuke sin; a man who never\nwas capable of seeing what is good in any man, and hates men\u2019s vices\n_because_ he hates themselves, seeing in them only the reflex of his own\ndisgust. Shakspere knew better than to say that all the world is a\nstage, and all the men and women merely players. He had been a player\nhimself, but only on the stage: _Jaques_ had been a player where he\nought to have been a true man. The whole of his account of human life is\ncontradicted and exposed at once by the entrance, the very moment when\nhe has finished his wicked burlesque, of _Orlando_, the young master,\ncarrying _Adam_, the old servant, upon his back. The song that\nimmediately follows, sings true: \u201cMost friendship is feigning, most\nloving mere folly.\u201d But between the _all_ of _Jaques_ and the _most_ of\nthe song, there is just the difference between earth and hell.--Of\ncourse, both from a literary and dramatic point of view, \u201cThe Seven\nAges\u201d is perfect.\n\nNow let us make one positive statement to balance the other: that\nwherever we find, in the mouth of a noble character, not stock\nsentiments of stage virtue, but appreciation of a truth which it needs\ndeep thought and experience united with love of truth, to discover or\nverify for one\u2019s self, especially if the truth be of a sort which most\nmen will fail not merely to recognize as a truth, but to understand at\nall, because the understanding of it depends on the foregoing spiritual\nperception--then we think we may receive the passage as an expression of\nthe inner soul of the writer. He must have seen it before he could have\nsaid it; and to see such a truth is to love it; or rather, love of truth\nin the general must have preceded and enabled to the discovery of it.\nSuch a passage is the speech of the _Duke_, opening the second act of\nthe play just referred to, \u201cAs You Like it.\u201d The lesson it contains is,\nthat the well-being of a man cannot be secured except he partakes of the\nills of life, \u201cthe penalty of Adam.\u201d And it seems to us strange that the\nexcellent editors of the Cambridge edition, now in the course of\npublication--a great boon to all students of Shakspere--should not have\nperceived that the original reading, that of the folios, is the right\none,--\n\n  \u201cHere feel we _not_ the penalty of Adam?\u201d\n\nwhich, with the point of interrogation supplied, furnishes the true\nmeaning of the whole passage; namely, that the penalty of Adam is just\nwhat makes the \u201cwood more free from peril than the envious court,\u201d\n teaching each \u201cnot to think of himself more highly than he ought to\nthink.\u201d\n\nBut Shakspere, although everywhere felt, is nowhere seen in his plays.\nHe is too true an artist to show his own face from behind the play of\nlife with which he fills his stage. What we can find of him there we\nmust find by regarding the whole, and allowing the spiritual essence of\nthe whole to find its way to our brain, and thence to our heart. The\nstudent of Shakspere becomes imbued with the idea of his character. It\nexhales from his writings. And when we have found the main drift of any\nplay--the grand rounding of the whole--then by that we may interpret\nindividual passages. It is alone in their relation to the whole that we\ncan do them full justice, and in their relation to the whole that we\ndiscover the mind of the master.\n\nBut we have another source of more direct enlightenment as to Shakspere\nhimself. We only say more _direct_, not more certain or extended\nenlightenment. We have one collection of poems in which he speaks in his\nown person and of himself. Of course we refer to his sonnets. Though\nthese occupy, with their presentation of himself, such a small relative\nspace, they yet admirably round and complete, to our eyes, the circle of\nhis individuality. In them and the plays the common saying--one of the\ntruest--that extremes meet, is verified. No man is complete in whom\nthere are no extremes, or in whom those extremes do not meet. Now the\nvery individuality of Shakspere, judged by his dramas alone, has been\ndeclared nonexistent; while in the sonnets he manifests some of the\ndeepest phases of a healthy self-consciousness. We do not intend to\nenter into the still unsettled question as to whether these sonnets were\naddressed to a man or a woman. We have scarcely a doubt left on the\nquestion ourselves, as will be seen from the argument we found on our\nconviction. We cannot say we feel much interest in the other question,\n_If a man, what man?_ A few placed at the end, arranged as they have\ncome down to us, are beyond doubt addressed to a woman. But the\ndifference in tone between these and the others we think very\nremarkable. Possibly at the time they were written--most of them early\nin his life, as it appears to us, although they were not published till\nthe year 1609, when he was forty-five years of age, Meres referring to\nthem in the year 1598, eleven years before, as known \u201camong his private\nfriends\u201d--he had not known such women as he knew afterwards, and hence\nthe true devotion of his soul is given to a friend of his own sex.\nGervinus, whose lectures on Shakspere, profound and lofty to a degree\nunattempted by any other interpreter, we are glad to find have been done\ninto a suitable English translation, under the superintendence of the\nauthor himself--Gervinus says somewhere in them that, as Shakspere lived\nand wrote, his ideal of womanhood grew nobler and purer. Certainly the\nwoman to whom the last few of these sonnets are addressed was neither\nnoble nor pure. We think, in this matter at least, they record one of\nhis early experiences.\n\nWe shall briefly indicate what we find in these sonnets about the man\nhimself, and shall commence with what is least pleasing and of least\nvalue.\n\nWe must confess, then, that, probably soon after he came first to\nLondon, he, then a married man, had an intrigue with a married woman, of\nwhich there are indications that he was afterwards deeply ashamed. One\nlittle incident seems curiously traceable: that he had given her a set\nof tablets which his friend had given him; and the sonnet in which he\nexcuses himself to his friend for having done so, seems to us the only\npiece of special pleading, and therefore ungenuine expression, in the\nwhole. This friend, to whom the rest of the sonnets are addressed, made\nthe acquaintance of this woman, and both were false to Shakspere. Even\nShakspere could not keep the love of a worthless woman. So much the\nbetter for him; but it is a sad story at best. Yet even in this\nenvironment of evil we see the nobility of the man, and his real self.\nThe sonnets in which he mourns his friend\u2019s falsehood, forgives him, and\neven finds excuses for him, that he may not lose his own love of him,\nare, to our minds, amongst the most beautiful, as they are the most\nprofound. Of these are the 33rd and 34th. Nor does he stop here, but\nproceeds in the following, the 35th, to comfort his friend in his grief\nfor his offence, even accusing himself of offence in having made more\nexcuse for his fault than the fault needed! But to leave this part of\nhis history, which, as far as we know, stands alone, and yet cannot with\ntruth be passed by, any more than the story of the crime of David,\nthough in this case there is no comparison to be made between the two\nfurther than the primary fact, let us look at the one reality which,\nfrom a spiritual point of view, independently of the literary beauties\nof these poems, causes them to stand all but alone in literature. We\nmean what has been unavoidably touched upon already, the devotion of his\nfriendship. We have said this makes the poems stand _all but alone_; for\nwe ought to be better able to understand these poems of Shakspere, from\nthe fact that in our day has appeared the only other poem which is like\nthese, and which casts back a light upon them.\n\n  \u201cYet turn thee to the doubtful shore,\n    Where thy first form was made a man:\n    I loved thee, spirit, and love; nor can\n  The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.\u201d\n\nSo sings the Poet of our day, in the loftiest of his poems--\u201cIn\nMemoriam\u201d--addressing the spirit of his vanished friend. In the midst of\nhis song arises the thought of _the Poet_ of all time, who loved his\nfriend too, and would have lost him in a way far worse than death, had\nnot his love been too strong even for that death, alone ghastly, which\nthreatened to cut the golden chain that bound them, and part them by the\ngulf impassable. Tennyson\u2019s friend had never wronged him; and to the\ndivineness of Shakspere\u2019s love is added that of forgiveness. Such love\nas this between man and man is rare, and therefore to the mind which is\nin itself no way rare, incredible, because unintelligible. But though\nall the commonest things are very divine, yet divine individuality is\nand will be a rare thing at any given period on the earth. Faith, in its\nideal sense, will always be hard to find on the earth. But perhaps this\nkind of affection between man and man may, as Coleridge indicates in his\n\u201cTable Talk,\u201d have been more common in the reigns of Elizabeth and James\nthan it is now. There is a certain dread of the demonstrative in the\npresent day, which may, perhaps, be carried into regions where it is out\nof place, and hinder the development of a devotion which must be real,\nand grand, and divine, if one man such as Shakspere or Tennyson has ever\nfelt it. If one has felt it, humanity may claim it. And surely He who is\n_the_ Son of man has verified the claim. We believe there are indeed few\nof us who know what _to love our neighbour as ourselves_ means; but when\nwe find a man here and there in the course of centuries who does, we may\ntake this man as the prophet of coming good for his race, his prophecy\nbeing himself.\n\nBut next to the interest of knowing that a man could love so well, comes\nthe association of this fact with his art. He who could look abroad upon\nmen, and understand them all--who stood, as it were, in the wide-open\ngates of his palace, and admitted with welcome every one who came in\nsight--had in the inner places of that palace one chamber in which he\nmet his friend, and in which his whole soul went forth to understand the\nsoul of his friend. The man to whom nothing in humanity was common or\nunclean; in whom the most remarkable of his artistic morals is\nfair-play; who fills our hearts with a saintly love for _Cordelia_ and\nan admiration of _Sir John Falstaff_ the lost gentleman, mournful even\nin the height of our laughter; who could make an _Autolycus_ and a\n_Macbeth_ both human, and an _Ariel_ and a _Puck_ neither human--this is\nthe man who loved best. And we believe that this depth of capacity for\nloving lay at the root of all his knowledge of men and women, and all\nhis dramatic pre-eminence. The heart is more intelligent than the\nintellect. Well says the poet Matthew Raydon, who has hardly left\nanything behind him but the lamentation over Sir Philip Sidney in which\nthe lines occur,--\n\n  \u201cHe that hath love and judgment too\n  Sees more than any other do.\u201d\n\nSimply, we believe that this, not this only, but this more than any\nother endowment, made Shakspere the artist he was, in providing him all\nthe material of humanity to work upon, and keeping him to the true\nspirit of its use. Love looking forth upon strife, understood it all.\nLove is the true revealer of secrets, because it makes one with the\nobject regarded.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d say some impatient readers, \u201cwhen shall we have done with\nShakspere? There is no end to this writing about him.\u201d It will be a bad\nday for England when we have done with Shakspere; for that will imply,\nalong with the loss of him, that we are no longer capable of\nunderstanding him. Should that time ever come, Heaven grant the\ngeneration which does not understand him at least the grace to keep its\npens off him, which will by no means follow as a necessary consequence\nof the non-intelligence! But the writing about Shakspere which has been\nhitherto so plentiful must do good just in proportion as it directs\nattention to him and gives aid to the understanding of him. And while\nthe utterances of to-day pass away, the children of to-morrow are born,\nand require a new utterance for their fresh need from those who, having\ngone before, have already tasted life and Shakspere, and can give some\nlittle help to further progress than their own, by telling the following\ngeneration what they have found. Suppose that this cry had been raised\nlast century, after good Dr. Johnson had ceased to produce to the eyes\nof men the facts about his own incapacity which he presumed to be\ncriticisms of Shakspere, where would our aids be now to the\nunderstanding of the dramatist? Our own conviction is, when we reflect\nwith how much labour we have deepened our knowledge of him, and thereby\nfound in him _the best_--for the best lies not on the surface for the\ncareless reader--our own conviction is, that not half has been done that\nought to be done to help young people at least to understand the master\nmind of their country. Few among them can ever give the attention or\nwork to it that we have given; but much may be done with judicious aid.\nAnd a profound knowledge of their greatest writer would do more than\nalmost anything else to bind together as Englishmen, in a true and\nunselfish way, the hearts of the coming generations; for his works are\nour country in a convex magic mirror.\n\nWhen a man finds that every time he reads a book not only does some\nobscurity melt away, but deeper depths, which he had not before seen,\ndawn upon him, he is not likely to think that the time for ceasing to\nwrite about the book has come. And certainly in Shakspere, as in all\ntrue artistic work, as in nature herself, the depths are not to be\nrevealed utterly; while every new generation needs a new aid towards\ndiscovering itself and its own thoughts in these forms of the past. And\nof all that read about Shakspere there are few whom more than one or two\nutterances have reached. The speech or the writing must go forth to find\nthe soil for the growth of its kernel of truth. We shall, therefore,\nwith the full consciousness that perhaps more has been already said and\nwritten about Shakspere than about any other writer, yet venture to add\nto the mass by a few general remarks.\n\nAnd first we would remind our readers of the marvel of the combination\nin Shakspere of such a high degree of two faculties, one of which is\ngenerally altogether inferior to the other: the faculties of reception\nand production. Rarely do we find that great receptive power, brought\ninto operation either by reading or by observation, is combined with\noriginality of thought. Some hungers are quite satisfied by taking in\nwhat others have thought and felt and done. By the assimilation of this\nfood many minds grow and prosper; but other minds feed far more upon\nwhat rises from their own depths; in the answers they are compelled to\nprovide to the questions that come unsought; in the theories they cannot\nhelp constructing for the inclusion in one whole of the various facts\naround them, which seem at first sight to strive with each other like\nthe atoms of a chaos; in the examination of those impulses of hidden\norigin which at one time indicate a height of being far above the\nthinker\u2019s present condition, at another a gulf of evil into which he may\npossibly fall. But in Shakspere the two powers of beholding and\noriginating meet like the rejoining halves of a sphere. A man who thinks\nhis own thoughts much, will often walk through London streets and see\nnothing. In the man who observes only, every passing object mirrors\nitself in its prominent peculiarities, having a kind of harmony with all\nthe rest, but arouses no magician from the inner chamber to charm and\nchain its image to his purpose. In Shakspere, on the contrary, every\nouter form of humanity and nature spoke to that ever-moving,\nself-vindicating--we had almost said, and in a sense it would be true,\nself-generating--humanity within him. The sound of any action without\nhim, struck in him just the chord which, in motion in him, would have\nproduced a similar action. When anything was done, he felt as if he were\ndoing it--perception and origination conjoining in one consciousness.\n\nBut to this gift was united the gift of utterance, or representation.\nMany a man both receives and generates who, somehow, cannot represent.\nNothing is more disappointing sometimes than our first experience of the\nartistic attempts of a man who has roused our expectations by a social\ndisplay of familiarity with, and command over, the subjects of\nconversation. Have we not sometimes found that when such a one sought to\ngive vital or artistic form to these thoughts, so that they might not be\nborn and die in the same moment upon his lips, but might _exist_, a\npoor, weak, faded _simulacrum_ alone was the result? Now Shakspere was a\ngreat talker, who enraptured the listeners, and was himself so rapt in\nhis speech that he could scarcely come to a close; but when he was alone\nwith his art, then and then only did he rise to the height of his great\nargument, and all the talk was but as the fallen mortar and stony chips\nlying about the walls of the great temple of his drama.\n\nBut, along with all this wealth of artistic speech, an artistic virtue\nof an opposite nature becomes remarkable: his reticence. How often might\nhe not say fine things, particularly poetic things, when he does not,\nbecause it would not suit the character or the time! How many delicate\npoints are there not in his plays which we only discover after many\nreadings, because he will not put a single tone of success into the flow\nof natural utterance, to draw our attention to the triumph of the\nauthor, and jar with the all-important reality of his production!\nWherever an author obtrudes his own self-importance, an unreality is the\nconsequence, of a nature similar to that which we feel in the old moral\nplays, when historical and allegorical personages, such as _Julius\nCaesar_ and _Charity_, for instance, are introduced at the same time on\nthe same stage, acting in the same story. Shakspere never points to any\nstroke of his own wit or art. We may find it or not: there it is, and no\nmatter if no one see it!\n\nMuch has been disputed about the degree of consciousness of his own art\npossessed by Shakspere: whether he did it by a grand yet blind impulse,\nor whether he knew what he wanted to do, and knowingly used the means to\narrive at that end. Now we cannot here enter upon the question; but we\nwould recommend any of our readers who are interested in it not to\nattempt to make up their minds upon it before considering a passage in\nanother of his poems, which may throw some light on the subject for\nthem. It is the description of a painting, contained in \u201cThe Rape of\nLucrece,\u201d towards the end of the poem. Its very minuteness involves the\nexpression of principles, and reveals that, in relation to an art not\nhis own, he could hold principles of execution, and indicate perfection\nof finish, which, to say the least, must proceed from a general capacity\nfor art, and therefore might find an equally conscious operation in his\nown peculiar province of it. For our own part, we think that his results\nare a perfect combination of the results of consciousness and\nunconsciousness; consciousness where the arrangements of the play,\noutside the region of inspiration, required the care of the wakeful\nintellect; unconsciousness where the subject itself bore him aloft on\nthe wings of its own creative delight.\n\nThere is another manifestation of his power which will astonish those\nwho consider it. It is this: that, while he was able to go down to the\nsimple and grand realities of human nature, which are all tragic; and\nwhile, therefore, he must rejoice most in such contemplations of human\nnature as find fit outlet in a \u201cHamlet,\u201d a \u201cLear,\u201d a \u201cTimon,\u201d or an\n\u201cOthello,\u201d the tragedies of Doubt, Ingratitude, and Love, he can yet,\nwhen he chooses, float on the very surface of human nature, as in\n\u201cLove\u2019s Labour\u2019s Lost,\u201d \u201cThe Merry Wives of Windsor,\u201d \u201cThe Comedy of\nErrors,\u201d \u201cThe Taming of the Shrew;\u201d or he can descend half way as it\nwere, and there remain suspended in the characters and feelings of\nordinary nice people, who, interesting enough to meet in society, have\nneither received that development, nor are placed in those\ncircumstances, which admit of the highest and simplest poetic treatment.\nIn these he will bring out the ordinary noble or the ordinary vicious.\nOf this nature are most of his comedies, in which he gives an ideal\nrepresentation of common social life, and steers perfectly clear of what\nin such relations and surroundings would be _heroics_. Look how steadily\nhe keeps the noble-minded youth _Orlando_ in this middle region; and\nlook how the best comes out at last in the wayward and _recalcitrant_\nand _bizarre_, but honest and true natures of _Beatrice_ and _Benedick_;\nand this without any untruth to the nature of comedy, although the\ncircumstances border on the tragic. When he wants to give the deeper\naffairs of the heart, he throws the whole at once out of the social\ncircle with its multiform restraints. As in \u201cHamlet\u201d the stage on which\nthe whole is acted is really the heart of _Hamlet_, so he makes his\nvisible stage as it were, slope off into the misty infinite, with a\ngrey, starless heaven overhead, and Hades open beneath his feet. Hence\nyoung people brought up in the country understand the tragedies far\nsooner than they can comprehend the comedies. It needs acquaintance with\nsociety and social ways to clear up the latter.\n\nThe remarks we have made on \u201cHamlet\u201d by way of illustration, lead us to\npoint out how Shakspere prepares, in some of his plays, a stage suitable\nfor all the representation. In \u201cA Midsummer Night\u2019s Dream\u201d the place\nwhich gives tone to the whole is a midnight wood in the first flush and\nyouthful delight of summer. In \u201cAs You Like it\u201d it is a daylight wood in\nspring, full of morning freshness, with a cold wind now and then blowing\nthrough the half-clothed boughs. In \u201cThe Tempest\u201d it is a solitary\nisland, circled by the mysterious sea-horizon, over which what may come\nwho can tell?--a place where the magician may work his will, and have\nall nature at the beck of his superior knowledge.\n\nThe only writer who would have had a chance of rivalling Shakspere in\nhis own walk, if he had been born in the same period of English history,\nis Chaucer. He has the same gift of individualizing the general, and\nidealizing the portrait. But the best of the dramatic writers of\nShakspere\u2019s time, in their desire of dramatic individualization, forget\nthe modifying multiformity belonging to individual humanity. In their\nanxiety to present a _character_, they take, as it were, a human mould,\nlabel it with a certain peculiarity, and then fill in speeches and forms\naccording to the label. Thus the indications of character, of\npeculiarity, so predominate, the whole is so much of one colour, that\nthe result resembles one of those allegorical personifications in which,\nas much as possible, everything human is eliminated except what belongs\nto the peculiarity, the personification. How different is it with\nShakspere\u2019s representations! He knows that no human being ever was like\nthat. He makes his most peculiar characters speak very much like other\npeople; and it is only over the whole that their peculiarities manifest\nthemselves with indubitable plainness. The one apparent exception is\n_Jaques_, in \u201cAs You Like it.\u201d But there we must remember that Shakspere\nis representing a man who so chooses to represent himself. He is a man\n_in his humour_, or his own peculiar and chosen affectation. _Jaques_ is\nthe writer of his own part; for with him \u201call the world\u2019s a stage, and\nall the men and women,\u201d himself first, \u201cmerely players.\u201d We have his\nown presentation of himself, not, first of all, as he is, but as he\nchooses to be taken. Of course his real self does come out in it, for no\nman can seem altogether other than he is; and besides, the _Duke_, who\nsees quite through him, rebukes him in the manner already referred to;\nbut it is his affectation that gives him the unnatural peculiarity of\nhis modes and speeches. He wishes them to be such.\n\nThere is, then, for every one of Shakspere\u2019s characters the firm ground\nof humanity, upon which the weeds, as well as the flowers, glorious or\nfantastic, as the case may be, show themselves. His more heroic persons\nare the most profoundly human. Nor are his villains unhuman, although\ninhuman enough. Compared with Marlowe\u2019s Jew, _Shylock_ is a terrible\n_man_ beside a dreary _monster_, and, as far as logic and the _lex\ntalionis_ go, has the best of the argument. It is the strength of human\nnature itself that makes crime strong. Wickedness could have no power of\nitself: it lives by the perverted powers of good. And so great is\nShakspere\u2019s sympathy with _Shylock_ even, in the hard and unjust doom\nthat overtakes him, that he dismisses him with some of the spare\nsympathies of the more tender-hearted of his spectators. Nowhere is the\njustice of genius more plain than in Shakspere\u2019s utter freedom from\nparty-spirit, even with regard to his own creations. Each character\nshall set itself forth from its own point of view, and only in the\nchoice and scope of the whole shall the judgment of the poet be beheld.\nHe never allows his opinion to come out to the damaging of the\nindividual\u2019s own self-presentation. He knows well that for the worst\nsomething can be said, and that a feeling of justice and his own right\nwill be strong in the mind of a man who is yet swayed by perfect\nselfishness. Therefore the false man is not discoverable in his speech,\nnot merely because the villain will talk as like a true man as he may,\nbut because seldom is the villainy clear to the villain\u2019s own mind. It\nis impossible for us to determine whether, in their fierce bandying of\nthe lie, _Bolingbroke_ or _Norfolk_ spoke the truth. Doubtless each\nbelieved the other to be the villain that he called him. And Shakspere\nhas no desire or need to act the historian in the decision of that\nquestion. He leaves his reader in full sympathy with the perplexity of\n_Richard_; as puzzled, in fact, as if he had been present at the\ninterrupted combat.\n\nIf every writer could write up to his own best, we should have far less\nto marvel at in Shakspere. It is in great measure the wealth of\nShakspere\u2019s suggestions, giving him abundance of the best to choose\nfrom, that lifts him so high above those who, having felt the\ninspiration of a good idea, are forced to go on writing, constructing,\ncarpentering, with dreary handicraft, before the exhausted faculty has\nrecovered sufficiently to generate another. And then comes in the\nunerring choice of the best of those suggestions. Yet if any one wishes\nto see what variety of the same kind of thoughts he could produce, let\nhim examine the treatment of the same business in different plays; as,\nfor instance, the way in which instigation to a crime is managed in\n\u201cMacbeth,\u201d where _Macbeth_ tempts the two murderers to kill _Banquo_; in\n\u201cKing John,\u201d when _the King_ tempts _Hubert_ to kill _Arthur_; in \u201cThe\nTempest,\u201d when _Antonio_ tempts _Sebastian_ to kill _Alonzo_; in \u201cAs You\nLike it,\u201d when _Oliver_ instigates _Charles_ to kill _Orlando_; and in\n\u201cHamlet,\u201d where _Claudius_ urges _Laertes_ to the murder of _Hamlet_.\n\nHe shows no anxiety about being original. When a man is full of his work\nhe forgets himself. In his desire to produce a good play he lays hold\nupon any material that offers itself. He will even take a bad play and\nmake a good one of it. One of the most remarkable discoveries to the\nstudent of Shakspere is the hide-bound poverty of some of the stories,\nwhich, informed by his life-power; become forms of strength, richness,\nand grace. He does what the _Spirit_ in \u201cComus\u201d says the music he heard\nmight do,--\n\n              \u201ccreate a soul\n  Under the ribs of death;\u201d\n\nand then death is straightway \u201cclothed upon.\u201d And nowhere is the\nrefining operation of his genius more evident than in the purification\nof these stories. Characters and incidents which would have been honey\nand nuts to Beaumont and Fletcher are, notwithstanding their dramatic\nrecommendations, entirely remodelled by him. The fair _Ophelia_ is, in\nthe old tale, a common woman, and _Hamlet\u2019s_ mistress; while the policy\nof the _Lady of Belmont_, who in the old story occupies the place for\nwhich he invented the lovely _Portia_, upon which policy the whole story\nturns, is such that it is as unfit to set forth in our pages as it was\nunfit for Shakspere\u2019s purposes of art. His noble art refuses to work\nupon base matter. He sees at once the capabilities of a tale, but he\nwill not use it except he may do with it what he pleases.\n\nIf we might here offer some assistance to the young student who wants to\nhelp himself, we would suggest that to follow, in a measure, Plutarch\u2019s\nfashion of comparison, will be the most helpful guide to the\nunderstanding of the poet. Let the reader take any two characters, and\nputting them side by side, look first for differences, and then for\nresemblances between them, with the causes of each; or let him make a\nwider attempt, and setting two plays one over against the other, compare\nor contrast them, and see what will be the result. Let him, for\ninstance, take the two characters _Hamlet_ and _Brutus_, and compare\ntheir beginnings and endings, the resemblances in their characters, the\ndifferences in their conduct, the likeness and unlikeness of what was\nrequired of them, the circumstances in which action was demanded of\neach, the helps or hindrances each had to the working out of the problem\nof his life, the way in which each encounters the supernatural, or any\nother question that may suggest itself in reading either of the plays,\nending off with the main lesson taught in each; and he will be\nastonished to find, if he has not already discovered it, what a rich\nmine of intellectual and spiritual wealth is laid open to his delighted\neyes. Perhaps not the least valuable end to be so gained is, that the\nyoung Englishman, who wants to be delivered from any temptation to think\nhimself the centre around which the universe revolves, will be aided in\nhis endeavours after honourable humility by looking up to the man who\ntowers, like Saul, head and shoulders above his brethren, and seeing\nthat he is humble, may learn to leave it to the pismire to be angry, to\nthe earwig to be conceited, and to the spider to insist on his own\nimportance.\n\nBut to return to the main course of our observations. The dramas of\nShakspere are so natural, that this, the greatest praise that can be\ngiven them, is the ground of one of the difficulties felt by the young\nstudent in estimating them. The very simplicity of Shakspere\u2019s art seems\nto throw him out of any known groove of judgment. When he hears one say,\n\u201c_Look at this, and admire_,\u201d he feels inclined to rejoin, \u201cWhy, he only\nsays in the simplest way what the thing must have been. It is as plain\nas daylight.\u201d Yes, to the reader; and because Shakspere wrote it. But\nthere were a thousand wrong ways of doing it: Shakspere took the one\nright way. It is he who has made it plain in art, whatever it was before\nin nature; and most likely the very simplicity of it in nature was\nscarcely observed before he saw it and represented it. And is it not the\nglory of art to attain this simplicity? for simplicity is the end of all\nthings--all manners, all morals, all religion. To say that the thing\ncould not have been done otherwise, is just to say that you forget the\nart in beholding its object, that you forget the mirror because you see\nnature reflected in the mirror. Any one can see the moon in Lord Rosse\u2019s\ntelescope; but who made the reflector? And let the student try to\nexpress anything in prose or in verse, in painting or in modelling, just\nas it is. No man knows till he has made many attempts, how hard to reach\nis this simplicity of art. And the greater the success, the fewer are\nthe signs of the labour expended. Simplicity is art\u2019s perfection.\n\nBut so natural are all his plays, and the great tragedies to which we\nwould now refer in particular, amongst the rest, that it may appear to\nsome, at first sight, that Shakspere could not have constructed them\nafter any moral plan, could have had no lesson of his own to teach in\nthem, seeing they bear no marks of individual intent, in that they\ndepart nowhere from, nature, the construction of the play itself going\nstraight on like a history. The directness of his plays springs in part\nfrom the fact that it is humanity and not circumstance that Shakspere\nrespects. Circumstance he uses only for the setting forth of humanity;\nand for the plot of circumstance, so much in favour with Ben Jonson, and\nothers of his contemporaries, he cares nothing. As to their looking too\nnatural to have any design in them, we are not of those who believe that\nit is unlike nature to have a design and a result. If the proof of a\nhigh aim is to be what the critics used to call _poetic justice_, a kind\nof justice that one would gladly find more of in grocers\u2019 and\nlinen-drapers\u2019 shops, but can as well spare from a poem, then we must\nsay that he has not always a high end: the wicked man is not tortured,\nnor is the good man smothered in bank-notes and rose-leaves. Even when\nhe shows the outward ruin and death that comes upon Macbeth at last, it\nis only as an unavoidable little consequence, following in the wake of\nthe mighty vengeance of nature, even of God, that Macbeth cannot say\n_Amen_; that Macbeth can sleep no more; that Macbeth is \u201ccabined\ncribbed, confined, bound in to saucy doubts and fears;\u201d that his very\nbrain is a charnel-house, whence arise the ghosts of his own murders,\ntill he envies the very dead the rest to which his hand has sent them.\nThat immediate and eternal vengeance upon crime, and that inner reward\nof well-doing, never fail in nature or in Shakspere, appear as such a\nmatter of course that they hardly look like design either in nature or\nin the mirror which he holds up to her. The secret is that, in the\nideal, habit and design are one.\n\nMost authors seem anxious to round off and finish everything in full\nsight. Most of Shakspere\u2019s tragedies compel our thoughts to follow their\n_persons_ across the bourn. They need, as Jean Paul says, a piece of the\nnext world painted in to complete the picture, And this is surely\nnature: but it need not therefore be no design. What could be done with\nHamlet, but send him into a region where he has some chance of finding\nhis difficulties solved; where he will know that his reverence for God,\nwhich was the sole stay left him in the flood of human worthlessness,\nhas not been in vain; that the skies are not \u201ca foul and pestilent\ncongregation of vapours;\u201d that there are noble women, though his mother\nwas false and Ophelia weak; and that there are noble men, although his\nuncle and Laertes were villains and his old companions traitors? If\nHamlet is not to die, the whole of the play must perish under the\naccusation that the hero of it is left at last with only a superadded\nmisery, a fresh demand for action, namely, to rule a worthless people,\nas they seem to him, when action has for him become impossible; that he\nhas to live on, forsaken even of death, which will not come though the\ncup of misery is at the brim.\n\nBut a high end may be gained in this world, and the vision into the\nworld beyond so justified, as in King Lear. The passionate, impulsive,\nunreasoning old king certainly must have given his wicked daughters\noccasion enough of making the charges to which their avarice urged them.\nHe had learned very little by his life of kingship. He was but a boy\nwith grey hair. He had had no inner experiences. And so all the\ndevelopment of manhood and age has to be crowded into the few remaining\nweeks of his life. His own folly and blindness supply the occasion. And\nbefore the few weeks are gone, he has passed through all the stages of a\nfever of indignation and wrath, ending in a madness from which love\nredeems him; he has learned that a king is nothing if the man is\nnothing; that a king ought to care for those who cannot help themselves;\nthat love has not its origin or grounds in favours flowing from royal\nresource and munificence, and yet that love is the one thing worth\nliving for, which gained, it is time to die. And now that he has the\nexperience that life can give, has become a child in simplicity of heart\nand judgment, he cannot lose his daughter again; who, likewise, has\nlearned the one thing she needed, as far as her father was concerned, a\nlittle more excusing tenderness. In the same play it cannot be by chance\nthat at its commencement Gloucester speaks with the utmost carelessness\nand _off-hand_ wit about the parentage of his natural son Edmund, but\nfinds at last that this son is his ruin.\n\nEdgar, the true son, says to Edmund, after having righteously dealt him\nhis death-wound,--\n\n  \u201cThe gods are just, and of our pleasant vices\n  Make instruments to scourge us:\n  The dark and vicious place where thee he got\n  Cost him his eyes.\u201d\n\nTo which the dying and convicted villain replies,--\n\n          \u201cThou hast spoken right; \u2018tis true:\n  The wheel is come full circle; I am here.\u201d\n\nCould anything be put more plainly than the moral lesson in this?\n\nIt would be easy to produce examples of fine design from his comedies as\nwell; as for instance, from \u201cMuch Ado about Nothing:\u201d the two who are\nmade to fall in love with each other, by being each severally assured of\npossessing the love of the other, Beatrice and Benedick, are shown\nbeforehand to have a strong inclination towards each other, manifested\nin their continual squabbling after a good-humoured fashion; but not all\nthis is sufficient to make them heartily in love, until they find out\nthe nobility of each other\u2019s character in their behaviour about the\ncalumniated Hero; and the author takes care they shall not be married\nwithout a previous acquaintance with the trick that has been played upon\nthem. Indeed we think the remark, that Shakspere never leaves any of his\ncharacters the same at the end of a play as he took them up at the\nbeginning, will be found to be true. They are better or worse, wiser or\nmore irretrievably foolish. The historical plays would illustrate the\nremark as well as any.\n\nBut of all the terrible plays we are inclined to think \u201cTimon\u201d the most\nterrible, and to doubt whether justice has been done to the finish and\ncompleteness of it. At the same time we are inclined to think that it\nwas printed (first in the first folio, 1623, seven years after\nShakspere\u2019s death) from a copy, corrected by the author, but not\n_written fair_, and containing consequent mistakes. The same account\nmight belong to others of the plays, but more evidently perhaps belongs\nto the \u201cTimon.\u201d The idea of making the generous spendthrift, whose old\nidolaters had forsaken him because the idol had no more to give, into\nthe high-priest of the Temple of Mammon, dispensing the gold which he\nhated and despised, that it might be a curse to the race which he had\nlearned to hate and despise as well; and the way in which Shakspere\ndiscloses the depths of Timon\u2019s wound, by bringing him into comparison\nwith one who hates men by profession and humour--are as powerful as\nanything to be found even in Shakspere.\n\nWe are very willing to believe that \u201cJulius Caesar\u201d was one of his\nlatest plays; for certainly it is the play in which he has represented a\nhero in the high and true sense. _Brutus_ is this hero, of course; a\nhero because he will do what he sees to be right, independently of\npersonal feeling or personal advantage. Nor does his attempt fail from\nany overweening or blindness, in himself. Had he known that the various\npapers thrown in his way, were the concoctions of _Cassius_, he would\nnot have made the mistake of supposing that the Romans longed for\nfreedom, and therefore would be ready to defend it. As it was, he\nattempted to liberate a people which did not feel its slavery. He failed\nfor others, but not for himself; for his truth was such that everybody\nwas true to him. Unlike Jaques with his seven acts of the burlesque of\nhuman life, Brutus says at the last,--\n\n                              \u201cCountrymen,\n  My heart doth joy, that yet, in all my life,\n  I found no man but he was true to me.\u201d\n\nOf course all this is in Plutarch. But it is easy to see with what\nrelish Shakspere takes it up, setting forth all the aids in himself and\nin others which Brutus had to being a hero, and thus making the\nrepresentation as credible as possible.\n\nWe must heartily confess that no amount of genius alone will make a man\na good man; that genius only shows the right way--drives no man to walk\nin it. But there is surely some moral scent in us to let us know whether\na man only cares for good from an artistic point of view, or whether he\nadmires and loves good. This admiration and love cannot be _prominently_\nset forth by any dramatist true to his art; but it must come out over\nthe whole. His predilections must show themselves in the scope of his\nartistic life, in the things and subjects he chooses, and the way in\nwhich he represents them. Notwithstanding Uncle Toby and Maria, who will\nventure to say that Sterne was noble or virtuous, when he looks over the\nwhole that he has written? But in Shakspere there is no suspicion of a\ncloven foot. Everywhere he is on the side of virtue and of truth. Many\nsmall arguments, with great cumulative force, might be adduced to this\neffect.\n\nFor ourselves we cannot easily believe that the calmness of his art\ncould be so unvarying except he exercised it with a good conscience;\nthat he could have kept looking out upon the world around him with the\nuntroubled regard necessary for seeing all things as they are, except\nthere had been peace in his house at home; that he could have known all\nmen as he did, and failed to know himself. We can understand the\nco-existence of any degree of partial or excited genius with evil ways,\nbut we cannot understand the existence of such calm and universal\ngenius, wrought out in his works, except in association with all that is\nnoblest in human nature. Nor is it other than on the side of the\nargument for his rectitude that he never forces rectitude upon the\nattention of others. The strong impression left upon our minds is, that\nhowever Shakspere may have strayed in the early portion of his life in\nLondon, he was not only an upright and noble man for the main part, but\na repentant man, and a man whose life was influenced by the truths of\nChristianity.\n\nMuch is now said about a memorial to Shakspere. The best and only true\nmemorial is no doubt that described in Milton\u2019s poem on this very\nsubject: the living and ever-changing monument of human admiration,\nexpressed in the faces and forms of those absorbed in the reading of his\nworks. But if the external monument might be such as to foster the\nconstant reproduction of the inward monument of love and admiration,\nthen, indeed, it might be well to raise one; and with this object in\nview let us venture to propose one mode which we think would favour the\nattainment of it.\n\nLet a Gothic hall of the fourteenth century be built; such a hall as\nwould be more in the imagination of Shakspere than any of the\narchitecture of his own time. Let all the copies that can be procured of\nevery early edition of his works, singly or collectively, be stored in\nthis hall. Let a copy of every other edition ever printed be procured\nand deposited. Let every book or treatise that can be found, good, bad,\nor indifferent, written about Shakspere or any of his works, be likewise\ncollected for the Shakspere library. Let a special place be allotted to\nthe shameless corruptions of his plays that have been produced as\nimprovements upon them, some of which, to the disgrace of England, still\npartially occupy the stage instead of what Shakspere wrote. Let one\ndepartment contain every work of whatever sort that tends to direct\nelucidation of his meaning, chiefly those of the dramatic writers who\npreceded him and closely followed him. Let the windows be filled with\nstained glass, representing the popular sports of his own time and the\ntimes of his English histories. Let a small museum be attached,\ncontaining all procurable antiquities that are referred to in his plays,\nalong with first editions, if possible, of the best books that came out\nin his time, and were probably read by him. Let the whole thus as much\nas possible represent his time. Let a marble statue in the midst do the\nbest that English art can accomplish for the representation of the\nvanished man; and let copies, if not the originals, of the several\nportraits be safely shrined for the occasional beholding of the\nmultitude. Let the perpetuity of care necessary for this monument be\nsecured by endowment; and let it be for the use of the public, by means\nof a reading-room fitted for the comfort of all who choose to avail\nthemselves of these facilities for a true acquaintance with our greatest\nartist. Let there likewise be a simple and moderately-sized theatre\nattached, not for regular, but occasional use; to be employed for the\nrepresentation of Shakspere\u2019s plays _only_, and allowed free of expense\nfor amateur or other representations of them for charitable purposes.\nBut within a certain cycle of years--if, indeed, it would be too much to\nexpect that out of the London play-goers a sufficient number would be\nfound to justify the representation of all the plays of Shakspere once\nin the season--let the whole of Shakspere\u2019s plays be acted in the best\nmanner possible to the managers for the time being.\n\nThe very existence of such a theatre would be a noble protest of the\nhighest kind against the sort of play, chiefly translated and adapted\nfrom the French, which infests our boards, the low tone of which, even\nwhere it is not decidedly immoral, does more harm than any amount of the\nrough, honest plain-spokenness of Shakspere, as judged by our more\nfastidious, if not always purer manners. The representation of such\nplays forms the real ground of objection to theatre-going. We believe\nthat other objections, which may be equally urged against large\nassemblies of any sort, are not really grounded upon such an amount of\nobjectionable fact as good people often suppose. At all events it is not\nagainst the drama itself, but its concomitants, its avoidable\nconcomitants, that such objections are, or ought to be, felt and\ndirected. The dramatic impulse, as well as all other impulses of our\nnature, are from the Maker.\n\nA monument like this would help to change a blind enthusiasm and a\n_dilettante_-talk into knowledge, reverence, and study; and surely this\nwould be the true way to honour the memory of the man who appeals to\nposterity by no mighty deeds of worldly prowess, but has left behind him\nfood for heart, brain, and conscience, on which the generations will\nfeed till the end of time. It would be the one true and natural mode of\nperpetuating his fame in kind; helping him to do more of that for which\nhe was born, and because of which we humbly desire to do him honour, as\nthe years flow farther away from the time when, at the age of fifty-two,\nhe left the world a richer legacy of the results of intellectual labour\nthan any other labourer in literature has ever done. It would be to\nraise a monument to his mind more than to his person.\n\nBut to honour Shakspere in the best way we must not gaze upon some grand\nmemorial of his fame, we must not talk largely of his wonderful doings,\nwe must not even behold the representation of his works on the stage,\ninvaluable aid as that is to the right understanding of what he has\nwritten; but we must, by close, silent, patient study, enter into an\nunderstanding with the spirit of the departed poet-sage, and thus let\nhis own words be the necromantic spell that raises the dead, and brings\nus into communion with that man who knew what was in men more than any\nother mere man ever did. Well was it for Shakspere that he was humble;\nelse on what a desolate pinnacle of companionless solitude must he have\nstood! Where was he to find his peers? To most thoughtful minds it is a\nterrible fancy to suppose that there were no greater human being than\nthemselves. From the terror of such a _truth_ Shakspere\u2019s love for men\npreserved him. He did not think about himself so much as he thought\nabout them. Had he been a self-student alone, or chiefly, could he ever\nhave written those dramas? We close with the repetition of this truth:\nthat the love of our kind is the one key to the knowledge of humanity\nand of ourselves. And have we not sacred authority for concluding that\nhe who loves his brother is the more able and the more likely to love\nHim who made him and his brother also, and then told them that love is\nthe fulfilling of the law?\n\n\n\n\nTHE ART OF SHAKSPERE, AS REVEALED BY HIMSELF.\n\n\n[Footnote: 1863.]\n\n\n  Who taught you this?\n  I learn\u2019d it out of women\u2019s faces.\n\n_Winter\u2019s Tale_, Act ii. scene 1.\n\n\nOne occasionally hears the remark, that the commentators upon Shakspere\nfind far more in Shakspere than Shakspere ever intended to express.\nTaking this assertion as it stands, it may be freely granted, not only\nof Shakspere, but of every writer of genius. But if it be intended by\nit, that nothing can _exist_ in any work of art beyond what the writer\nwas conscious of while in the act of producing it, so much of its scope\nis false.\n\nNo artist can have such a claim to the high title of _creator_, as that\nhe invents for himself the forms, by means of which he produces his new\nresult; and all the forms of man and nature which he modifies and\ncombines to make a new region in his world of art, have their own\noriginal life and meaning. The laws likewise of their various\ncombinations are natural laws, harmonious with each other. While,\ntherefore, the artist employs many or few of their original aspects for\nhis immediate purpose, he does not and cannot thereby deprive them of\nthe many more which are essential to their vitality, and the vitality\nlikewise of his presentation of them, although they form only the\nbackground from which his peculiar use of them stands out. The objects\npresented must therefore fall, to the eye of the observant reader, into\nmany different combinations and harmonies of operation and result, which\nare indubitably there, whether the writer saw them or not. These latent\ncombinations and relations will be numerous and true, in proportion to\nthe scope and the truth of the representation; and the greater the\nnumber of meanings, harmonious with each other, which any work of art\npresents, the greater claim it has to be considered a work of genius. It\nmust, therefore, be granted, and that joyfully, that there may be\nmeanings in Shakspere\u2019s writings which Shakspere himself did not see,\nand to which therefore his art, as art, does not point.\n\nBut the probability, notwithstanding, must surely be allowed as well,\nthat, in great artists, the amount of conscious art will bear some\nproportion to the amount of unconscious truth: the visible volcanic\nlight will bear a true relation to the hidden fire of the globe; so that\nit will not seem likely that, in such a writer as Shakspere, we should\nfind many indications of present and operative _art_, of which he was\nhimself unaware. Some truths may be revealed through him, which he\nhimself knew only potentially; but it is not likely that marks of work,\nbearing upon the results of the play, should be fortuitous, or that the\nwork thus indicated should be unconscious work. A stroke of the mallet\nmay be more effective than the sculptor had hoped; but it was intended.\nIn the drama it is easier to discover individual marks of the chisel,\nthan in the marble whence all signs of such are removed: in the drama\nthe lines themselves fall into the general finish, without necessary\nobliteration as lines: Still, the reader cannot help being fearful,\nlest, not as regards truth only, but as regards art as well, he be\nsometimes clothing the idol of his intellect with the weavings of his\nfancy. My conviction is, that it is the very consummateness of\nShakspere\u2019s art, that exposes his work to the doubt that springs from\nloving anxiety for his honour; the dramatist, like the sculptor,\navoiding every avoidable hint of the process, in order to render the\nresult a vital whole. But, fortunately, we are not left to argue\nentirely from probabilities. He has himself given us a peep into his\nstudio--let me call it _workshop_, as more comprehensive.\n\nIt is not, of course, in the shape of _literary_ criticism, that we\nshould expect to meet such a revelation; for to use art even\nconsciously, and to regard it as an object of contemplation, or to\ntheorize about it, are two very different mental operations. The\nproductive and critical faculties are rarely found in equal combination;\nand even where they are, they cannot operate equally in regard to the\nsame object. There is a perfect satisfaction in producing, which does\nnot demand a re-presentation to the critical faculty. In other words,\nthe criticism which a great writer brings to bear upon his own work, is\nfrom within, regarding it upon the hidden side, namely, in relation to\nhis own idea; whereas criticism, commonly understood, has reference to\nthe side turned to the public gaze. Neither could we expect one so\nprolific as Shakspere to find time for the criticism of the works of\nother men, except in such moments of relaxation as those in which the\nfriends at the Mermaid Tavern sat silent beneath the flow of his wisdom\nand humour, or made the street ring with the overflow of their own\nenjoyment.\n\nBut if the artist proceed to speculate upon the nature or productions of\nanother art than his own, we may then expect the principles upon which\nhe operates in his own, to take outward and visible form--a form\nmodified by the difference of the art to which he now applies them. In\none of Shakspere\u2019s poems, we have the description of an imagined\nproduction of a sister-art--that of Painting--a description so brilliant\nthat the light reflected from the poet-picture illumines the art of the\nPoet himself, revealing the principles which he held with regard to\nrepresentative art generally, and suggesting many thoughts with regard\nto detail and harmony, finish, pregnancy, and scope. This description is\nfound in \u201cThe Rape of Lucrece.\u201d Apology will hardly be necessary for\nmaking a long quotation, seeing that, besides the convenience it will\nafford of easy reference to the ground of my argument, one of the\ngreatest helps which even the artist can give to us, is to isolate\npeculiar beauties, and so compel us to perceive them.\n\nLucrece has sent a messenger to beg the immediate presence of her\nhusband. Awaiting his return, and worn out with weeping, she looks about\nfor some variation of her misery.\n\n  1.\n\n  At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece\n    Of skilful painting, made for Priam\u2019s Troy;\n  Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,\n    For Helen\u2019s rape the city to destroy,\n    Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;\n  Which the conceited painter drew so proud,\n  As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets, bowed.\n\n  2.\n\n  A thousand lamentable objects there,\n    In scorn of Nature, Art gave lifeless life:\n  Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear,\n    Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife;\n    The red blood reeked, to show the painter\u2019s strife.\n  And dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights,\n  Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.\n\n  3.\n\n  There might you see the labouring pioneer\n    Begrimed with sweat, and smeared all with dust;\n  And, from the towers of Troy there would appear\n    The very eyes of men through loopholes thrust,\n    Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:\n  Such sweet observance in this work was had,\n  That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.\n\n  4.\n\n  In great commanders, grace and majesty\n    You might behold, triumphing in their faces;\n  In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;\n    And here and there the painter interlaces\n    Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces,\n  Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,\n  That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.\n\n  5.\n\n  In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art\n    Of physiognomy might one behold!\n  The face of either ciphered either\u2019s heart;\n    Their face their manners most expressly told:\n    In Ajax\u2019 eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled;\n  But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent\n  Showed deep regard, and smiling government.\n\n  6.\n\n  There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,\n    As \u2018twere encouraging the Greeks to fight;\n  Making such sober action with his hand,\n    That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight;\n    In speech, it seemed his beard, all silver-white,\n  Wagged up and down, and from his lips did fly\n  Thin winding breath, which purled up to the sky.\n\n  7.\n\n  About him were a press of gaping faces,\n    Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice;\n  All jointly listening, but with several graces,\n    As if some mermaid did their ears entice;\n    Some high, some low, the painter was so nice.\n  The scalps of many, almost hid behind,\n  To jump up higher seemed, to mock the mind.\n\n  8.\n\n  Here one man\u2019s hand leaned on another\u2019s head,\n    His nose being shadowed by his neighbour\u2019s ear;\n  Here one, being thronged, bears back, all bollen and red;\n    Another, smothered, seems to pelt and swear;\n    And in their rage such signs of rage they bear,\n  As, but for loss of Nestor\u2019s golden words,\n  It seemed they would debate with angry swords.\n\n  9.\n\n  For much imaginary work was there;\n    Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,\n  That for Achilles\u2019 image stood his spear,\n    Griped in an armed hand; himself behind\n    Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:\n  A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,\n  Stood for the whole to be imagined.\n\n  10.\n\n  And, from the walls of strong-besieged Troy,\n    When their brave hope, bold Hector, marched to field,\n  Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy\n    To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield,\n    And to their hope they such odd action yield;\n  That through their light joy seemed to appear,\n  Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear.\n\n  11.\n\n  And from the strond of Dardan, where they fought,\n    To Simois\u2019 reedy banks, the red blood ran;\n  Whose waves to imitate the battle sought,\n    With swelling ridges; and their ranks began\n    To break upon the galled shore, and then\n  Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks,\n  They join, and shoot their foam at Simois\u2019 banks.\n\nThe oftener I read these verses, amongst the very earliest compositions\nof Shakspere, I am the more impressed with the carefulness with which he\nrepresents the _work_ of the picture--\u201cshows the strife of the painter.\u201d\n The most natural thought to follow in sequence is: How like his own art!\n\nThe scope and variety of the whole picture, in which mass is effected by\nthe accumulation of individuality; in which, on the one hand, Troy\nstands as the impersonation of the aim and object of the whole; and on\nthe other, the Simois flows in foaming rivalry of the strife of\nmen,--the pictorial form of that sympathy of nature with human effort\nand passion, which he so often introduces in his plays,--is like nothing\nelse so much as one of the works of his own art. But to take a portion\nas a more condensed representation of his art in combining all varieties\ninto one harmonious whole: his genius is like the oratory of Nestor as\ndescribed by its effects in the seventh and eighth stanzas. Every\nvariety of attitude and countenance and action is harmonized by the\ninfluence which is at once the occasion of debate, and the charm which\nrestrains by the fear of its own loss: the eloquence and the listening\nform the one bond of the unruly mass. So the dramatic genius that\nharmonizes his play, is visible only in its effects; so ethereal in its\nown essence that it refuses to be submitted to the analysis of the ruder\nintellect, it is like the words of Nestor, for which in the picture\nthere stands but \u201cthin winding breath which purled up to the sky.\u201d Take,\nfor an instance of this, the reconciling power by which, in the\nmysterious midnight of the summer-wood, he brings together in one\nharmony the graceful passions of childish elves, and the fierce passions\nof men and women, with the ludicrous reflection of those passions in the\nlittle convex mirror of the artisan\u2019s drama; while the mischievous Puck\nrevels in things that fall out preposterously, and the Elf-Queen is in\nlove with ass-headed Bottom, from the hollows of whose long hairy\nears--strange bouquet-holders--bloom and breathe the musk-roses, the\ncharacteristic odour-founts of the play; and the philosophy of the\nunbelieving Theseus, with the candour of Hippolyta, lifts the whole into\nrelation with the realities of human life. Or take, as another instance,\nthe pretended madman Edgar, the court-fool, and the rugged old king\ngoing grandly mad, sheltered in one hut, and lapped in the roar of a\nthunderstorm.\n\nMy object, then, in respect to this poem, is to produce, from many\ninstances, a few examples of the metamorphosis of such excellences as he\ndescribes in the picture, into the corresponding forms of the drama; in\nthe hope that it will not then be necessary to urge the probability that\nthe presence of those artistic virtues in his own practice, upon which\nhe expatiates in his representation of another man\u2019s art, were\naccompanied by the corresponding consciousness--that, namely, of the\nartist as differing from that of the critic, its objects being regarded\nfrom the concave side of the hammered relief. If this probability be\ngranted, I would, from it, advance to a higher and far more important\nconclusion--how unlikely it is that if the writer was conscious of such\nfitnesses, he should be unconscious of those grand embodiments of truth,\nwhich are indubitably present in his plays, whether he knew it or not.\nThis portion of my argument will be strengthened by an instance to show\nthat Shakspere was himself quite at home in the contemplation of such\ntruths.\n\nLet me adduce, then, some of those corresponding embodiments in words\ninstead of in forms; in which colours yield to tones, lines to phrases.\nI will begin with the lowest kind, in which the art has to do with\nmatters so small, that it is difficult to believe that _unconscious_ art\ncould have any relation to them. They can hardly have proceeded directly\nfrom the great inspiration of the whole. Their very minuteness is an\nargument for their presence to the poet\u2019s consciousness; while\nbelonging, as they do, only to the _construction_ of the play, no such\nindependent existence can be accorded to them, as to _truths_, which,\nbeing in themselves realities, _are_ there, whether Shakspere saw them\nor not. If he did not intend them, the most that can be said for them\nis, that such is the naturalness of Shakspere\u2019s representations, that\nthere is room in his plays, as in life, for those wonderful coincidences\nwhich are reducible to no law.\n\nPerhaps every one of the examples I adduce will be found open to\ndispute. This is a kind in which direct proof can have no share; nor\nshould I have dared thus to combine them in argument, but for the ninth\nstanza of those quoted above, to which I beg my readers to revert. Its\n_imaginary work_ means--work hinted at, and then left to the imagination\nof the reader. Of course, in dramatic representation, such work must\nexist on a great scale; but the minute particularization of the \u201cconceit\ndeceitful\u201d in the rest of the stanza, will surely justify us in thinking\nit possible that Shakspere intended many, if not all, of the _little_\nfitnesses which a careful reader discovers in his plays. That such are\nnot oftener discovered comes from this: that, like life itself, he so\nblends into vital beauty, that there are no salient points. To use a\nhomely simile: he is not like the barn-door fowl, that always runs out\ncackling when she has laid an egg; and often when she has not. In the\ntone of an ordinary drama, you may know when something is coming; and\nthe tone itself declares--_I have done it_. But Shakspere will not spoil\nhis art to show his art. It is there, and does its part: that is enough.\nIf you can discover it, good and well; if not, pass on, and take what\nyou can find. He can afford not to be fathomed for every little pearl\nthat lies at the bottom of his ocean. If I succeed in showing that such\nart may exist where it is not readily discovered, this may give some\nadditional probability to its existence in places where it is harder to\nisolate and define.\n\nTo produce a few instances, then:\n\nIn \u201cMuch Ado about Nothing,\u201d seeing the very nature of the play is\nexpressed in its name, is it not likely that Shakspere named the two\nconstables, Dogberry (_a poisonous berry_) and Verjuice (_the juice of\ncrab-apples_); those names having absolutely nothing to do with the\nstupid innocuousness of their characters, and so corresponding to their\nway of turning things upside down, and saying the very opposite of what\nthey mean?\n\nIn the same play we find Margaret objecting to her mistress\u2019s wearing a\ncertain rebato (_a large plaited ruff_), on the morning of her wedding:\nmay not this be intended to relate to the fact that Margaret had dressed\nin her mistress\u2019s clothes the night before? She might have rumpled or\nsoiled it, and so feared discovery.\n\nIn \u201cKing Henry IV.,\u201d Part I., we find, in the last scene, that the\nPrince kills Hotspur. This is not recorded in history: the conqueror of\nPercy is unknown. Had it been a fact, history would certainly have\nrecorded it; and the silence of history in regard to a deed of such\nmark, is equivalent to its contradiction. But Shakspere requires, for\nhis play\u2019s sake, to identify the slayer of Hotspur with his rival the\nPrince. Yet Shakspere will not contradict history, even in its silence.\nWhat is he to do? He will account for history _not knowing_ the\nfact.--Falstaff claiming the honour, the Prince says to him:\n\n  \u201cFor my part, if a lie may do thee grace,\n  I\u2019ll gild it with the happiest terms I have;\u201d\n\nrevealing thus the magnificence of his own character, in his readiness,\nfor the sake of his friend, to part with his chief renown. But the\nHistoric Muse could not believe that fat Jack Falstaff had killed\nHotspur, and therefore she would not record the claim.\n\nIn the second part of the same play, act i. scene 2, we find Falstaff\ntoweringly indignant with Mr. Dombledon, the silk mercer, that he will\nstand upon security with a gentleman for a short cloak and slops of\nsatin. In the first scene of the second act, the hostess mentions that\nSir John is going to dine with Master Smooth, the silkman. Foiled with\nMr. Dombledon, he has already made himself so agreeable to Master\nSmooth, that he is \u201cindited to dinner\u201d with him. This is, by the bye, as\nto the action of the play; but as to the character of Sir John, is it\nnot\n\n  \u201cConceit deceitful, so compact, so kind\u201d--_kinned--natural_?\n\nThe _conceit deceitful_ in the painting, is the imagination that means\nmore than its says. So the words of the speakers in the play, stand for\nmore than the speakers mean. They are _Shakspere\u2019s_ in their relation to\nhis whole. To Achilles, his spear is but his spear: to the painter and\nhis company, the spear of Achilles stands for Achilles himself.\n\nColeridge remarks upon _James Gurney_, in \u201cKing John:\u201d \u201cHow individual\nand comical he is with the four words allowed to his dramatic life!\u201d\n These words are those with which he answers the Bastard\u2019s request to\nleave the room. He has been lingering with all the inquisitiveness and\nprivilege of an old servant; when Faulconbridge says: \u201cJames Gurney,\nwilt thou give us leave a while?\u201d with strained politeness. With marked\ncondescension to the request of the second son, whom he has known and\nserved from infancy, James Gurney replies: \u201cGood leave, good Philip;\u201d\n giving occasion to Faulconbridge to show his ambition, and scorn of his\npresent standing, in the contempt with which he treats even the\nChristian name he is so soon to exchange with his surname for _Sir\nRichard_ and _Plantagenet; Philip_ being the name for a sparrow in those\ndays, when ladies made pets of them. Surely in these words of the\nserving-man, we have an outcome of the same art by which\n\n  \u201cA hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,\n  Stood for the whole to be imagined.\u201d\n\nIn the \u201cWinter\u2019s Tale,\u201d act iv. scene 3, Perdita, dressed with unwonted\ngaiety at the festival of the sheep-shearing, is astonished at finding\nherself talking in full strains of poetic verse. She says, half-ashamed:\n\n  \u201cMethinks I play as I have seen them do\n  In Whitsun pastorals: sure, this robe of mine\n  Does change my disposition!\u201d\n\nShe does not mean this seriously. But the robe has more to do with it\nthan she thinks. Her passion for Florizel is the warmth that sets the\nsprings of her thoughts free, and they flow with the grace belonging to\na princess-nature; but it is the robe that opens the door of her speech,\nand, by elevating her consciousness of herself, betrays her into what is\nonly natural to her, but seems to her, on reflection, inconsistent with\nher low birth and poor education. This instance, however, involves far\nhigher elements than any of the examples I have given before, and\nnaturally leads to a much more important class of illustrations.\n\nIn \u201cMacbeth,\u201d act ii. scene 4, why is the old man, who has nothing to do\nwith the conduct of the play, introduced?--That, in conversation with\nRosse, he may, as an old man, bear testimony to the exceptionally\nterrific nature of that storm, which, we find--from the words of Banquo:\n\n  \u201cThere\u2019s husbandry in heaven:\n  Their candles are all out,\u201d--\n\nhad begun to gather, before supper was over in the castle. This storm is\nthe sympathetic horror of Nature at the breaking open of the Lord\u2019s\nanointed temple--horror in which the animal creation partakes, for the\nhorses of Duncan, \u201cthe minions of their race,\u201d and therefore the most\nsensitive of their sensitive race, tear each other to pieces in the\nwildness of their horror. Consider along with this a foregoing portion\nof the second scene in the same act. Macbeth, having joined his wife\nafter the murder, says:\n\n          \u201cWho lies i\u2019 the second chamber?\n\n  \u201c_Lady M._        Donalbain.\n         *       *       *       *       *\n          \u201cThere are two lodged together.\u201d\n\nThese two, Macbeth says, woke each other--the one laughing, the other\ncrying _murder_. Then they said their prayers and went to sleep\nagain.--I used to think that the natural companion of Donalbain would be\nMalcolm, his brother; and that the two brothers woke in horror from the\nproximity of their father\u2019s murderer who was just passing the door. A\nfriend objected to this, that, had they been together, Malcolm, being\nthe elder, would have been mentioned rather than Donalbain. Accept this\nobjection, and we find a yet more delicate significance: the _presence_\noperated differently on the two, one bursting out in a laugh, the other\ncrying _murder_; but both were in terror when they awoke, and dared not\nsleep till they had said their prayers. His sons, his horses, the\nelements themselves, are shaken by one unconscious sympathy with the\nmurdered king.\n\nAssociate with this the end of the third scene of the fourth act of\n\u201cJulius Caesar;\u201d where we find that the attendants of Brutus all cry out\nin their sleep, as the ghost of Caesar leaves their master\u2019s tent. This\noutcry is not given in Plutarch.\n\nTo return to \u201cMacbeth:\u201d Why is the doctor of medicine introduced in the\nscene at the English court? He has nothing to do with the progress of\nthe play itself, any more than the old man already alluded to.--He is\nintroduced for a precisely similar reason.--As a doctor, he is the best\ntestimony that could be adduced to the fact, that the English King\nEdward the Confessor, is a fountain of health to his people, gifted for\nhis goodness with the sacred privilege of curing _The King\u2019s Evil_, by\nthe touch of his holy hands. The English King himself is thus\nintroduced, for the sake of contrast with the Scotch King, who is a\nraging bear amongst his subjects.\n\nIn the \u201cWinter\u2019s Tale,\u201d to which he gives the name because of the\naltogether extraordinary character of the occurrences (referring to it\nin the play itself, in the words: \u201c_a sad tale\u2019s best for winter: I have\none of sprites and goblins_\u201d) Antigonus has a remarkable dream or\nvision, in which Hermione appears to him, and commands the exposure of\nher child in a place to all appearance the most unsuitable and\ndangerous. Convinced of the reality of the vision, Antigonus obeys; and\nthe whole marvellous result depends upon this obedience. Therefore the\nvision must be intended for a genuine one. But how could it be such, if\nHermione was not dead, as, from her appearance to him, Antigonus firmly\nbelieved she was? I should feel this to be an objection to the art of\nthe play, but for the following answer:--At the time she appeared to\nhim, she was still lying in that deathlike swoon, into which she fell\nwhen the news of the loss of her son reached her as she stood before the\njudgment-seat of her husband, at a time when she ought not to have been\nout of her chamber.\n\nNote likewise, in the first scene of the second act of the same play,\nthe changefulness of Hermione\u2019s mood with regard to her boy, as\nindicative of her condition at the time. If we do not regard this fact,\nwe shall think the words introduced only for the sake of filling up the\nbusiness of the play.\n\nIn \u201cTwelfth Night,\u201d both ladies make the first advances in love. Is it\nnot worthy of notice that one of them has lost her brother, and that the\nother believes she has lost hers? In this respect, they may be placed\nwith Phoebe, in \u201cAs You Like It,\u201d who, having suddenly lost her love by\nthe discovery that its object was a woman, immediately and heartily\naccepts the devotion of her rejected lover, Silvius. Along with these\nmay be classed Romeo, who, rejected and, as he believes, inconsolable,\nfalls in love with Juliet the moment he sees her. That his love for\nRosaline, however, was but a kind of _calf-love_ compared with his love\nfor Juliet, may be found indicated in the differing tones of his speech\nunder the differing conditions. Compare what he says in his conversation\nwith Benvolio, in the first scene of the first act, with any of his many\nspeeches afterwards, and, while _conceit_ will be found prominent enough\nin both, the one will be found to be ruled by the fancy, the other by\nthe imagination.\n\nIn this same play, there is another similar point which I should like to\nnotice. In Arthur Brook\u2019s story, from which Shakspere took his, there is\nno mention of any communication from Lady Capulet to Juliet of their\nintention of marrying her to Count Paris. Why does Shakspere insert\nthis?--to explain her falling in love with Romeo so suddenly. Her mother\nhas set her mind moving in that direction. She has never seen Paris. She\nis looking about her, wondering which may be he, and whether she shall\nbe able to like him, when she meets the love-filled eyes of Romeo fixed\nupon her, and is at once overcome. What a significant speech is that\ngiven to Paulina in the \u201cWinter\u2019s Tale,\u201d act v. scene 1: \u201cHow? Not\nwomen?\u201d Paulina is a thorough partisan, siding with women against men,\nand strengthened in this by the treatment her mistress has received from\nher husband. One has just said to her, that, if Perdita would begin a\nsect, she might \u201cmake proselytes of who she bid but follow.\u201d \u201cHow? Not\nwomen?\u201d Paulina rejoins. Having received assurance that \u201cwomen will love\nher,\u201d she has no more to say.\n\nI had the following explanation of a line in \u201cTwelfth Night\u201d from a\nstranger I met in an old book-shop:--Malvolio, having built his castle\nin the air, proceeds to inhabit it. Describing his own behaviour in a\nsupposed case, he says (act ii. scene 5): \u201cI frown the while; and\nperchance, wind up my watch, or play with my some rich jewel\u201d--A dash\nought to come after _my_. Malvolio was about to say _chain_; but\nremembering that his chain was the badge of his office of steward, and\ntherefore of his servitude, he alters the word to \u201c_some rich jewel_\u201d\n uttered with pretended carelessness.\n\nIn \u201cHamlet,\u201d act iii. scene 1, did not Shakspere intend the passionate\nsoliloquy of Ophelia--a soliloquy which no maiden knowing that she was\noverheard would have uttered,--coupled with the words of her father:\n\n              \u201cHow now, Ophelia?\n  You need not tell us what lord Hamlet said,\n  We heard it all;\u201d--\n\nto indicate that, weak as Ophelia was, she was not false enough to be\naccomplice in any plot for betraying Hamlet to her father and the King?\nThey had remained behind the arras, and had not gone out as she must\nhave supposed.\n\nNext, let me request my reader to refer once more to the poem; and\nhaving considered the physiognomy of Ajax and Ulysses, as described in\nthe fifth stanza, to turn then to the play of \u201cTroilus and Cressida,\u201d\n and there contemplate that description as metamorphosed into the higher\nform of revelation in speech. Then, if he will associate the general\nprinciples in that stanza with the third, especially the last two lines,\nI will apply this to the character of Lady Macbeth.\n\nOf course, Shakspere does not mean that one regarding that portion of\nthe picture alone, could see the eyes looking sad; but that the _sweet\nobservance_ of the whole so roused the imagination that it supplied what\ndistance had concealed, keeping the far-off likewise in sweet observance\nwith the whole: the rest pointed that way.--In a manner something like\nthis are we conducted to a right understanding of the character of Lady\nMacbeth. First put together these her utterances:\n\n  \u201cYou do unbend your noble strength, to think\n    So brainsickly of things.\u201d\n\n                             \u201cGet some water,\n  And wash this filthy witness from your hands.\u201d\n\n                             \u201cThe sleeping and the dead\n  Are but as pictures.\u201d\n\n  \u201cA little water clears us of this deed.\u201d\n\n                             \u201cWhen all\u2019s done,\n  You look but on a stool.\u201d\n\n  \u201cYou lack the season of all natures, sleep.\u201d--\n\nHad these passages stood in the play unmodified by others, we might have\njudged from them that Shakspere intended to represent Lady Macbeth as an\nutter materialist, believing in nothing beyond the immediate\ncommunications of the senses. But when we find them associated with such\npassages as these--\n\n                 \u201cMemory, the warder of the brain,\n  Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason\n  A limbeck only;\u201d\n\n                         \u201cHad he not resembled\n  My father as he slept, I had done\u2019t;\n\n                  \u201cThese deeds must not be thought\n  After these ways; so, it will make us mad;\u201d--\n\nthen we find that our former theory will not do, for here are deeper and\nbroader foundations to build upon. We discover that Lady Macbeth was an\nunbeliever _morally_, and so found it necessary to keep down all\nimagination, which is the upheaving of that inward world whose very\nbeing she would have annihilated. Yet out of this world arose at last\nthe phantom of her slain self, and possessing her sleeping frame, sent\nit out to wander in the night, and rub its distressed and blood-stained\nhands in vain. For, as in this same \u201cRape of Lucrece,\u201d\n\n             \u201cthe soul\u2019s fair temple is defaced;\n  To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares,\n  To ask the spotted princess how she fares.\u201d\n\nBut when so many lines of delineation meet, and run into, and correct\none another, assuming such a natural and vital form, that there is no\n_making of a point_ anywhere; and the woman is shown after no theory,\nbut according to the natural laws of human declension, we feel that the\nonly way to account for the perfection of the representation is to say\nthat, given a shadow, Shakspere had the power to place himself so, that\nthat shadow became his own--was the correct representation as shadow, of\nhis form coming between it and the sunlight. And this is the highest\ndramatic gift that a man can possess. But we feel at the same time, that\nthis is, in the main, not so much art as inspiration. There would be, in\nall probability, a great mingling of conscious art with the inspiration;\nbut the lines of the former being lost in the general glow of the\nlatter, we may be left where we were as to any certainty about the\nartistic consciousness of Shakspere. I will now therefore attempt to\ngive a few plainer instances of such _sweet observance_ in his own work\nas he would have admired in a painting.\n\nFirst, then, I would request my reader to think how comparatively seldom\nShakspere uses poetry in his plays. The whole play is a poem in the\nhighest sense; but truth forbids him to make it the rule for his\ncharacters to speak poetically. Their speech is poetic in relation to\nthe whole and the end, not in relation to the speaker, or in the\nimmediate utterance. And even although their speech is immediately\npoetic, in this sense, that every character is idealized; yet it is\nidealized _after its kind_; and poetry certainly would not be the ideal\nspeech of most of the characters. This granted, let us look at the\nexceptions: we shall find that such passages not only glow with poetic\nloveliness and fervour, but are very jewels of _sweet observance_, whose\nsetting allows them their force as lawful, and their prominence as\nnatural. I will mention a few of such.\n\nIn \u201cJulius Caesar,\u201d act i. scene 3, we are inclined to think the way\n_Casca_ speaks, quite inconsistent with the \u201csour fashion\u201d which\n_Cassius_ very justly attributes to him; till we remember that he is\nspeaking in the midst of an almost supernatural thunder-storm: the\nhidden electricity of the man\u2019s nature comes out in poetic forms and\nwords, in response to the wild outburst of the overcharged heavens and\nearth.\n\nShakspere invariably makes the dying speak poetically, and generally\nprophetically, recognizing the identity of the poetic and prophetic\nmoods, in their highest development, and the justice that gives them the\nsame name. Even _Sir John_, poor ruined gentleman, _babbles of green\nfields_. Every one knows that the passage is disputed: I believe that if\nthis be not the restoration of the original reading, Shakspere himself\nwould justify it, and wish that he had so written it.\n\n_Romeo_ and _Juliet_ talk poetry as a matter of course.\n\nIn \u201cKing John,\u201d act v. scenes 4 and 5, see how differently the dying\n_Melun_ and the living and victorious _Lewis_ regard the same sunset:\n\n  _Melun_.\n\n  . . . . . this night, whose black contagious breath\n  Already smokes about the burning crest\n  Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun.\n\n  _Lewis_.\n\n  The sun in heaven, methought, was loath to set;\n  But stayed, and made the western welkin blush,\n  When the English measured backward their own ground.\n\nThe exquisite duet between _Lorenzo_ and _Jessica_, in the opening of\nthe fifth act of \u201cThe Merchant of Venice,\u201d finds for its subject the\ncircumstances that produce the mood--the lovely night and the crescent\nmoon--which first make them talk poetry, then call for music, and next\nspeculate upon its nature.\n\nLet us turn now to some instances of sweet observance in other kinds.\n\nThere is observance, more true than sweet, in the character of\n_Jacques_, in \u201cAs You Like It:\u201d the fault-finder in age was the\nfault-doer in youth and manhood. _Jacques_ patronizing the fool, is one\nof the rarest shows of self-ignorance.\n\nIn the same play, when _Rosalind_ hears that _Orlando_ is in the wood,\nshe cries out, \u201cAlas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?\u201d\n And when _Orlando_ asks her, \u201cWhere dwell you, pretty youth?\u201d she\nanswers, tripping in her r\u00f4le, \u201cHere in the skirts of the forest, like\nfringe upon a petticoat.\u201d\n\nIn the second part of \u201cKing Henry IV.,\u201d act iv. scene 3, _Falstaff_ says\nof _Prince John_: \u201cGood faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth\nnot love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh;--but that\u2019s no marvel: he\ndrinks no wine.\u201d This is the _Prince John_ who betrays the insurgents\nafterwards by the falsest of quibbles, and gains his revenge through\ntheir good faith.\n\nIn \u201cKing Henry IV,\u201d act i. scene 2, _Poins_ does not say _Falstaff_ is a\ncoward like the other two; but only--\u201cIf he fight longer than he sees\nreason, I\u2019ll forswear arms.\u201d Associate this with _Falstaff\u2019s_ soliloquy\nabout _honour_ in the same play, act v. scene 1, and the true character\nof his courage or cowardice--for it may bear either name--comes out.\n\nIs there not conscious art in representing the hospitable face of the\ncastle of _Macbeth_, bearing on it a homely welcome in the multitude of\nthe nests of _the temple-haunting martlet_ (Psalm lxxxiv. 3), just as\n_Lady Macbeth_, the fiend-soul of the house, steps from the door, like\nthe speech of the building, with her falsely smiled welcome? Is there\nnot _observance_ in it?\n\nBut the production of such instances might be endless, as the work of\nShakspere is infinite. I confine myself to two more, taken from \u201cThe\nMerchant of Venice.\u201d\n\nShakspere requires a character capable of the magnificent devotion of\nfriendship which the old story attributes to _Antonio_. He therefore\nintroduces us to a man sober even to sadness, thoughtful even to\nmelancholy. The first words of the play unveil this characteristic. He\nholds \u201cthe world but as the world,\u201d--\n\n  \u201cA stage where every man must play a part,\n  And mine a sad one.\u201d\n\nThe cause of this sadness we are left to conjecture. _Antonio_ himself\nprofesses not to know. But such a disposition, even if it be not\noccasioned by any definite event or object, will generally associate\nitself with one; and when _Antonio_ is accused of being in love, he\nrepels the accusation with only a sad \u201cFie! fie!\u201d This, and his whole\ncharacter, seem to me to point to an old but ever cherished grief.\n\nInto the original story upon which this play is founded, Shakspere has,\namong other variations, introduced the story of _Jessica_ and _Lorenzo_,\napparently altogether of his own invention. What was his object in doing\nso? Surely there were characters and interests enough already!--It seems\nto me that Shakspere doubted whether the Jew would have actually\nproceeded to carry out his fell design against _Antonio_, upon the\noriginal ground of his hatred, without the further incitement to revenge\nafforded by another passion, second only to his love of gold--his\naffection for his daughter; for in the Jew having reference to his own\nproperty, it had risen to a passion. Shakspere therefore invents her,\nthat he may send a dog of a Christian to steal her, and, yet worse, to\ntempt her to steal her father\u2019s stones and ducats. I suspect Shakspere\nsends the old villain off the stage at the last with more of the pity of\nthe audience than any of the other dramatists of the time would have\nventured to rouse, had they been capable of doing so. I suspect he is\nthe only human Jew of the English drama up to that time.\n\nI have now arrived at the last and most important stage of my argument.\nIt is this: If Shakspere was so well aware of the artistic relations of\nthe parts of his drama, is it likely that the grand meanings involved in\nthe whole were unperceived by him, and conveyed to us without any\nintention on his part--had their origin only in the fact that he dealt\nwith human nature so truly, that his representations must involve\nwhatever lessons human life itself involves?\n\nIs there no intention, for instance, in placing _Prospero_, who forsook\nthe duties of his dukedom for the study of magic, in a desert island,\nwith just three subjects; one, a monster below humanity; the second, a\ncreature etherealized beyond it; and the third a complete embodiment of\nhuman perfection? Is it not that he may learn how to rule, and, having\nlearned, return, by the aid of his magic wisely directed, to the home\nand duties from which exclusive devotion to that magic had driven him?\n\nIn \u201cJulius Caesar,\u201d the death of _Brutus_, while following as the\nconsequence of his murder of _Caesar_, is yet as much distinguished in\ncharacter from that death, as the character of _Brutus_ is different\nfrom that of _Caesar_. _Caesar\u2019s_ last words were _Et tu Brute? Brutus_,\nwhen resolved to lay violent hands on himself, takes leave of his\nfriends with these words:\n\n              \u201cCountrymen,\n  My heart doth joy, that yet, in all my life,\n  I found no man, but he was true to me.\u201d\n\nHere Shakspere did not invent. He found both speeches in Plutarch. But\nhow unerring his choice!\n\nIs the final catastrophe in \u201cHamlet\u201d such, because Shakspere could do no\nbetter?--It is: he could do no better than the best. Where but in the\nregions beyond could such questionings as _Hamlet\u2019s_ be put to rest? It\nwould have been a fine thing indeed for the most nobly perplexed of\nthinkers to be left--his love in the grave; the memory of his father a\ntorment, of his mother a blot; with innocent blood on his innocent\nhands, and but half understood by his best friend--to ascend in desolate\ndreariness the contemptible height of the degraded throne, and shine the\nfirst in a drunken court!\n\nBefore bringing forward my last instance, I will direct the attention of\nmy readers to a passage, in another play, in which the lesson of the\nplay I am about to speak of, is _directly_ taught: the first speech in\nthe second act of \u201cAs You Like It,\u201d might be made a text for the\nexposition of the whole play of \u201cKing Lear.\u201d\n\nThe banished duke is seeking to bring his courtiers to regard their\nexile as a part of their moral training. I am aware that I point the\npassage differently, while I revert to the old text.\n\n                     \u201cAre not these woods\n  More free from peril than the envious court?\n  Here feel we not the penalty of Adam--\n  The season\u2019s difference, as the icy fang,\n  And churlish chiding of the winter\u2019s wind?\n  Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,\n  Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say--\n  This is no flattery; these are counsellors\n  That feelingly persuade me what I am.\n  Sweet are the uses of adversity.\u201d\n\nThe line _Here feel we not the penalty of Adam?_ has given rise to much\nperplexity. The expounders of Shakspere do not believe he can mean that\nthe uses of adversity are really sweet. But the duke sees that _the\npenalty_ of Adam is what makes the _woods more free from peril than the\nenvious court;_ that this penalty is in fact the best blessing, for it\n_feelingly persuades_ man _what_ he is; and to know what we are, to have\nno false judgments of ourselves, he considers so sweet, that to be thus\ntaught, the _churlish chiding of the winter\u2019s wind_ is well endured.\n\nNow let us turn to _Lear_. We find in him an old man with a large\nheart, hungry for love, and yet not knowing what love is; an old man as\nignorant as a child in all matters of high import; with a temper so\nunsubdued, and therefore so unkingly, that he storms because his dinner\nis not ready by the clock of his hunger; a child, in short, in\neverything but his grey hairs and wrinkled face, but his failing,\ninstead of growing, strength. If a life end so, let the success of that\nlife be otherwise what it may, it is a wretched and unworthy end. But\nlet _Lear_ be blown by the winds and beaten by the rains of heaven, till\nhe pities \u201cpoor naked wretches;\u201d till he feels that he has \u201cta\u2019en too\nlittle care of\u201d such; till pomp no longer conceals from him what \u201ca\npoor, bare, forked animal\u201d he is; and the old king has risen higher in\nthe real social scale--the scale of that country to which he is\nbound--far higher than he stood while he still held his kingdom\nundivided to his thankless daughters. Then let him learn at last that\n\u201clove is the only good in the world;\u201d let him find his _Cordelia_, and\nplot with her how they will in their dungeon _singing like birds i\u2019 the\ncage_, and, dwelling in the secret place of peace, look abroad on the\nworld like _God\u2019s spies_; and then let the generous great old heart\nswell till it breaks at last--not with rage and hate and vengeance, but\nwith love; and all is well: it is time the man should go to overtake his\ndaughter; henceforth to dwell with her in the home of the true, the\neternal, the unchangeable. All his suffering came from his own fault;\nbut from the suffering has sprung another crop, not of evil but of good;\nthe seeds of which had lain unfruitful in the soil, but were brought\nwithin the blessed influences of the air of heaven by the sharp tortures\nof the ploughshare of ill.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ELDER HAMLET.\n\n\n[Footnote: 1875]\n\n          \u2018Tis bitter cold,\n  And I am sick at heart.\n\nThe ghost in \u201cHamlet\u201d is as faithfully treated as any character in the\nplay. Next to Hamlet himself, he is to me the most interesting person of\nthe drama. The rumour of his appearance is wrapped in the larger rumour\nof war. Loud preparations for uncertain attack fill the ears of \u201cthe\nsubject of the land.\u201d The state is troubled. The new king has hardly\ncompassed his election before his marriage with his brother\u2019s widow\nswathes the court in the dust-cloud of shame, which the merriment of its\nforced revelry can do little to dispel. A feeling is in the moral air to\nwhich the words of Francisco, the only words of significance he utters,\ngive the key: \u201c\u2018Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.\u201d Into the\nfrosty air, the pallid moonlight, the drunken shouts of Claudius and his\ncourt, the bellowing of the cannon from the rampart for the enlargement\nof the insane clamour that it may beat the drum of its own disgrace at\nthe portals of heaven, glides the silent prisoner of hell, no longer a\nking of the day walking about his halls, \u201cthe observed of all\nobservers,\u201d but a thrall of the night, wandering between the bell and\nthe cock, like a jailer on each side of him. A poet tells the tale of\nthe king who lost his garments and ceased to be a king: here is the king\nwho has lost his body, and in the eyes of his court has ceased to be a\nman. Is the cold of the earth\u2019s night pleasant to him after the purging\nfire? What crimes had the honest ghost committed in his days of nature?\nHe calls them foul crimes! Could such be his? Only who can tell how a\nghost, with his doubled experience, may think of this thing or that? The\nghost and the fire may between them distinctly recognize that as a foul\ncrime which the man and the court regarded as a weakness at worst, and\nindeed in a king laudable.\n\nAlas, poor ghost! Around the house he flits, shifting and shadowy, over\nthe ground he once paced in ringing armour--armed still, but his very\narmour a shadow! It cannot keep out the arrow of the cock\u2019s cry, and the\nheart that pierces is no shadow. Where now is the loaded axe with which,\nin angry dispute, he smote the ice at his feet that cracked to the blow?\nWhere is the arm that heaved the axe? Wasting in the marble maw of the\nsepulchre, and the arm he carries now--I know not what it can do, but it\ncannot slay his murderer. For that he seeks his son\u2019s. Doubtless his new\nethereal form has its capacities and privileges. It can shift its garb\nat will; can appear in mail or night-gown, unaided of armourer or\ntailor; can pass through Hades-gates or chamber-door with equal ease;\ncan work in the ground like mole or pioneer, and let its voice be heard\nfrom the cellarage. But there is one to whom it cannot appear, one whom\nthe ghost can see, but to whom he cannot show himself. She has built a\ndoorless, windowless wall between them, and sees the husband of her\nyouth no more. Outside her heart--that is the night in which he wanders,\nwhile the palace-windows are flaring, and the low wind throbs to the\nwassail shouts: within, his murderer sits by the wife of his bosom, and\nin the orchard the spilt poison is yet gnawing at the roots of the\ndaisies.\n\nTwice has the ghost grown out of the night upon the eyes of the\nsentinels. With solemn march, slow and stately, three times each night,\nhas he walked by them; they, jellied with fear, have uttered no\nchallenge. They seek Horatio, who the third night speaks to him as a\nscholar can. To the first challenge he makes no answer, but stalks away;\nto the second,\n\n  It lifted up its head, and did address\n  Itself to motion, like as it would speak;\n\nbut the gaoler cock calls him, and the kingly shape\n\n          started like a guilty thing\n  Upon a fearful summons;\n\nand then\n\n          shrunk in haste away,\n  And vanished from our sight.\n\nAh, that summons! at which majesty welks and shrivels, the king and\nsoldier starts and cowers, and, armour and all, withers from the air!\n\nBut why has he not spoken before? why not now ere the cock could claim\nhim? He cannot trust the men. His court has forsaken his memory--crowds\nwith as eager discontent about the mildewed ear as ever about his\nwholesome brother, and how should he trust mere sentinels? There is but\none who will heed his tale. A word to any other would but defeat his\nintent. Out of the multitude of courtiers and subjects, in all the land\nof Denmark, there is but one whom he can trust--his student-son. Him he\nhas not yet found--the condition of a ghost involving strange\ndifficulties.\n\nOr did the horror of the men at the sight of him wound and repel him?\nDoes the sense of regal dignity, not yet exhausted for all the fasting\nin fires, unite with that of grievous humiliation to make him shun their\nspeech?\n\nBut Horatio--why does the ghost not answer him ere the time of the cock\nis come? Does he fold the cloak of indignation around him because his\nson\u2019s friend has addressed him as an intruder on the night, an usurper\nof the form that is his own? The companions of the speaker take note\nthat he is offended and stalks away.\n\nMuch has the kingly ghost to endure in his attempt to re-open relations\nwith the world he has left: when he has overcome his wrath and returns,\nthat moment Horatio again insults him, calling him an illusion. But this\ntime he will bear it, and opens his mouth to speak. It is too late; the\ncock is awake, and he must go. Then alas for the buried majesty of\nDenmark! with upheaved halberts they strike at the shadow, and would\nstop it if they might--usage so grossly unfitting that they are\ninstantly ashamed of it themselves, recognizing the offence in the\nmajesty of the offended. But he is already gone. The proud, angry king\nhas found himself but a thing of nothing to his body-guard--for he has\nlost the body which was their guard. Still, not even yet has he learned\nhow little it lies in the power of an honest ghost to gain credit for\nhimself or his tale! His very privileges are against him.\n\nAll this time his son is consuming his heart in the knowledge of a\nmother capable of so soon and so utterly forgetting such a husband, and\nin pity and sorrow for the dead father who has had such a wife. He is\nthirty years of age, an obedient, honourable son--a man of thought, of\nfaith, of aspiration. Him now the ghost seeks, his heart burning like a\ncoal with the sense of unendurable wrong. He is seeking the one drop\nthat can fall cooling on that heart--the sympathy, the answering rage\nand grief of his boy. But when at length he finds him, the generous,\nloving father has to see that son tremble like an aspen-leaf in his\ndoubtful presence. He has exposed himself to the shame of eyes and the\nindignities of dullness, that he may pour the pent torrent of his wrongs\ninto his ears, but his disfranchisement from the flesh tells against him\neven with his son: the young Hamlet is doubtful of the identity of the\napparition with his father. After all the burning words of the phantom,\nthe spirit he has seen may yet be a devil; the devil has power to assume\na pleasing shape, and is perhaps taking advantage of his melancholy to\ndamn him.\n\nArmed in the complete steel of a suit well known to the eyes of the\nsentinels, visionary none the less, with useless truncheon in hand,\nresuming the memory of old martial habits, but with quiet countenance,\nmore in sorrow than in anger, troubled--not now with the thought of the\nhell-day to which he must sleepless return, but with that unceasing ache\nat the heart, which ever, as often as he is released into the cooling\nair of the upper world, draws him back to the region of his\nwrongs--where having fallen asleep in his orchard, in sacred security\nand old custom, suddenly, by cruel assault, he was flung into Hades,\nwhere horror upon horror awaited him--worst horror of all, the knowledge\nof his wife!--armed he comes, in shadowy armour but how real sorrow!\nStill it is not pity he seeks from his son: he needs it not--he can\nendure. There is no weakness in the ghost. It is but to the imperfect\nhuman sense that he is shadowy. To himself he knows his doom his\ndeliverance; that the hell in which he finds himself shall endure but\nuntil it has burnt up the hell he has found within him--until the evil\nhe was and is capable of shall have dropped from him into the lake of\nfire; he nerves himself to bear. And the cry of revenge that comes from\nthe sorrowful lips is the cry of a king and a Dane rather than of a\nwronged man. It is for public justice and not individual vengeance he\ncalls. He cannot endure that the royal bed of Denmark should be a couch\nfor luxury and damned incest. To stay this he would bring the murderer\nto justice. There is a worse wrong, for which he seeks no revenge: it\ninvolves his wife; and there comes in love, and love knows no amends but\namendment, seeks only the repentance tenfold more needful to the wronger\nthan the wronged. It is not alone the father\u2019s care for the human nature\nof his son that warns him to take no measures against his mother; it is\nthe husband\u2019s tenderness also for her who once lay in his bosom. The\nmurdered brother, the dethroned king, the dishonoured husband, the\ntormented sinner, is yet a gentle ghost. Has suffering already begun to\nmake him, like Prometheus, wise?\n\nBut to measure the gentleness, the forgiveness, the tenderness of the\nghost, we must well understand his wrongs. The murder is plain; but\nthere is that which went before and is worse, yet is not so plain to\nevery eye that reads the story. There is that without which the murder\nhad never been, and which, therefore, is a cause of all the wrong. For\nlisten to what the ghost reveals when at length he has withdrawn his son\nthat he may speak with him alone, and Hamlet has forestalled the\ndisclosure of the murderer:\n\n  \u201cAy, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,\n  With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,\n  (O wicked wit and gifts that have the power\n  So to seduce!) won to his shameful lust\n  The will of my most seeming virtuous queen:\n  Oh, Hamlet, what a falling off was there!\n  From me, whose love was of that dignity\n  That it went hand in hand even with the vow\n  I made to her in marriage, and to decline\n  Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor\n  To those of mine!\n  But virtue--as it never will be moved\n  Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,\n  So lust, though to a radiant angel linked,\n  Will sate itself in a celestial bed,\n  And prey on garbage.\u201d\n\nReading this passage, can any one doubt that the ghost charges his late\nwife with adultery, as the root of all his woes? It is true that,\nobedient to the ghost\u2019s injunctions, as well as his own filial\ninstincts, Hamlet accuses his mother of no more than was patent to all\nthe world; but unless we suppose the ghost misinformed or mistaken, we\nmust accept this charge. And had Gertrude not yielded to the witchcraft\nof Claudius\u2019 wit, Claudius would never have murdered Hamlet. Through her\nhis life was dishonoured, and his death violent and premature: unhuzled,\ndisappointed, unaneled, he woke to the air--not of his orchard-blossoms,\nbut of a prison-house, the lightest word of whose terrors would freeze\nthe blood of the listener. What few men can say, he could--that his love\nto his wife had kept even step with the vow he made to her in marriage;\nand his son says of him--\n\n              \u201cso loving to my mother\n  That he might not beteem the winds of heaven\n  Visit her face too roughly;\u201d\n\nand this was her return! Yet is it thus he charges his son concerning\nher:\n\n  \u201cBut howsoever thou pursu\u2019st this act,\n  Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive\n  Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven,\n  And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,\n  To prick and sting her.\u201d\n\nAnd may we not suppose it to be for her sake in part that the ghost\ninsists, with fourfold repetition, upon a sword-sworn oath to silence\nfrom Horatio and Marcellus?\n\nOnly once again does he show himself--not now in armour upon the walls,\nbut in his gown and in his wife\u2019s closet.\n\nEver since his first appearance, that is, all the time filling the\ninterval between the first and second acts, we may presume him to have\nhaunted the palace unseen, waiting what his son would do. But the task\nhas been more difficult than either had supposed. The ambassadors have\ngone to Norway and returned; but Hamlet has done nothing. Probably he\nhas had no opportunity; certainly he has had no clear vision of duty.\nBut now all through the second and third acts, together occupying, it\nmust be remembered, only one day, something seems imminent. The play has\nbeen acted, and Hamlet has gained some assurance, yet the one chance\npresented of killing the king--at his prayers--he has refused. He is now\nin his mother\u2019s closet, whose eyes he has turned into her very soul.\nThere, and then, the ghost once more appears--come, he says, to whet his\nson\u2019s almost blunted purpose. But, as I have said, he does not know all\nthe disadvantages of one who, having forsaken the world, has yet\nbusiness therein to which he would persuade; he does not know how hard\nit is for a man to give credence to a ghost; how thoroughly he is\njustified in delay, and the demand for more perfect proof. He does not\nknow what good reasons his son has had for uncertainty, or how much\nnatural and righteous doubt has had to do with what he takes for the\nblunting of his purpose. Neither does he know how much more tender his\nson\u2019s conscience is than his own, or how necessary it is to him to be\nsure before he acts. As little perhaps does he understand how hateful to\nHamlet is the task laid upon him--the killing of one wretched villain in\nthe midst of a corrupt and contemptible court, one of a world of whose\nwomen his mother may be the type!\n\nWhatever the main object of the ghost\u2019s appearance, he has spoken but a\nfew words concerning the matter between him and Hamlet, when he turns\nabruptly from it to plead with his son for his wife. The ghost sees and\nmistakes the terror of her looks; imagines that, either from some\nfeeling of his presence, or from the power of Hamlet\u2019s words, her\nconscience is thoroughly roused, and that her vision, her conception of\nthe facts, is now more than she can bear. She and her fighting soul are\nat odds. She is a kingdom divided against itself. He fears the\nconsequences. He would not have her go mad. He would not have her die\nyet. Even while ready to start at the summons of that hell to which she\nhas sold him, he forgets his vengeance on her seducer in his desire to\ncomfort her. He dares not, if he could, manifest himself to her: what\nword of consolation could she hear from his lips? Is not the thought of\nhim her one despair? He turns to his son for help: he cannot console his\nwife; his son must take his place. Alas! even now he thinks better of\nher than she deserves; for it is only the fancy of her son\u2019s madness\nthat is terrifying her: he gazes on the apparition of which she sees\nnothing, and from his looks she anticipates an ungovernable outbreak.\n\n  \u201cBut look; amazement on thy mother sits!\n  Oh; step between her and her fighting soul\n  Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works.\n  Speak to her, Hamlet.\u201d\n\nThe call to his son to soothe his wicked mother is the ghost\u2019s last\nutterance. For a few moments, sadly regardful of the two, he\nstands--while his son seeks in vain to reveal to his mother the presence\nof his father--a few moments of piteous action, all but ruining the\nremnant of his son\u2019s sorely-harassed self-possession--his whole concern\nhis wife\u2019s distress, and neither his own doom nor his son\u2019s duty; then,\nas if lost in despair at the impassable gulf betwixt them, revealed by\nher utter incapacity for even the imagination of his proximity, he turns\naway, and steals out at the portal. Or perhaps he has heard the black\ncock crow, and is wanted beneath: his turn has come.\n\nWill the fires ever cleanse _her_? Will his love ever lift him above the\npain of its loss? Will eternity ever be bliss, ever be endurable to poor\n_King Hamlet?_\n\nAlas! even the memory of the poor ghost is insulted. Night after night\non the stage his effigy appears--cadaverous, sepulchral--no longer as\nShakspere must have represented him, aerial, shadowy, gracious, the thin\ncorporeal husk of an eternal--shall I say ineffaceable?--sorrow! It is\nno hollow monotone that can rightly upbear such words as his, but a\nsound mingled of distance and wind in the pine-tops, of agony and love,\nof horror and hope and loss and judgment--a voice of endless and\nsweetest inflection, yet with a shuddering echo in it as from the caves\nof memory, on whose walls, are written the eternal blazon that must not\nbe to ears of flesh and blood. The spirit that can assume form at will\nmust surely be able to bend that form to completest and most delicate\nexpression, and the part of the ghost in the play offers work worthy of\nthe highest artist. The would-be actor takes from it vitality and\nmotion, endowing it instead with the rigidity of death, as if the soul\nhad resumed its cast-off garment, the stiffened and mouldy corpse--whose\nfrozen deadness it could ill model to the utterance of its lively will!\n\n\n\n\nON POLISH.\n\n\n[Footnote: 1865]\n\nBy Polish I mean a certain well-known and immediately recognizable\ncondition of surface. But I must request my reader to consider well what\nthis condition really is. For the definition of it appears to us to be,\nthat condition of surface which allows the inner structure of the\nmaterial to manifest itself. Polish is, as it were, a translucent skin,\nin which the life of the inorganic comes to the surface, as in the\nanimal skin the animal life. Once clothed in this, the inner glories of\nthe marble rock, of the jasper, of the porphyry, leave the darkness\nbehind, and glow into the day. From the heart of the agate the mossy\nlandscape comes dreaming out. From the depth of the green chrysolite\nlooks up the eye of its gold. The \u201cgoings on of life\u201d hidden for ages\nunder the rough bark of the patient forest-trees, are brought to light;\nthe rings of lovely shadow which the creature went on making in the\ndark, as the oyster its opaline laminations, and its tree-pearls of\nbeautiful knots, where a beneficent disease has broken the geometrical\nperfection of its structure, gloom out in their infinite variousness.\n\nNor are the revelations of polish confined to things having variety in\ntheir internal construction; they operate equally in things of\nhomogeneous structure. It is the polished ebony or jet which gives the\ntrue blank, the material darkness. It is the polished steel that shines\nkeen and remorseless and cold, like that human justice whose symbol it\nis. And in the polished diamond the distinctive purity is most evident;\nwhile from it, I presume, will the light absorbed from the sun gleam\nforth on the dark most plentifully.\n\nBut the mere fact that the end of polish is revelation, can hardly be\nworth setting forth except for some ulterior object, some further\nrevelation in the fact itself.--I wish to show that in the symbolic use\nof the word the same truth is involved, or, if not involved, at least\nsuggested. But let me first make another remark on the preceding\ndefinition of the word.\n\nThere is no denying that the first notion suggested by the word polish\nis that of smoothness, which will indeed be the sole idea associated\nwith it before we begin to contemplate the matter. But when we consider\nwhat things are chosen to be \u201cclothed upon\u201d with this smoothness, then\nwe find that the smoothness is scarcely desired for its own sake, and\nremember besides that in many materials and situations it is elaborately\navoided. We find that here it is sought because of its faculty of\nenabling other things to show themselves--to come to the surface.\n\nI proceed then to examine how far my pregnant interpretation of the word\nwill apply to its figurative use in two cases--_Polish of Style_, and\n_Polish of Manners_. The two might be treated together, seeing that\n_Style_ may be called the manners of intellectual utterance, and\n_Manners_ the style of social utterance; but it is more convenient to\ntreat them separately.\n\nI will begin with the Polish of Style.\n\nIt will be seen at once that if the notion of polish be limited to that\nof smoothness, there can be little to say on the matter, and nothing\nworthy of being said. For mere smoothness is no more a desirable quality\nin a style than it is in a country or a countenance; and its pursuit\nwill result at length in the gain of the monotonous and the loss of the\nmelodious and harmonious. But it is only upon worthless material that\npolish can be _mere_ smoothness; and where the material is not valuable,\npolish can be nothing but smoothness. No amount of polish in a style can\nrender the production of value, except there be in it embodied thought\nthereby revealed; and the labour of the polish is lost. Let us then take\nthe fuller meaning of polish, and see how it will apply to style.\n\nIf it applies, then Polish of Style will imply the approximately\ncomplete revelation of the thought. It will be the removal of everything\nthat can interfere between the thought of the speaker and the mind of\nthe hearer. True polish in marble or in speech reveals inlying\nrealities, and, in the latter at least, mere smoothness, either of sound\nor of meaning, is not worthy of the name. The most polished style will\nbe that which most immediately and most truly flashes the meaning\nembodied in the utterance upon the mind of the listener or reader.\n\n\u201cWill you then,\u201d I imagine a reader objecting, \u201cadmit of no ornament in\nstyle?\u201d\n\n\u201cAssuredly,\u201d I answer, \u201cI would admit of no ornament whatever.\u201d\n\nBut let me explain what I mean by ornament. I mean anything stuck in or\non, like a spangle, because it is pretty in itself, although it reveals\nnothing. Not one such ornament can belong to a polished style. It is\npaint, not polish. And if this is not what my questioner means by\n_ornament_, my answer must then be read according to the differences in\nhis definition of the word. What I have said has not the least\napplication to the natural forms of beauty which thought assumes in\nspeech. Between such beauty and such ornament there lies the same\ndifference as between the overflow of life in the hair, and the dressing\nof that loveliest of utterances in grease and gold.\n\nFor, when I say that polish is the removal of everything that comes\nbetween thought and thinking, it must not be supposed that in my idea\nthought is only of the intellect, and therefore that all forms but bare\nintellectual forms are of the nature of ornament. As well might one say\nthat the only essential portion of the human form is the bones. And\nevery human thought is in a sense a human being, has as necessarily its\nmuscles of motion, its skin of beauty, its blood of feeling, as its\nskeleton of logic. For complete utterance, music itself in its right\nproportions, sometimes clear and strong, as in rhymed harmonies,\nsometimes veiled and dim, as in the prose compositions of the masters of\nspeech, is as necessary as correctness of logic, and common sense in\nconstruction. I should have said _conveyance_ rather than utterance; for\nthere may be utterance such as to relieve the mind of the speaker with\nmore or less of fancied communication, while the conveyance of thought\nmay be little or none; as in the speaking with tongues of the infant\nChurch, to which the lovely babblement of our children has probably more\nthan a figurative resemblance, relieving their own minds, but, the\ninterpreter not yet at his post, neither instructing nor misleading any\none. But as the object of grown-up speech must in the main be the\nconveyance of thought, and not the mere utterance, everything in the\nstyle of that speech which interposes between the mental eyes and the\nthought embodied in the speech, must be polished away, that the\nindwelling life may manifest itself.\n\nWhat, then (for now we must come to the practical), is the kind of thing\nto be polished away in order that the hidden may be revealed?\n\nAll words that can be dismissed without loss; for all such more or less\nobscure the meaning upon which they gather. The first step towards the\npolishing of most styles is to strike out--polish off--the useless words\nand phrases. It is wonderful with how many fewer words most things could\nbe said that are said; while the degree of certainty and rapidity with\nwhich an idea is conveyed would generally be found to be in an inverse\nratio to the number of words employed.\n\nAll ornaments so called--the nose and lip jewels of style--the tattooing\nof the speech; all similes that, although true, give no additional\ninsight into the meaning; everything that is only pretty and not\nbeautiful; all mere sparkle as of jewels that lose their own beauty by\nbeing set in the grandeur of statues or the dignity of monumental stone,\nmust be ruthlessly polished away.\n\nAll utterances which, however they may add to the amount of thought,\ndistract the mind, and confuse its observation of the main idea, the\nessence or life of the book or paper, must be diligently refused. In the\nmanuscript of _Comus_ there exists, cancelled but legible, a passage of\nwhich I have the best authority for saying that it would have made the\npoetic fame of any writer. But the grand old self-denier struck it out\nof the opening speech because that would be more polished without\nit--because the _Attendant Spirit_ would say more immediately and\nexclusively, and therefore more completely, what he had to say, without\nit.--All this applies much more widely and deeply in the region of art;\nbut I am at present dealing with the surface of style, not with the\nround of result.\n\nI have one instance at hand, however, belonging to this region, than\nwhich I could scarcely produce a more apt illustration of my thesis. One\nof the greatest of living painters, walking with a friend through the\nlate Exhibition of Art-Treasures at Manchester, came upon Albert D\u00fcrer\u2019s\n_Melancholia_. After looking at it for a moment, he told his friend that\nnow for the first time he understood it, and proceeded to set forth what\nhe saw in it. It was a very early impression, and the delicacy of the\nlines was so much the greater. He had never seen such a perfect\nimpression before, and had never perceived the intent and scope of the\nengraving. The mere removal of accidental thickness and furriness in the\nlines of the drawing enabled him to see into the meaning of that\nwonderful production. The polish brought it to the surface. Or, what\namounts to the same thing for my argument, the dulling of the surface\nhad concealed it even from his experienced eyes.\n\nIn fine, and more generally, all cause whatever of obscurity must be\npolished away. There may lie in the matter itself a darkness of colour\nand texture which no amount of polishing can render clear or even vivid;\nthe thoughts themselves may be hard to think, and difficulty must not be\nconfounded with obscurity. The former belongs to the thoughts\nthemselves; the latter to the mode of their embodiment. All cause of\nobscurity in this must, I say, be removed. Such may lie even in the\nregion of grammar, or in the mere arrangement of a sentence. And while,\nas I have said, no ornament is to be allowed, so all roughnesses, which\nirritate the mental ear, and so far incapacitate it for receiving a true\nimpression of the meaning from the words, must be carefully reduced. For\nthe true music of a sentence, belonging as it does to the essence of the\nthought itself, is the herald which goes before to prepare the mind for\nthe following thought, calming the surface of the intellect to a\nmirror-like reflection of the image about to fall upon it. But syllables\nthat hang heavy on the tongue and grate harsh upon the ear are the\ntrumpet of discord rousing to unconscious opposition and conscious\nrejection.\n\nAnd now the consideration of the Polish of Manners will lead us to some\nyet more important reflections. Here again I must admit that the\nordinary use of the phrase is analogous to that of the preceding; but\nits relations lead us deep into realities. For as diamond alone can\npolish diamond, so men alone can polish men; and hence it is that it was\nfirst by living in a city ([Greek: polis], _polis_) that men--\n\n  \u201crubbed each other\u2019s angles down,\u201d\n\nand became _polished_. And while a certain amount of ease with regard to\nourselves and of consideration with regard to others is everywhere\nnecessary to a man\u2019s passing as a gentleman--all unevenness of behaviour\nresulting either from shyness or self-consciousness (in the shape of\nawkwardness), or from overweening or selfishness (in the shape of\nrudeness), having to be polished away--true human polish must go further\nthan this. Its respects are not confined to the manners of the ball-room\nor the dinner-table, of the club or the exchange, but wherever a man may\nrejoice with them that rejoice or weep with them that weep, he must\nremain one and the same, as polished to the tiller of the soil as to the\nleader of the fashion.\n\nBut how will the figure of material polish aid us any further? How can\nit be said that Polish of Manners is a revelation of that which is\nwithin, a calling up to the surface of the hidden loveliness of the\nmaterial? For do we not know that courtesy may cover contempt; that\nsmiles themselves may hide hate; that one who will place you at his\nright hand when in want of your inferior aid, may scarce acknowledge\nyour presence when his necessity has gone by? And how then can polished\nmanners be a revelation of what is within? Are they not the result of\nputting on rather than of taking off? Are they not paint and varnish\nrather than polish?\n\nI must yield the answer to each of these questions; protesting, however,\nthat with such polish I have nothing to do; for these manners are\nconfessedly false. But even where least able to mislead, they are, with\ncorresponding courtesy, accepted as outward signs of an inward grace.\nHence even such, by the nature of their falsehood, support my position.\nFor in what forms are the colours of the paint laid upon the surface of\nthe material? Is it not in as near imitations of the real right human\nfeelings about oneself and others as the necessarily imperfect knowledge\nof such an artist can produce? He will not encounter the labour of\npolishing, for he does not believe in the divine depths of his own\nnature: he paints, and calls the varnish polish.\n\n\u201cBut why talk of polish with reference to such a character, seeing that\nno amount of polishing can bring to the surface what is not there? No\npolishing of sandstone will reveal the mottling of marble. For it is\nsandstone, crumbling and gritty--not noble in any way.\u201d\n\nIs it so then? Can such be the real nature of the man? And can polish\nreach nothing deeper in him than such? May not this selfishness be\npolished away, revealing true colour and harmony beneath? Was not the\nman made in the image of God? Or, if you say that man lost that image,\ndid not a new process of creation begin from the point of that loss, a\nprocess of re-creation in him in whom all shall be made alive, which,\nalthough so far from being completed yet, can never be checked? If we\ncut away deep enough at the rough block of our nature, shall we not\narrive at some likeness of that true man who, the apostle says, dwells\nin us--the hope of glory? He informs us--that is, forms us from within.\n\nDr. Donne (who knew less than any other writer in the English language\nwhat Polish of Style means) recognizes this divine polishing to the\nfull. He says in a poem called \u201cThe Cross:\u201d--\n\n  As perchance carvers do not faces make,\n  But that away, which hid them there, do take,\n  Let Crosses so take what hid Christ in thee,\n  And be his Image, or not his, but He.\n\nThis is no doubt a higher figure than that of _polish_, but it is of the\nsame kind, revealing the same truth. It recognizes the fact that the\ndivine nature lies at the root of the human nature, and that the polish\nwhich lets that spiritual nature shine out in the simplicity of heavenly\nchildhood, is the true Polish of Manners of which all merely social\nrefinements are a poor imitation.--Whence Coleridge says that nothing\nbut religion can make a man a gentleman.--And when these harmonies of\nour nature come to the surface, we shall be indeed \u201clively stones,\u201d fit\nfor building into the great temple of the universe, and echoing the\nmusic of creation. Dr. Donne recognizes, besides, the notable fact that\n_crosses_ or afflictions are the polishing powers by means of which the\nbeautiful realities of human nature are brought to the surface. One can\ntell at once by the peculiar loveliness of certain persons that they\nhave suffered.\n\nBut, to look for a moment less profoundly into the matter, have we not\nknown those whose best never could get to the surface just from the lack\nof polish?--persons who, if they could only reveal the kindness of\ntheir nature, would make men believe in human nature, but in whom some\nroughness of awkwardness or of shyness prevents the true self from\nappearing? Even the dread of seeming to claim a good deed or to\npatronize a fellow-man will sometimes spoil the last touch of tenderness\nwhich would have been the final polish of the act of giving, and would\nhave revealed infinite depths of human devotion. For let the truth out,\nand it will be seen to be true.\n\nSimplicity is the end of all Polish, as of all Art, Culture, Morals,\nReligion, and Life. The Lord our God is one Lord, and we and our\nbrothers and sisters are one Humanity, one Body of the Head.\n\nNow to the practical: what are we to do for the polish of our manners?\n\nJust what I have said we must do for the polish of our style. Take off;\ndo not put on. Polish away this rudeness, that awkwardness. Correct\neverything self-assertive, which includes nine tenths of all vulgarity.\nImitate no one\u2019s behaviour; that is to paint. Do not think about\nyourself; that is to varnish. Put what is wrong right, and what is in\nyou will show itself in harmonious behaviour.\n\nBut no one can go far in this track without discovering that true polish\nreaches much deeper; that the outward exists but for the sake of the\ninward; and that the manners, as they depend on the morals, must be\nforgotten in the morals of which they are but the revelation. Look at\nthe high-shouldered, ungainly child in the corner: his mother tells him\nto go to his book, and he wants to go to his play. Regard the swollen\nlips, the skin tightened over the nose, the distortion of his shape, the\nangularity of his whole appearance. Yet he is not an awkward child by\nnature. Look at him again the moment after he has given in and kissed\nhis mother. His shoulders have dropped to their place; his limbs are\nfree from the fetters that bound them; his motions are graceful, and the\none blends harmoniously with the other. He is no longer thinking of\nhimself. He has given up his own way. The true childhood comes to the\nsurface, and you see what the boy is meant to be always. Look at the\njerkiness of the conceited man. Look at the quiet _fluency_ of motion in\nthe modest man. Look how anger itself which forgets self, which is\nunhating and righteous, will elevate the carriage and ennoble the\nmovements.\n\nBut how far can the same rule of _omission_ or _rejection_ be applied\nwith safety to this deeper character--the manners of the spirit?\n\nIt seems to me that in morals too the main thing is to avoid doing\nwrong; for then the active spirit of life in us will drive us on to the\nright. But on such a momentous question I would not be dogmatic. Only as\nfar as regards the feelings I would say: it is of no use to try to make\nourselves feel thus or thus. Let us fight with our wrong feelings; let\nus polish away the rough ugly distortions of feeling. Then the real and\nthe good will come of themselves. Or rather, to keep to my figure, they\nwill then show themselves of themselves as the natural home-produce, the\nindwelling facts of our deepest--that is, our divine nature.\n\nHere I find that I am sinking through my subject into another and\ndeeper--a truth, namely, which should, however, be the foundation of all\nour building, the background of all our representations: that Life is at\nwork in us--the sacred Spirit of God travailing in us. That Spirit has\ngained one end of his labour--at which he can begin to do yet more for\nus--when he has brought us to beg for the help which he has been giving\nus all the time.\n\nI have been regarding infinite things through the medium of one limited\nfigure, knowing that figures with all their suggestions and relations\ncould not reveal them utterly. But so far as they go, these thoughts\nraised by the word Polish and its figurative uses appear to me to be\nmost true.\n\n\n\n\nBROWNING\u2019S \u201cCHRISTMAS EVE\u201d\n\n\n[Footnote: 1853.]\n\n\nGoethe says:--\n\n  \u201cPoems are painted window panes.\n  If one looks from the square into the church,\n  Dusk and dimness are his gains--\n  Sir Philistine is left in the lurch!\n  The sight, so seen, may well enrage him,\n  Nor anything henceforth assuage him.\n\n  \u201cBut come just inside what conceals;\n  Cross the holy threshold quite--\n  All at once \u2018tis rainbow-bright,\n  Device and story flash to light,\n  A gracious splendour truth reveals.\n  This to God\u2019s children is full measure,\n  It edifies and gives you pleasure!\u201d\n\nThis is true concerning every form in which truth is embodied, whether\nit be sight or sound, geometric diagram or scientific formula.\nUnintelligible, it may be dismal enough, regarded from the outside;\nprismatic in its revelation of truth from within. Such is the world\nitself, as beheld by the speculative eye; a thing of disorder,\nobscurity, and sadness: only the child-like heart, to which the door\ninto the divine idea is thrown open, can understand somewhat the secret\nof the Almighty. In human things it is particularly true of art, in\nwhich the fundamental idea seems to be the revelation of the true\nthrough the beautiful. But of all the arts it is most applicable to\npoetry; for the others have more that is beautiful on the outside; can\ngive pleasure to the senses by the form of the marble, the hues of the\npainting, or the sweet sounds of the music, although the heart may never\nperceive the meaning that lies within. But poetry, except its rhythmic\nmelody, and its scattered gleams of material imagery, for which few care\nthat love it not for its own sake, has no attraction on the outside to\nentice the passer to enter and partake of its truth. It is inwards that\nits colours shine, within that its forms move, and the sound of its holy\norgan cannot be heard from without.\n\nNow, if one has been able to reach the heart of a poem, answering to\nGoethe\u2019s parabolic description; or even to discover a loop-hole, through\nwhich, from an opposite point, the glories of its stained windows are\nvisible; it is well that he should seek to make others partakers in his\npleasure and profit. Some who might not find out for themselves, would\nyet be evermore grateful to him who led them to the point of vision.\nSurely if a man would help his fellow-men, he can do so far more\neffectually by exhibiting truth than exposing error, by unveiling beauty\nthan by a critical dissection of deformity. From the very nature of the\nthings it must be so. Let the true and good destroy their opposites. It\nis only by the good and beautiful that the evil and ugly are known. It\nis the light that makes manifest.\n\nThe poem \u201cChristmas Eve,\u201d by Robert Browning, with the accompanying poem\n\u201cEaster Day,\u201d seems not to have attracted much notice from the readers\nof poetry, although highly prized by a few. This is, perhaps, to be\nattributed, in a great measure, to what many would call a considerable\ndegree of obscurity. But obscurity is the appearance which to a first\nglance may be presented either by profundity or carelessness of thought.\nTo some, obscurity itself is attractive, from the hope that worthiness\nis the cause of it. To apply a test similar to that by which Pascal\ntries the Koran and the Scriptures: what is the character of those\nportions, the meaning of which is plain? Are they wise or foolish? If\nthe former, the presumption is that the obscurity of other parts is\ncaused not by opacity, but profundity. But some will object,\nnotwithstanding, that a writer ought to make himself plain to his\nreaders; nay, that if he has a clear idea himself, he must be able to\nexpress that idea clearly. But for communion of thought, two minds, not\none, are necessary. The fault may lie in him that receives or in him\nthat gives, or it may be in neither. For how can the result of much\nthought, the idea which for mouths has been shaping itself in the mind\nof one man, be at once received by another mind to which it comes a\nstranger and unexpected? The reader has no right to complain of so\ncaused obscurity. Nor is that form of expression, which is most easily\nunderstood at first sight, necessarily the best. It will not, therefore,\ncontinue to move; nor will it gather force and influence with more\nintimate acquaintance. Here Goethe\u2019s little parable, as he calls it, is\npeculiarly applicable. But, indeed, if after all a writer is obscure,\nthe man who has spent most labour in seeking to enter into his thoughts,\nwill be the least likely to complain of his obscurity; and they who have\nthe least difficulty in understanding a writer, are frequently those who\nunderstand him the least.\n\nTo those to whom the religion of Christ has been the law of liberty; who\nby that door have entered into the universe of God, and have begun to\nfeel a growing delight in all the manifestations of God, it is cause of\nmuch joy to find that, whatever may be the position taken by men of\nscience, or by those in whom the intellect predominates, with regard to\nthe Christian religion, men of genius, at least, in virtue of what is\nchild-like in their nature, are, in the present time, plainly\nmanifesting deep devotion to Christ. There are exceptions, certainly;\nbut even in those, there are symptoms of feelings which, one can hardly\nhelp thinking, tend towards him, and will one day flame forth in\nconscious worship. A mind that recognizes any of the multitudinous\nmeanings of the revelation of God, in the world of sounds, and forms,\nand colours, cannot be blind to the higher manifestation of God in\ncommon humanity; nor to him in whom is hid the key to the whole, the\nFirst-born of the creation of God, in whose heart lies, as yet but\npartially developed, the kingdom of heaven, which is the redemption of\nthe earth. The mind that delights in that which is lofty and great,\nwhich feels there is something higher than self, will undoubtedly be\ndrawn towards Christ; and they, who at first looked on him as a great\nprophet, came at length to perceive that he was the radiation of the\nFather\u2019s glory, the likeness of his unseen being.\n\nA description of the poem may, perhaps, both induce to the reading of\nit, and contribute to its easier comprehension while being perused. On a\nstormy Christmas Eve, the poet, or rather the seer (for the whole must\nbe regarded as a poetic vision), is compelled to take refuge in the\n\u201clath and plaster entry\u201d of a little chapel, belonging to a congregation\nof Calvinistic Methodists, who are at the time assembling for worship.\nWonderful in its reality is the description of various of the flock that\npass him as they enter the chapel, from\n\n                     \u201cthe many-tattered\n  Little old-faced, peaking sister-turned-mother\n  Of the sickly babe she tried to smother\n  Somehow up, with its spotted face,\n  From the cold, on her breast, the one warm place:\u201d\n\nto the \u201cshoemaker\u2019s lad;\u201d whom he follows, determined not to endure the\ninquisition of their looks any longer, into the chapel. The humour of\nthe whole scene within is excellent. The stifling closeness, both of the\natmosphere and of the sermon, the wonderful content of the audience, the\n\u201cold fat woman,\u201d who\n\n                    \u201cpurred with pleasure,\n  And thumb round thumb went twirling faster,\n  While she, to his periods keeping measure,\n  Maternally devoured the pastor;\u201d\n\nare represented by a few rapid touches that bring certain points of the\nreality almost unpleasantly near. At length, unable to endure it longer,\nhe rushes out into the air. Objection may, probably, be made to the\nmingling of the humorous, even the ridiculous, with the serious; at\nleast, in a work of art like this, where they must be brought into such\nclose proximity. But are not these things as closely connected in the\nworld as they can be in any representation of it? Surely there are few\nwho have never had occasion to attempt to reconcile the thought of the\ntwo in their own minds. Nor can there be anything human that is not, in\nsome connexion or other, admissible into art. The widest idea of art\nmust comprehend all things. A work of this kind must, like God\u2019s world,\nin which he sends rain on the just and on the unjust, be taken as a\nwhole and in regard to its design. The requisition is, that everything\nintroduced have a relation to the adjacent parts and to the whole\nsuitable to the design. Here the thing is real, is true, is human; a\nthing to be thought about. It has its place amongst other phenomena,\nwith which, however apparently incongruous, it is yet vitally connected\nwithin.\n\nA coolness and delight visit us, on turning over the page and commencing\nto read the description of sky, and moon, and clouds, which greet him\noutside the chapel. It is as a vision of the vision-bearing world\nitself, in one of its fine, though not, at first, one of its rarest\nmoods. And here a short digression to notice like feelings in unlike\ndresses, one thought differently expressed will, perhaps, be pardoned.\nThe moon is prevented from shining out by the \u201cblocks\u201d of cloud \u201cbuilt\nup in the west:\u201d--\n\n  \u201cAnd the empty other half of the sky\n  Seemed in its silence as if it knew\n  What, any moment, might look through\n  A chance-gap in that fortress massy.\u201d\n\nOld Henry Vaughan says of the \u201cDawning:\u201d--\n\n  \u201cThe whole Creation shakes off night,\n  And for thy shadow looks the Light;\n  Stars now vanish without number,\n  Sleepie Planets set and slumber,\n  The pursie Clouds disband and scatter,\n  _All expect some sudden matter_.\u201d\n\nCalmness settles down on his mind. He walks on, thinking of the scene he\nhad left, and the sermon he had heard. In the latter he sees the good\nand the bad intimately mingled; and is convinced that the chief benefit\nderived from it is a reproducing of former impressions. The thought\ncrosses him, in how many places and how many different forms the same\nthing takes place, \u201ca convincing\u201d of the \u201cconvinced;\u201d and he rejoices in\nthe contrast which his church presents to these; for in the church of\nNature his love to God, assurance of God\u2019s love to him, and confidence\nin the design of God regarding him, commenced. While exulting in God and\nthe knowledge of Him to be attained hereafter, he is favoured with a\nsight of a glorious moon-rainbow, which elevates his worship to ecstasy.\nDuring which--\n\n  \u201cAll at once I looked up with terror--\n  He was there.\n  He himself with His human air,\n  On the narrow pathway, just before:\n  I saw the back of Him, no more--\n  He had left the chapel, then, as I.\n  I forgot all about the sky.\n  No face: only the sight\n  Of a sweepy garment, vast and white,\n  With a hem that I could recognize.\n  I felt terror, no surprise:\n  My mind filled with the cataract,\n  At one bound, of the mighty fact.\n  I remembered, He did say\n  Doubtless, that, to this world\u2019s end,\n  Where two or three should meet and pray,\n  He would be in the midst, their friend:\n  Certainly He was there with them.\n  And my pulses leaped for joy\n  Of the golden thought without alloy,\n  That I saw His very vesture\u2019s hem.\n  Then rushed the blood back, cold and clear,\n  With a fresh enhancing shiver of fear.\u201d\n\nPraying for forgiveness wherein he has sinned, and prostrate in\nadoration before the form of Christ, he is \u201ccaught up in the whirl and\ndrift\u201d of his vesture, and carried along with him over the earth.\n\nStopping at length at the entrance of St. Peter\u2019s in Rome, he remains\noutside, while the form disappears within. He is able, however, to see\nall that goes on, in the crowded, hushed interior. It is high mass. He\nhas been carried at once from the little chapel to the opposite\naesthetic pole. From the entry, where--\n\n  \u201cThe flame of the single tallow candle\n  In the cracked square lanthorn I stood under\n  Shot its blue lip at me,\u201d\n\nto--\n  \u201cThis miraculous dome of God--\n                This colonnade\n  With arms wide open to embrace\n  The entry of the human race\n  To the breast of.... what is it, yon building,\n  Ablaze in front, all paint and gilding,\n  With marble for brick, and stones of price\n  For garniture of the edifice?\u201d\n\nto \u201cthose fountains\u201d--\n\n  \u201cGrowing up eternally\n  Each to a musical water-tree,\n  Whose blossoms drop, a glittering boon,\n  Before my eyes, in the light of the moon,\n  To the granite lavers underneath;\u201d\n\nfrom the singing of the chapel to the organ self-restrained, that \u201cholds\nhis breath and grovels latent,\u201d while expecting the elevation of the\nHost. Christ is within; he is left without. Reflecting on the matter, he\nthinks his Lord would not require him to go in, though he himself\nentered, because there was a way to reach him there. By-and-by, however,\nhis heart awakes and declares that Love goes beyond error with them, and\nif the Intellect be kept down, yet Love is the oppressor; so next time\nhe resolves to enter and praise along with them. The passage commencing,\n\u201cOh, love of those first Christian days!\u201d describing Love\u2019s victory over\nIntellect, is very fine.\n\nAgain he is caught up and carried along as before. This time halt is\nmade at the door of a college in a German town, in which the class-room\nof one of the professors is open for lecture this Christmas Eve. It is,\nintellectually considered, the opposite pole to both the Methodist\nchapel and the Roman Basilica. The poet enters, fearful of losing the\nsociety of \u201cany that call themselves his friends.\u201d He describes the\nassembled company, and the entrance of \u201cthe hawk-nosed, high-cheek-boned\nprofessor,\u201d of part of whose Christmas Eve\u2019s discourse he proceeds to\ngive the substance. The professor takes it for granted that \u201cplainly no\nsuch life was liveable,\u201d and goes on to inquire what explanation of the\nphenomena of the life of Christ it were best to adopt. Not that it\nmattered much, \u201cso the idea be left the same.\u201d Taking the popular story,\nfor convenience sake, and separating all extraneous matter from it, he\nfound that Christ was simply a good man, with an honest, true heart;\nwhose disciples thought him divine; and whose doctrine, though quite\nmistaken by those who received and published it, \u201chad yet a meaning\nquite as respectable.\u201d Here the poet takes advantage of a pause to leave\nhim; reflecting that though the air may be poisoned by the sects, yet\nhere \u201cthe critic leaves no air to poison.\u201d His meditations and arguments\nfollowing, are among the most valuable passages in the book. The\nprofessor, notwithstanding the idea of Christ has by him been exhausted\nof all that is peculiar to it, yet recommends him to the veneration and\nworship of his hearers, \u201crather than all who went before him, and all\nwho ever followed after.\u201d But why? says the poet. For his intellect,\n\n  \u201cWhich tells me simply what was told\n  (If mere morality, bereft\n  Of the God in Christ, be all that\u2019s left)\n  Elsewhere by voices manifold?\u201d\n\nwith which must be combined the fact that this intellect of his did not\nsave him from making the \u201cimportant stumble,\u201d of saying that he and God\nwere one. \u201cBut his followers misunderstood him,\u201d says the objector.\nPerhaps so; but \u201cthe stumbling-block, his speech, who laid it?\u201d Well\nthen, is it on the score of his goodness that he should rule his race?\n\n                  \u201cYou pledge\n  Your fealty to such rule? What, all--\n  From Heavenly John and Attic Paul,\n  And that brave weather-battered Peter,\n  Whose stout faith only stood completer\n  For buffets, sinning to be pardoned,\n  As the more his hands hauled nets, they hardened--\n  All, down to you, the man of men,\n  Professing here at G\u00f6ttingen,\n  Compose Christ\u2019s flock! So, you and I\n  Are sheep of a good man! And why?\u201d\n\nDid Christ _invent_ goodness? or did he only demonstrate that of which\nthe common conscience was judge?\n\n                  \u201cI would decree\n  Worship for such mere demonstration\n  And simple work of nomenclature,\n  Only the day I praised, not Nature,\n  But Harvey, for the circulation.\u201d\n\nThe worst man, says the poet, _knows_ more than the best man _does_. God\nin Christ appeared to men to help them to _do_, to awaken the life\nwithin them.\n\n  \u201cMorality to the uttermost,\n  Supreme in Christ as we all confess,\n  Why need _we_ prove would avail no jot\n  To make Him God, if God he were not?\n  What is the point where Himself lays stress?\n  Does the precept run, \u2018Believe in good,\n  In justice, truth, now understood\n  For the first time?\u2019--or, \u2018Believe in ME,\n  Who lived and died, yet essentially\n  Am Lord of life\u2019? Whoever can take\n  The same to his heart, and for mere love\u2019s sake\n  Conceive of the love,--that man obtains\n  A new truth; no conviction gains\n  Of an old one only, made intense\n  By a fresh appeal to his faded sense.\u201d\n\nIn this lies the most direct practical argument with regard to what is\ncommonly called the Divinity of Christ. Here is a man whom those that\nmagnify him the least confess to be a good man, the best of men. He\n_says_, \u201cI and the Father are one.\u201d Will an earnest heart, knowing this,\nbe likely to draw back, or will it draw nearer to behold the great\nsight? Will not such a heart feel: \u201cA good man like this would not have\nsaid so, were it not so. In all probability the great truth of God lies\nbehind this veil.\u201d The reality of Christ\u2019s nature is not to be proved by\nargument. He must be beheld. The manifestation of Him must \u201cgravitate\ninwards\u201d on the soul. It is by looking that one can know. As a\nmathematical theorem is to be proved only by the demonstration of that\ntheorem itself, not by talking _about_ it; so Christ must prove himself\nto the human soul through being beheld. The only proof of Christ\u2019s\ndivinity is his humanity. Because his humanity is not comprehended, his\ndivinity is doubted; and while the former is uncomprehended, an assent\nto the latter is of little avail. For a man to theorize theologically in\nany form, while he has not so apprehended Christ, or to neglect the\ngazing on him for the attempt to substantiate to himself any form of\nbelief respecting him, is to bring on himself, in a matter of divine\nimport, such errors as the expounders of nature in old time brought on\nthemselves, when they speculated on what a thing must be, instead of\nobserving what it was; this _must be_ having for its foundation not\nself-evident truth, but notions whose chief strength lay in their\npreconception. There are thoughts and feelings that cannot be called up\nin the mind by any power of will or force of imagination; which, being\nspiritual, must arise in the soul when in its highest spiritual\ncondition; when the mind, indeed, like a smooth lake, reflects only\nheavenly images. A steadfast regarding of Him will produce this calm,\nand His will be the heavenly form reflected from the mental depth.\n\nBut to return to the poem. The fact that Christ remains inside, leads\nthe poet to reflect, in the spirit of Him who found all the good in men\nhe could, neglecting no point of contact which presented itself, whether\nthere was anything at this lecture with which he could sympathize; and\nhe finds that the heart of the professor does something to rescue him\nfrom the error of his brain. In his brain, even, \u201cif Love\u2019s dead there,\nit has left a ghost.\u201d For when the natural deduction from his argument\nwould be that our faith\n\n  \u201cBe swept forthwith to its natural dust-hole,--\n  He bids us, when we least expect it,\n  Take back our faith--if it be not just whole,\n  Yet a pearl indeed, as his tests affect it,\n  Which fact pays the damage done rewardingly,\n  So, prize we our dust and ashes accordingly!\u201d\n\nLove as well as learning being necessary to the understanding of the New\nTestament, it is to the poet matter of regret that \u201cloveless learning\u201d\n should leave its proper work, and make such havoc in that which belongs\nnot to it. But while he sits \u201ctalking with his mind,\u201d his mood begins to\ndegenerate from sympathy with that which is good to indifference towards\nall forms, and he feels inclined to rest quietly in the enjoyment of his\nown religious confidence, and trouble himself in no wise about the faith\nof his neighbours; for doubtless all are partakers of the central light,\nthough variously refracted by the varied translucency of the mental\nprism....\n\n  \u201c\u2018Twas the horrible storm began afresh!\n  The black night caught me in his mesh,\n  Whirled me up, and flung me prone!\n  I was left on the college-step alone.\n  I looked, and far there, ever fleeting\n  Far, far away, the receding gesture,\n  And looming of the lessening vesture,\n  Swept forward from my stupid hand,\n  While I watched my foolish heart expand\n  In the lazy glow of benevolence\n  O\u2019er the various modes of man\u2019s belief.\n  I sprang up with fear\u2019s vehemence.\n  --Needs must there be one way, our chief\n  Best way of worship: let me strive\n  To find it, and when found, contrive\n  My fellows also take their share.\n  This constitutes my earthly care:\n  God\u2019s is above it and distinct!\u201d\n\nThe symbolism in the former part of this extract is grand. As soon as he\nceases to look practically on the phenomena with which he is surrounded,\nhe is enveloped in storm and darkness, and sees only in the far distance\nthe disappearing skirt of his Lord\u2019s garment. God\u2019s care is over all, he\ngoes on to say; I must do _my part_. If I look speculatively on the\nworld, there is nothing but dimness and mystery. If I look practically\non it,\n\n  \u201cNo mere mote\u2019s-breadth, but teems immense\n  With witnessings of Providence.\u201d\n\nAnd whether the world which I seek to help censures or praises me--that\nis nothing to me. My life--how is it with me?\n\n  \u201cSoul of mine, hadst thou caught and held\n  By the hem of the vesture....\n                  And I caught\n  At the flying robe, and, unrepelled,\n  Was lapped again in its folds full-fraught\n  With warmth and wonder and delight,\n  God\u2019s mercy being infinite.\n  And scarce had the words escaped my tongue,\n  When, at a passionate bound, I sprung\n  Out of the wandering world of rain,\n  Into the little chapel again.\u201d\n\nHad he dreamed? how then could he report of the sermon and the preacher?\nof which and of whom he proceeds to give a very external account. But\ncorrecting himself--\n\n  \u201cHa! Is God mocked, as He asks?\n  Shall I take on me to change his tasks,\n  And dare, despatched to a river-head\n  For a simple draught of the element,\n  Neglect the thing for which He sent,\n  And return with another thing instead!\n  Saying .... \u2018Because the water found\n  Welling up from underground,\n  Is mingled with the taints of earth,\n  While Thou, I know, dost laugh at dearth,\n  And couldest, at a word, convulse\n  The world with the leap of its river-pulse,--\n  Therefore I turned from the oozings muddy,\n  And bring thee a chalice I found, instead.\n  See the brave veins in the breccia ruddy!\n  One would suppose that the marble bled.\n  What matters the water? A hope I have nursed,\n  That the waterless cup will quench my thirst.\u2019\n  --Better have knelt at the poorest stream\n  That trickles in pain from the straitest rift!\n  For the less or the more is all God\u2019s gift,\n  Who blocks up or breaks wide the granite seam.\n  And here, is there water or not, to drink?\u201d\n\nHe comes to the conclusion, that the best for him is that mode of\nworship which partakes the least of human forms, and brings him nearest\nto the spiritual; and, while expressing good wishes for the Pope and the\nprofessor--\n\n  \u201cMeantime, in the still recurring fear\n  Lest myself, at unawares, be found,\n  While attacking the choice of my neighbours round,\n  Without my own made--I choose here!\u201d\n\nHe therefore joins heartily in the hymn which is sung by the\ncongregation of the little chapel at the close of their worship. And\nthis concludes the poem.\n\nWhat is the central point from which this poem can be regarded? It does\nnot seem to be very hard to find. Novalis has said: \u201cDie Philosophie ist\neigentlich Heimweh, ein Trieb \u00fcberall zu Hause zu sein.\u201d (Philosophy is\nreally home-sickness, an impulse to be at home everywhere.) The life of\na man here, if life it be, and not the vain image of what might be a\nlife, is a continual attempt to find his place, his centre of\nrecipiency, and active agency. He wants to know where he is, and where\nhe ought to be and can be; for, rightly considered, the position a man\nought to occupy is the only one he truly _can_ occupy. It is a climbing\nand striving to reach that point of vision where the multiplex crossings\nand apparent intertwistings of the lines of fact and feeling and duty\nshall manifest themselves as a regular and symmetrical design. A\ncontradiction, or a thing unrelated, is foreign and painful to him, even\nas the rocky particle in the gelatinous substance of the oyster; and,\nlike the latter, he can only rid himself of it by encasing it in the\npearl-like enclosure of faith; believing that hidden there lies the\nnecessity for a higher theory of the universe than has yet been\ngenerated in his soul. The quest for this home-centre, in the man who\nhas faith, is calm and ceaseless; in the man whose faith is weak, it is\nstormy and intermittent. Unhappy is that man, of necessity, whose\nperceptions are keener than his faith is strong. Everywhere Nature\nherself is putting strange questions to him; the human world is full of\ndismay and confusion; his own conscience is bewildered by contradictory\nappearances; all which may well happen to the man whose eye is not yet\nsingle, whose heart is not yet pure. He is not at home; his soul is\nastray amid people of a strange speech and a stammering tongue. But the\nfaithful man is led onward; in the stillness that his confidence\nproduces arise the bright images of truth; and visions of God, which are\nonly beheld in solitary places, are granted to his soul.\n\n  \u201cO struggling with the darkness all the night,\n  And visited all night by troops of stars!\u201d\n\nWhat is true of the whole, is true of its parts. In all the relations of\nlife, in all the parts of the great whole of existence, the true man is\never seeking his home. This poem seems to show us such a quest. \u201cHere I\nam in the midst of many who belong to the same family. They differ in\neducation, in habits, in forms of thought; but they are called by the\nsame name. What position with regard to them am I to assume? I am a\nChristian; how am I to live in relation to Christians?\u201d Such seems to be\nsomething like the poet\u2019s thought. What central position can he gain,\nwhich, while it answers best the necessities of his own soul with regard\nto God, will enable him to feel himself connected with the whole\nChristian world, and to sympathize with all; so that he may not be\nalone, but one of the whole. Certainly the position necessary for both\nrequirements is one and the same. He that is isolated from his brethren,\nloses one of the greatest helps to draw near to God. Now, in this time,\nwhich is so peculiarly transitional, this is a question of no little\nimport for all who, while they gladly forsake old, or rather _modern_,\ntheories, for what is to them a more full development of Christianity as\nwell as a return to the fountain-head, yet seek to be saved from the\ndanger of losing sympathy with those who are content with what they are\ncompelled to abandon. Seeing much in the common modes of thought and\nbelief that is inconsistent with Christianity, and even opposed to it,\nthey yet cannot but see likewise in many of them a power of spiritual\ngood; which, though not dependent on the peculiar mode, is yet\nenveloped, if not embodied, in that mode.\n\n  \u201cAsk, else, these ruins of humanity,\n  This flesh worn out to rags and tatters,\n  This soul at struggle with insanity,\n  Who thence take comfort, can I doubt,\n  Which an empire gained, were a loss without.\u201d\n\nThe love of God is the soul of Christianity. Christ is the body of that\ntruth. The love of God is the creating and redeeming, the forming and\nsatisfying power of the universe. The love of God is that which kills\nevil and glorifies goodness. It is the safety of the great whole. It is\nthe home-atmosphere of all life. Well does the poet of the \u201cChristmas\nEve\u201d say:--\n\n  \u201cThe loving worm within its clod,\n  Were diviner than a loveless God\n  Amid his worlds, I will dare to say.\u201d\n\nSurely then, inasmuch as man is made in the image of God nothing less\nthan a love in the image of God\u2019s love, all-embracing, quietly excusing,\nheartily commending, can constitute the blessedness of man; a love not\ninsensible to that which is foreign to it, but overcoming it with good.\nWhere man loves in his kind, even as God loves in His kind, then man is\nsaved, then he has reached the unseen and eternal. But if, besides the\nnecessity to love that lies in a man, there be likewise in the man whom\nhe ought to love something in common with him, then the law of love has\nincreased force. If that point of sympathy lies at the centre of the\nbeing of each, and if these centres are brought into contact, then the\ncircles of their being will be, if not coincident, yet concentric. We\nmust wait patiently for the completion of God\u2019s great harmony, and\nmeantime love everywhere and as we can.\n\nBut the great lesson which this poem teaches, and which is taught more\ndirectly in the \u201cEaster Day\u201d (forming part of the same volume), is that\nthe business of a man\u2019s life is to be a Christian. A man has to do with\nGod first; in Him only can he find the unity and harmony he seeks. To be\none with Him is to be at the centre of things. If one acknowledges that\nGod has revealed himself in Christ; that God has recognized man as his\nfamily, by appearing among them in their form; surely that very\nacknowledgment carries with it the admission that man\u2019s chief concern is\nwith this revelation. What does God say and mean, teach and manifest,\nherein? If this world is God\u2019s making, and he is present in all nature;\nif he rules all things and is present in all history; if the soul of man\nis in his image, with all its circles of thought and multiplicity of\nforms; and if for man it be not enough to be rooted in God, but he must\nlikewise lay hold on God; then surely no question, in whatever\ndirection, can be truly answered, save by him who stands at the side of\nChrist. The doings of God cannot be understood, save by him who has the\nmind of Christ, which is the mind of God. All things must be strange to\none who sympathizes not with the thought of the Maker, who understands\nnot the design of the Artist. Where is he to begin? What light has he by\nwhich to classify? How will he bring order out of this apparent\nconfusion, when the order is higher than his thought; when the confusion\nto him is _caused_ by the order\u2019s being greater than he can comprehend?\nBecause he stands outside and not within, he sees an entangled maze of\nforces, where there is in truth an intertwining dance of harmony. There\nis for no one any solution of the world\u2019s mystery, or of any part of its\nmystery, except he be able to say with our poet:--\n\n  \u201cI have looked to Thee from the beginning,\n  Straight up to Thee through all the world,\n  Which, like an idle scroll, lay furled\n  To nothingness on either side:\n  And since the time Thou wast descried,\n  Spite of the weak heart, so have I\n  Lived ever, and so fain would die,\n  Living and dying, Thee before!\u201d\n\nChristianity is not the ornament, or even complement, of life; it is its\nnecessity; it is life itself glorified into God\u2019s ideal.\n\nDr. Chalmers, from considering the minuteness of the directions given to\nMoses for the making of the tabernacle, was led to think that he himself\nwas wrong in attending too little to the \u201c_petite morale_\u201d of dress.\nWill this be excuse enough for occupying a few sentences with the\nrhyming of this poem? Certainly the rhymes of a poem form no small part\nof its artistic existence. Probably there is a deeper meaning in this\npart of the poetic art than has yet been made clear to poet\u2019s mind. In\nthis poem the rhymes have their share in its humorous charm. The\nwriter\u2019s power of using double and triple rhymes is remarkable, and the\neffect is often pleasing, even where they are used in the more solemn\nparts of the poem. Take the lines:--\n\n  \u201cNo! love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it,\n  Has ever been seen the sole good of life in it,\n  The love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it,\n  Shall arise, made perfect, from death\u2019s repose of it.\u201d\n\nA poem is a thing not for the understanding or heart only, but likewise\nfor the ear; or, rather, for the understanding and heart through the\near. The best poem is best set forth when best read. If, then, there be\nrhymes which, when read aloud, do, by their composition of words,\nprevent the understanding from laying hold on the separate words, while\nthe ear lays hold on the rhymes, the perfection of the art must here be\nlost sight of, notwithstanding the completeness which the rhyming\nmanifests on close examination. For instance, in \u201c_equipt yours,\u201d\n \u201cScriptures;\u201d \u201cManchester,\u201d \u201chaunches stir_;\u201d or \u201c_affirm any,\u201d\n \u201cGermany_;\u201d where two words rhyme with one word. But there are very few\nof them that are objectionable on account of this difficulty and\nnecessity of rapid analysis.\n\nOne of the most wonderful things in the poem is, that so much of\nargument is expressed in a species of verse, which one might be\ninclined, at first sight, to think the least fitted for embodying it.\nBut, in fact, the same amount of argument in any other kind of verse\nwould, in all likelihood, have been intolerably dull as a work of art.\nHere the verse is full of life and vigour, flagging never. Where, in\nseveral parts, the exact meaning is difficult to reach, this results\nchiefly from the dramatic rapidity and condensation of the thoughts. The\nargumentative power is indeed wonderful; the arguments themselves\npowerful in their simplicity, and embodied in words of admirable force.\nThe poem is full of pathos and humour; full of beauty and grandeur,\nearnestness and truth.\n\n\n\n\nESSAYS ON SOME OF THE FORMS OF LITERATURE\n\n\n[Footnote: \u201cEssays on some of\nthe Forms of Literature.\u201d By T.T. Lynch, Author of \u201cTheophilus Trinal.\u201d\n Longmans.]\n\n\nSchoppe, the satiric chorus of Jean Paul\u2019s romance of Titan, makes his\nappearance at a certain masked ball, carrying in front of him a glass\ncase, in which the ball is remasked, repeated, and again reflected in a\nmirror behind, by a set of puppets, ludicrously aping the apery of the\ncourtiers, whose whole life and outward manifestation was but a\nbody-mask mechanically moved with the semblance of real life and action.\nThe court simulates reality. The masks are a multiform mockery at their\nown unreality, and as such are regarded by Schoppe, who takes them off\nwith the utmost ridicule in his masked puppet-show, which, with its\nreflection in the mirror, is again indefinitely multiplied in the\nmany-sided reflector of Schoppe\u2019s, or of Richter\u2019s, or of the reader\u2019s\nown imagination. The successive retreating and beholding in this scene\nis suggested to the reviewer by the fact that the last of these essays\nby Mr. Lynch is devoted in part to reviews. So that the reviews review\nbooks,--Mr. Lynch reviews the reviews, and the present Reviewer finds\nhimself (somewhat presumptuously, it may be) attempting to review Mr.\nLynch. In this, however, his office must be very different from that of\nSchoppe (for there is a deeper and more real correspondence between the\nposition of the showman and the reviewer than that outward resemblance\nwhich first caused the one to suggest the other). The latter\u2019s office,\nin the present instance, was, by mockery, to destroy the false, the very\ninvolution of the satire adding to the strength of the ridicule. His\nglass case was simply a review uttered by shapes and wires instead of\nwords and handwriting. And the work of the true critic must sometimes be\nto condemn, and, as far as his strength can reach, utterly to destroy\nthe false,--scorching and withering its seeming beauty, till it is\nreduced to its essence and original groundwork of dust and ashes. It is\nonly, however, when it wears the form of beauty which is the garment of\ntruth, and so, like the Erl-maidens, has power to bewitch, that it is\nworth the notice and attack of the critic. Many forms of error, perhaps\nmost, are better left alone to die of their own weakness, for the\ngalvanic battery of criticism only helps to perpetuate their ghastly\nlife. The highest work of the critic, however, must surely be to direct\nattention to the true, in whatever form it may have found utterance. But\non this let us hear Mr. Lynch himself in the last of these four lectures\nwhich were delivered by him at the Royal Institution, Manchester, and\nare now before us in the form of a book:--\n\n\u201cThe kritikos, the discerner, if he is ever saying to us, This is not\ngold; and never, This is; is either very humbly useful, or very\nperverse, or very unfortunate. This is not gold, he says. Thank you, we\nreply, we perceived as much. And this is not, he adds. True, we answer,\nbut we see gold grains glittering out of its rude, dark mass. Well, at\nleast, this is not, he proceeds. Perverse man! we retort, are you\nseeking what is not gold? We are inquiring for what is, and unfortunate\nindeed are we if, born into a world of Nature, and of Spirit once so\nrich, we are born but to find that it has spent or has lost all its\nwealth. Unhappy man would he be, who, walking his garden, should scent\nonly the earthy savour of leaves dead or dying, never perceiving, and\nthat afar off, the heavenly odour of roses fresh to-day from the Maker\u2019s\nhands. The discerning by spiritual aroma may lead to discernment by the\neye, and to that careful scrutiny, and thence greater knowledge, of\nwhich the eye is instrument and minister.\u201d\n\nAnd again:--\n\n\u201cThe critic criticized, if dealt with in the worst fashion of his own\nclass, must be pronounced a mere monster, \u2018seeking whom he may devour;\u2019\nand, therefore, to be hunted and slain as speedily as possible, and\nstuffed for the museum, where he may be regarded with due horror, but in\nsafety. But if dealt with after the best fashion of his class, a very\nhonourable and beneficent office is assigned him, and he is warned\nonly--though zealously--against its perversions. A judicial chair in the\nkingdom of human thought, filled by a man of true integrity,\ncomprehensiveness, and delicacy of spirit, is a seat of terror and\npraise, whose powers are at once most fostering to whatever is good,\nmost repressive of whatever is evil.... The critic, in his office of\ncensurer, has need so much to controvert, expose, and punish, because of\nthe abundance of literary faults; and as there is a right and a wrong\nside in warfare, so there will be in criticism. And as when soldiers are\nnumerous, there will be not a few who are only tolerable, if even that,\nso of critics. But then the critic is more than the censurer; and in his\nhigher and happier aspect appears before us and serves us, as the\ndiscoverer, the vindicator, and the eulogist of excellence.\u201d\n\nBut resisting the temptation to quote further from Mr. Lynch\u2019s book on\nthis matter of Criticism, which seemed the natural point of contact by\nwhich the Reviewer could lay hold on the book, he would pass on with the\nremark that his duty in the present instance is of the nobler and better\nsort--nobler and better, that is, with regard to the object, for duty in\nthe man remains ever the same--namely, the exposition of excellence, and\nnot of its opposite. Mr. Lynch is a man of true insight and large heart,\nwho has already done good in the world, and will do more; although,\npossibly, he belongs rather to the last class of writers described by\nhimself, in the extract I am about to give from this same essay, than to\nany of the preceding:--\n\n\u201cSome of the best books are written avowedly, or with evident\nconsciousness of the fact, for the select public that is constituted by\nminds of the deeper class, or minds the more advanced of their time.\nSuch books may have but a restricted circulation and limited esteem in\ntheir own day, and may afterwards extend both their fame and the circle\nof their readers. Others of the best books, written with a pathos and a\npower that may be universally felt, appeal at once to the common\nhumanity of the world, and get a response marvellously strong and\nimmediate. An ordinary human eye and heart, whose glances are true,\nwhose pulses healthy, will fit us to say of much that we read--This is\ngood, that is poor. But only the educated eye and the experienced heart\nwill fit us to judge of what relates to matters veiled from ordinary\nobservation, and belonging to the profounder region of human thought and\nemotion. Powers, however, that the few only possess, may be required to\npaint what everybody can see, so that everybody shall say, How\nbeautiful! how like! And powers adequate to do this in the finest manner\nwill be often adequate to do much more--may produce, indeed, books or\npictures, whose singular merit only the few shall perceive, and the many\nfor awhile deny, and books or pictures which, while they give an\nimmediate and pure pleasure to the common eye, shall give a far fuller\nand finer pleasure to that eye that is the organ of a deeper and more\ncultivated soul. There are, too, men of _peculiar_ powers, rare and\nfine, who can never hope to please the large public, at least of their\nown age, but whose writings are a heart\u2019s ease and heart\u2019s joy to the\nselect few, and serve such as a cup of heavenly comfort for the earth\u2019s\njourney, and a lamp of heavenly light for the shadows of the way.\u201d\n\nOne other extract from the general remarks on Books in this essay, and\nwe will turn to another:--\n\n\u201cIn all our estimation of the various qualities of books, if it be true\nthat our reading assists our life, it is true also that our life assists\nour reading. If we let our spirit talk to us in undistracted moments--if\nwe commune with friendly, serious Nature, face to face, often--if we\npursue honourable aims in a steady progress--if we learn how a man\u2019s\nbest work falls below his thought, yet how still his failure prompts a\ntenderer love of his thought--if we live in sincere, frank relations\nwith some few friends, joying in their joy, hearing the tale and sharing\nthe pain of their grief, and in frequent interchange of honest,\nhousehold sensibility--if we look about us on character, marking\ndistinctly what we can see, and feeling the prompting of a hundred\nquestions concerning what is out of our ken:--if we live thus, we shall\nbe good readers and critics of books, and improving ones.\u201d\n\nThe second and third of these essays are on Biography and Fiction\nrespectively and principally; treating, however, of collateral subjects\nas well. Deep is the relation between the life shadowed forth in a\nbiography, and the life in a man\u2019s brain which he shadows forth in a\nfiction--when that fiction is of the highest order, and written in love,\nis beheld even by the writer himself with reverence. Delightful, surely,\nit must be; yes, awful too, to read to-day the embodiment of a man\u2019s\nnoblest thought, to follow the hero of his creation through his\ntemptations, contests, and victories, in a world which likewise is--\n\n  \u201cAll made out of the carver\u2019s brain;\u201d\n\nand to-morrow to read the biography of this same writer. What of his own\nideal has he realized? Where can the life-fountain be detected within\nhim which found issue to the world\u2019s light and air, in this ideal self?\nShall God\u2019s fiction, which is man\u2019s reality, fall short of man\u2019s\nfiction? Shall a man be less than what he can conceive and utter? Surely\nit will not, cannot end thus. If a man live at all in harmony with the\ngreat laws of being--if he will permit the working out of God\u2019s idea in\nhim, he must one day arrive at something greater than what now he can\nproject and behold. Yet, in biography, we do not so often find traces of\nthose struggles depicted in the loftier fiction. One reason may be that\nthe contest is often entirely within, and so a man may have won his\nspiritual freedom without any outward token directly significant of the\nvictory; except, if he be an artist, such expression as it finds in\nfiction, whether the fiction be in marble, or in sweet harmonies, or in\nink. Nor can we determine the true significance of any living act; for\nbeing ourselves within the compass of the life-mystery, we cannot hold\nit at arm\u2019s length from us and look at its lines of configuration. Nor\nof a life can we in any measure determine the success by what we behold\nof it. It is to us at best but a truncated spire, whose want of\ncompletion may be the greater because of the breadth of its base, and\nits slow taper, indicating the lofty height to which it is intended to\naspire. The idea of our own life is more than we can embrace. It is not\nours, but God\u2019s, and fades away into the infinite. Our comprehension is\nfinite; we ourselves infinite. We can only trust in God and do the\ntruth; then, and then only, is our life safe, and sure both of\ncontinuance and development.\n\nBut the reviewer perhaps too often merely steals his author\u2019s text and\nwrites upon it; or, like a man who lies in bed thinking about a dream\ntill its folds enwrap him and he sinks into the midst of its visions, he\nforgets his position of beholding, and passes from observation into\nspontaneous utterance. What says our author about \u201cbiography,\nautobiography, and history?\u201d This lecture has pleased the reviewer most\nof the four. Reading it in a lonely place, under a tree, with wide\nfields and slopes around, it produced on his mind the two effects which\nperhaps Mr. Lynch would most wish it should produce--namely, first, a\nlonging to lead a more true and noble life; and, secondly, a desire to\nread more biography. Nor can he but hope that it must produce the same\neffect on every earnest reader, on every one whose own biography would\nnot be altogether a blank in what regards the individual will and\nspiritual aim.\n\n\u201cIn meditative hours, when we blend despair of ourself with complaint of\nthe world, the biography of a man successful in this great business of\nliving is as the visit of an angel sent to strengthen us. Give the\nsoldier his sword, the farmer his plough, the carpenter his hammer and\nnails, the manufacturer his machines, the merchant his stores, and the\nscholar his books; these are but implements; the man is more than his\nwork or tools. How far has he fulfilled the law of his being, and\nattained its desire? Is his life a whole; the days as threads and as\ntouches; the life, the well-woven garment, the well-painted picture?\nWhich of two sacrifices has he offered--the one so acceptable to the\npowers of dark worlds, the other so acceptable to powers of bright\nones--that of soul to body, or that of body to soul? Has he slain what\nwas holiest in him to obtain gifts from Fashion or Mammon? Or has he, in\ndays so arduous, so assiduous, that they are like a noble army of\nmartyrs, made burnt-offering of what was secondary, throwing into the\nflames the salt of true moral energy and the incense of cordial\naffections? We want the work to show us by its parts, its mass, its\nform, the qualities of the man, and to see that the man is perfected\nthrough his work as well as the work finished by his effort.\u201d\n\nPerhaps the highest moral height which a man can reach, and at the same\ntime the most difficult of attainment, is the willingness to be\n_nothing_ relatively, so that he attain that positive excellence which\nthe original conditions of his being render not merely possible, but\nimperative. It is nothing to a man to be greater or less than\nanother--to be esteemed or otherwise by the public or private world in\nwhich he moves. Does he, or does he not, behold, and love, and live, the\nunchangeable, the essential, the divine? This he can only do according\nas God hath made him. He can behold and understand God in the least\ndegree, as well as in the greatest, only by the godlike within him; and\nhe that loves thus the good and great, has no room, no thought, no\nnecessity for comparison and difference. The truth satisfies him. He\nlives in its absoluteness. God makes the glow-worm as well as the star;\nthe light in both is divine. If mine be an earth-star to gladden the\nwayside, I must cultivate humbly and rejoicingly its green earth-glow,\nand not seek to blanch it to the whiteness of the stars that lie in the\nfields of blue. For to deny God in my own being is to cease to behold\nhim in any. God and man can meet only by the man\u2019s becoming that which\nGod meant him to be. Then he enters into the house of life, which is\ngreater than the house of fame. It is better to be a child in a green\nfield than a knight of many orders in a state ceremonial.\n\n\u201cOne biography may help conjecture or satisfy reason concerning the\nstory of a thousand unrecorded lives. And how few even of the deserving\namong the multitude can deserve, as \u2018dear sons of memory,\u2019 to be shrined\nin the public heart. Few of us die unwept, but most of us unwritten. We\nshall find a grave--less certainly a tombstone--and with much less\nlikelihood a biographer. Those \u2018bright particular\u2019 stars that at evening\nlook towards us from afar, yet still are individual in the distance, are\nat clearest times but about a thousand; but the milky lustre that runs\nthrough mid heaven is composed of a million million lights, which are\nnot the less separate because seen undistinguishably. Absorbed, not\nlost, in the multitude of the unrecorded, our private dear ones make\npart in this mild, blissful shining of the \u2018general assembly,\u2019 the great\ncongregation of the skies. Thus the past is aglow with the unwritten,\nthe nameless. The leaders, sons of fame, conspicuous in lustre, eminent\nin place; these are the few, whose great individuality burns with\ndistinct, starry light through the dark of ages. Such stars, without the\nstarry way, would not teach us the vastness of heaven; and the \u2018way,\u2019\nwithout these, were not sufficient to gladden and glorify the night with\npomp of Hierarchical Ascents of Domination.\u201d\n\nThere are many passages in this essay with which the reviewer would be\nglad to enrich his notice of the book, but limitation of space, and\nperhaps justice to the essay itself, which ought to be read in its own\ncompleteness, forbid. Mr. Lynch looks to the heart of the matter, and\nmakes one put the question--\u201cWould not a biography written by Mr. Lynch\nhimself be a valuable addition to this kind of literature?\u201d His would\nnot be an interesting account of outward events and relationships and\nprogress, nor even a succession of revelations of inward conditions, but\nwe should expect to find ourselves elevated by him to a point of view\nfrom which the life of the man would assume an artistic individuality,\nas it were an isolation of existence; for the supposed author could not\nchoose for his regard any biography for which this would be impossible;\nor in which the reticulated nerves of purpose did not combine the whole,\nwith more or less of success, into a true and remarkable unity. One\npassage more from this essay,--\n\n\u201cBiography, then, makes life known to us as more wealthy in character,\nand much more remarkable in its every-day stories, than we had deemed\nit. Another good it does us is this. It introduces us to some of our\nmost agreeable and stimulative friendships. People may be more\nbeneficially intimate with one they never saw than even with a neighbour\nor brother. Many a solitary, puzzled, incommunicative person, has found\nsociety provided, his riddle read, and his heart\u2019s secret, that longed\nand strove for utterance, outspoken for him in a biography. And both a\nlove purer than any yet entertained may be originated, and a pure but\nungratified love already existing, find an object, by the visit of a\nbiography. In actual life you see your friend to-day, and will see him\nagain to-morrow or next year; but in the dear book, you have your friend\nand all his experiences at once and ever. He is with you wholly, and may\nbe with you at any time. He lives for you, and has already died for you,\nto give finish to the meaning, fulness, and sanctity, to the comfort of\nhis days. He is mysteriously above as well as before you, by this fact,\nthat he has died. Thus your intimate is your superior, your solace, but\nyour support, too, and an example of the victory to which he calls you.\nHis end, or her end, is our own in view, and the flagging spirit\nrevives. We see the goal, and gird our loins anew for the race. Or,\nspeaking of things minor, there is fresh prospect of the game, there is\ncompanionship in the hunt, and spirit for the winning. Such biography,\ntoo, is a mirror in which we see ourselves; and we see that we may trim\nor adorn, or that the plain signs of our deficient health or ill-ruled\ntemper may set us to look for, and to use the means of improvement. But\nsuch a mirror is as a water one; in which first you may see your face,\nand which then becomes for you a bath to wash away the stains you see,\nand to offer its pure, cool stream as a restorative and cosmetic for\nyour wrinkles and pallors. And what a pleasure there will be sometimes\nas we peruse a biography, in finding another who is so like\nourself--saying the same things, feeling the same dreads, and shames, and\nflutterings; hampered and harassed much as poor self is. Then, the\nescapes of such a friend give us hope of deliverance for ourself; and\nhis better, or if not better, yet rewarded, patience, freshens our eye\nand sinews, and puts a staff into our hand. And certain seals of\nimpossibility that we had put on this stone, and on that, beneath which\nour hopes lay buried, are by this biography, as by a visiting angel,\neffectually broken, and our hopes arise again. Our view of life becomes\nmore complete because we see the whole of his, or of hers. We view life,\ntoo, in a more composed, tender way. Wavering faith, in its chosen\ndetermining principles, is confirmed. In quiet comparison of ourselves\nwith one of our own class, or one who has made the mark for which we are\nstriving, we are shamed to have done no better, and stirred to attempt\nformer things again, or fresh ones in a stronger and more patient\nspirit.\u201d\n\nIt is, indeed, well with him who has found a friend whose spirit touches\nhis own and illuminates it.\n\n  \u201cI missed him when the sun began to bend;\n  I found him not when I had lost his rim;\n  With many tears I went in search of him,\n  Climbing high mountains which did still ascend,\n  And gave me echoes when I called my friend;\n  Through cities vast and charnel-houses grim,\n  And high cathedrals where the light was dim;\n  Through books, and arts, and works without an end--\n  But found him not, the friend whom I had lost.\n  And yet I found him, as I found the lark,\n  A sound in fields I heard but could not mark;\n  I found him nearest when I missed him most,\n  I found him in my heart, a life in frost,\n  A light I knew not till my soul was dark.\u201d\n\nNext to possessing a true, wise, and victorious friend seated by your\nfireside, it is blessed to have the spirit of such a friend\nembodied--for spirit can assume any embodiment--on your bookshelves. But\nin the latter case the friendship is all on one side. For full\nfriendship your friend must love you, and know that you love him. Surely\nthese biographies are not merely spiritual links connecting us in the\ntruest manner with past times and vanished minds, and thus producing\nstrong half friendships. Are they not likewise links connecting us with\na future, wherein these souls shall dawn upon ours, rising again from\nthe death of the past into the life of our knowledge and love? Are not\nthese biographies letters of introduction, forwarded, but not yet\nfollowed by him whom they introduce, for whose step we listen, and whose\nvoice we long to hear; and whom we shall yet meet somewhere in the\nInfinite? Shall I not one day, \u201csomewhere, somehow,\u201d clasp the large\nhand of Novalis, and, gazing on his face, compare his features with\nthose of Saint John?\n\nThe essay on light literature must be left to the spontaneous\nappreciation of those who are already acquainted with this book, or who\nmay be induced, by the representations here made, to become acquainted\nwith it. Before proceeding to notice the first essay in the little\nvolume, namely, that on Poetry, its subject suggests the fact of the\npublication of a second edition of the Memorials of Theophilus Trinal,\nby the same author, a portion of which consists of interspersed poems.\nThese are of true poetic worth; and although in some cases wanting in\nrhythmic melody, yet in most of these cases they possess a wild and\npeculiar rhythm of their own. The reviewer knows of some whose hearts\nthis book has made glad, and doubtless there are many such.\n\nThe essay on Poetry is itself poetic throughout in its expression. And\nhow else shall Poetry be described than by Poetry? What form shall\nembrace and define the highest? Must it not be self-descriptive as\nself-existent? For what man is to this planet, what the eye is to man\nhimself, Poetry is to Literature. Yet one can hardly help wishing that\nthe poetic forms in this Essay were fewer and less minute, and the whole\na little more scientific; though it is a question how far we have a\nright to ask for this. As you open it, however, the pages seem\nabsolutely to sparkle, as if strewn with diamond sparks. It is no dull,\nmetallic, surface lustre, but a shining from within, as well as from the\nsuperficies. Still one cannot deny that fancy is too prominent in Mr.\nLynch\u2019s writings. It is true that his Fancy is the fairy attendant on\nhis Imagination, which latter uses the former for her own higher ends;\nand that there is little or no _mere_ fancy to be found in his books;\nfor if you look below the surface-form you find a truth. But it were to\nbe desired that the Truth clothed herself always in the living forms of\nImagination, and thus walked forth amongst her worshippers, looking on\nthem from living eyes, rather than that she should show herself through\nthe windows of fancy. Sometimes there may be an offence against taste,\nas in page 20; sometimes an image may be expanded too much, and\nsometimes the very exuberance of imaginative fancy (if the combination\nbe correct) may lead to an association of images that suggests\nincongruity. Still the essay is abundantly beautiful and true. The\npoetical quotations are not isolated, or exposed to view as specimens,\nbut are worked into the web of the prose like the flowers in the damask,\nand do their part in the evolution of the continuous thought.\n\n\u201cIf poetry, as light from the heart of God, is for our heart, that we\nmay brighten and distinguish individual things; if it is to transfigure\nfor us the round, dusk world as by an inner radiance; if it is to\npresent human life and history as Rembrandt pictures, in which darkness\nserves and glorifies light; if, like light, formless in its essence, all\nthings shapen towards the perfection of their forms under its influence;\nif, entering as through crevices in single beams, it makes dimmest\nplaces cheerful and sacred with its golden touch: then must the heart of\nthe Poet in which this true light shineth be as a hospice on the\nmountain pathways of the world, and his verse must be the lamp seen from\nfar that burns to tell us where bread and shelter, drink, fire, and\ncompanionship, may be found; and he himself should have the\nmountaineer\u2019s hardiness and resolution. From the heart as source, to the\nheart in influence, Poetry comes. The inward, the upward, and the\nonward, whether we speak of an individual or a nation, may not be\nseparated in our consideration. Deep and sacred imaginative meditations\nare needed for the true earthward as well as for the heavenward progress\nof men and peoples. And Poetry, whether old or new, streaming from the\nheart moved by the powerful spirit of love, has influence on the heart\npublic and individual, and thence on the manners, laws, and institutions\nof nations. If Poesy visit the length and breadth of a country after\nyears unfruitfully dull, coming like a showery fertilizing wind after\ndrought, the corners and the valley-hidings are visited too, and these\nperhaps she now visits first, as these sometimes she has visited only.\nFor miles and for miles, the public corn, the bread of the nation\u2019s\nlife, is bettered; and in our own endeared spot, the roses, delight of\nour individual eye and sense, yield us more prosperingly their colour\nand their fragrance. For the universal sunshine which brightens a\nthousand cities, beautifies ten thousand homesteads, and rejoices ten\ntimes ten thousand hearts. And as rains in the mid season renew for\nawhile the faded greenness of spring; and trees in fervent summers, when\ntheir foliage has deepened or fully fixed its hue, bedeck themselves\nthrough the fervency with bright midsummer shoots; so, by Poetry are the\nyouthful hues of the soul renewed, and truths that have long stood\nfull-foliaged in our minds, are by its fine influences empowered to put\nforth fresh shoots. Thus age, which is a necessity for the body, may be\nwarded off as a disease from the soul, and we may be like the old man in\nChaucer, who had nothing hoary about him but his hairs--\n\n  \u201c\u2018Though I be hoor I fare as doth a tree\n  That blosmeth er the fruit ywoxen be,\n  The blosmy tree n\u2019 is neither drie ne ded:\n  I feel me nowhere hoor, but on my head.\n  Min herte and all my limmes ben as grene\n  As laurel through the yere is for to sene.\u2019\u201d\n\nHear our author again as to the calling of the poet:--\n\n\u201cTo unite earthly love and celestial--\u2018true to the kindred points of\nheaven and home;\u2019 to reconcile time and eternity; to draw presage of\njoy\u2019s victory from the delight of the secret honey dropping from the\nclefts of rocky sorrow; _to harmonize our instinctive longings for the\ndefinite and the infinite, in the ideal Perfect_; to read creation as a\nhuman book of the heart, both plain and mystical, and divinely written:\nsuch is the office fulfilled by best-loved poets. Their ladder of\ncelestial ascent must be fixed on its base, earth, if its top is to\nsecurely rest on heaven.\u201d\n\nBeautifully, too, does he describe the birth of Poetry; though one may\ndoubt its correctness, at least if attributed to the highest kind of\npoetry.\n\n\u201cWhen words of felt truth were first spoken by the first pair, in love\nof their garden, their God, and one another, and these words were with\njoyful surprise felt to be in their form and glow answerable to the\nhappy thought uttered; then Poetry sprang. And when the first Father and\nfirst Mother, settling their soul upon its thought, found that thought\nbrighten; and when from it, as thus they mused, like branchlets from a\nbranch, or flowerets from their bud, other thoughts came, ranging\nthemselves by the exerted, yet painlessly exerted, power of the soul, in\nan order felt to be beautiful, and of a sound pleasant in utterance to\near and soul; being withal, through the sweetness of their impression on\nthe heart, fixed for memory\u2019s frequentest recurrence; then was the\nworld\u2019s first poem composed, and in the joyful flutter of a heart that\nhad thus become a maker, the maker of a \u2018thing of beauty,\u2019 like in\nbeauty even unto God\u2019s heaven, and trees, and flowers, the secret of\nPoesy shone tremulously forth.\u201d\n\nWhether this be so or not, the highest poetic feeling of which we are\nnow conscious springs not from the beholding of perfected beauty, but\nfrom the mute sympathy which the creation with all its children\nmanifests with us in the groaning and travailing which looketh for the\nsonship. Because of our need and aspiration, the snowdrop gives birth in\nour hearts to a loftier spiritual and poetic feeling, than the rose most\ncomplete in form, colour, and odour. The rose is of Paradise--the\nsnowdrop is of the striving, hoping, longing Earth. Perhaps our highest\npoetry is the expression of our aspirations in the sympathetic forms of\nvisible nature. Nor is this merely a longing for a restored Paradise;\nfor even in the ordinary history of men, no man or woman that has fallen\ncan be restored to the position formerly occupied. Such must rise to a\nyet higher place, whence they can behold their former standing far\nbeneath their feet. They must be restored by attaining something better\nthan they ever possessed before, or not at all. If the law be a\nweariness, we must escape it by being filled with the spirit, for not\notherwise can we fulfil the law than by being above the law. There is\nfor us no escape, save as the Poet counsels us:--\n\n  \u201cIs thy strait horizon dreary?\n  Is thy foolish fancy chill?\n  Change the feet that have grown weary,\n  For the wings that never will.\n  Burst the flesh and live the spirit;\n  Haunt the beautiful and far;\n  Thou hast all things to inherit,\n  And a soul for every star.\u201d\n\nBut the Reviewer must hasten to take leave, though unwillingly, of this\npleasing, earnest, and profitable book. Perhaps it could be wished that\nthe writer helped his readers a little more into the channel of his\nthought; made it easier for them to see the direction in which he is\nleading them; called out to them, \u201cCome up hither,\u201d before he said, \u201cI\nwill show you a thing.\u201d But the Reviewer says this with deference; and\ntakes his leave with the hope that Mr. Lynch will be listened to for two\ngood reasons: first, that he speaks the truth; last, that he has already\nsuffered for the Truth\u2019s sake.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HISTORY AND HEROES OF MEDICINE.\n\n\n[Footnote: By J. Rutherfurd Russell, M.D.]\n\nIn this volume, Dr. Russell has not merely aimed at the production of a\nbook that might be serviceable to the Faculty, by which the history of\nits own art is not at all sufficiently studied, but has aspired to the\nfar more difficult success of writing a history of medicine which shall\nbe readable to all who care for true history--that history, namely, in\nwhich not merely growth and change are represented, but the secret\nsupplies and influences as well, which minister to the one and occasion\nthe other. If the difficulty has been greater (although with his\nevidently wide sympathies and keen insight into humanity we doubt if it\nhas), the success is the more honourable; for a success it certainly is.\nThe partially biographical plan on which he has constructed his work has\nno doubt aided in the accomplishment of this purpose; for it is much\neasier to present the subject in its human relations, when its history\nis given in connexion with the lives of those who were most immediately\nassociated with it. But it would be a great mistake to conclude from\nthis, that it is the less a history of the art itself; for no art or\nscience has life in itself, apart from the minds which foresee,\ndiscover, and verify it. Whatever point in its progress it may have\nreached, it will there remain until a new man appears, whose new\nquestions shall illicit new replies from nature--replies which are the\nessential food of the science, by which it lives, grows, and makes\nitself a history.\n\nNor must our readers suppose that because the book is readable, it is\ntherefore slight, either in material or construction. Much reading and\nresearch have provided the material, while real thought and argument\nhave superintended the construction. Nor is it by any means without the\nadornment that a poetic temperament and a keen sense of humour can\nsupply.\n\nNaturally, the central life in the book is that of Lord Bacon, the man\nwho brought out of his treasures things both new and old. Up to him the\nstory gradually leads from the prehistoric times of Aesculapius, the\npathway first becoming plainly visible in the life and labours of\nHippocrates. His fine intellect and powers of acute observation afforded\nthe material necessary for the making of a true physician. The Greek\nmind, partly, perhaps, from its artistic tendencies, seems to have been\npeculiarly impatient of incomplete forms, and therefore, to have much\npreferred the construction of a theory from the most shadowy material,\nto the patient experiment and investigation necessary for the procuring\nof the real substance; and Hippocrates, not knowing how to advance to a\ntheory by rational experiment, and too honest to invent one, assumes the\ntraditional theories, founded on the vaguest and most obtrusive\ngeneralizations. Those which his experience taught him to reject, were\nadopted and maintained by Galen and all who followed him for centuries,\nthe chief instance of progress being only the substitution by the\nArabians of some of the milder medicines now in use, for the terrible\nand often fatal drugs employed by the Greek and Roman physicians. The\nfanciful classification of diseases into four kinds--hot, cold, moist\nand dry, with the corresponding arbitrary classification of remedies to\nbe administered by contraries, continued to be the only recognized\ntheory of medicine for many centuries after the Christian era.\n\nBut Lord Bacon, amongst other branches of knowledge which he considers\nill-followed, makes especial mention of medicine, which he would submit\nto the same rules of observation and experiment laid down by him for the\nadvancement of learning in general. With regard to it, as with regard to\nthe discovery of all the higher laws of nature, he considers \u201cthat men\nhave made too untimely a departure, and too remote a recess from\nparticulars.\u201d Men have hurried to conclusions, and then argued from them\nas from facts. Therefore let us have no traditional theories, and make\nnone for ourselves but such as are revealed in the form of laws to the\npatient investigator, who has \u201cstraightened and held fast Proteus, that\nhe might be compelled to change his shapes,\u201d and so reveal his nature.\nHence one of the aspects in which Lord Bacon was compelled to appear was\nthat of a destroyer of what preceded. In this he resembled Cardan and\nParacelsus who went before him, and who like him pulled down, but could\nnot, like him, build up. He resembled them, however, in the possession\nof another element of character, namely, that poetic imagination which\nlooks abroad into the regions of possibilities, and foresees or invents.\nBut in the case of the charlatan, the vaguest suggestions of his mind in\nits favourite mood, is adopted as a theory all but proved, if not as a\ndirect revelation to the favoured individual; while the true thinker\nseeks but an hypothesis corresponding in some measure to facts already\ndiscovered, in order that he may have the suggestion of new experiments\nand investigations in the course of his attempts to verify or disprove\nthe hypothesis. Lord Bacon considered hypothesis invaluable in the\ndiscovery of truth, but he only used it as a board upon which to write\nhis questions to nature; or, to use another figure, hypothesis with him\nis as the next stepping-stone in the swollen river, which he supposes to\nbe here or there, and so feels for with his staff. But it must be proved\nbefore it be regarded as a law, and greatly corroborated before it be\neven adopted as a theory. Cardan and Paracelsus were destroyers and\nmystics only; they destroyed on the earth that they might build in the\nair: Lord Bacon united both characters in the philosopher. He looked\nabroad into the regions of the unknown, whence all knowledge comes; he\ncalled wonder the seed of knowledge; but he would build nowhere but on\nthe earth--on the firm land of ascertained truth. That which kept him\nright was his practical humanity. It was for the sake of delivering men\nfrom the ills of life, by discovering the laws of the elements amidst\nwhich that life must be led, that he laboured and thought. This object\nkept him true, made him able to discover the very laws of discovery;\nbrought him so far into _rapport_ with the heart of nature herself,\nthat, like a physical prophet, his seeing could outspeed his knowing,\nand behold a law--dimly, it is true, but yet behold it--long before his\nintellect, which had to build bridges and find straw to make the bricks,\ncould dare to affirm its approach to the same conclusion. Truth to\nhumanity made him true to fact; and truth to fact made him true in\ntheory.\n\nIt was in this spirit of devotion to his kind that he said, \u201cTherefore\nhere is the deficience which I find, that physicians have not ... set\ndown and delivered over certain experimental medicines for the cure of\nparticular diseases.\u201d\n\nDr. Russell\u2019s true insight into the relation of Lord Bacon to the\nmedical as well as to all science, has suggested the above remarks. What\nour author chiefly desires is, that the same principles which made\nmedicine what it is, should be allowed to carry it yet further, and make\nit what it ought to be, and must become. As he goes on to show, through\nsucceeding lives and theories, that just in proportion as these\nprinciples have been followed--the principles of careful observation,\nhypothesis, and experiment--have men made discoveries that have been\nhelpful to their fellow-men; while, on the other hand, the most\nelaborate theories of the most popular physicians, which have owed their\nbirth to premature generalization and invention, have passed away, like\nthe crackling of thorns under a pot. Belonging to the latter class of\nmen, we have Stahl, Hoffman, Boerhaave, Cullen, and Brown; while to the\nformer belong Harvey, Sydenham, Jenner, and Hahnemann.\n\nAfter the last name, there is no need to say that our author is a\nhomoeopath. Whatever may be our private opinion of the system, justice\nrequires that we should say at least that books such as these are quite\nas open to refutation as to ridicule; for it is only a good argument\nthat is worth refuting by a better. But we fear there are few books on\nthis subject that treat of it with the calmness and fairness which would\nincline an honest homoeopath to put them into the hands of one of the\nopposite party as an exposition of his opinions. There is no excitement\nin these pages. They are the work of a man of liberal education, of\nrefinement, and of truthfulness, with power to understand, and facility\nto express; one of whose main objects is to vindicate for homoeopathy,\non the most rightful of all grounds--those on which alone science can\nstand--on the ground, that is, of laws discovered by observation and\nexperiment--the place not only of a fact in the history of medicine, but\nthe right to be considered as one of the greatest advances towards the\nestablishment of a science of curing. Certainly if he and the rest of\nits advocates should fail utterly in this, the heresy will yet have\nestablished for itself a memorial in history, as one of the most\npowerful illusions that have ever deceived both priests and people. But\nthe chief advantage which the system will derive from Dr. Russell\u2019s book\nwill spring, it seems to us, from his attempt--a successful one it must\nbe confessed--to prove _that homoeopathy is a development, and not a\nmere reaction_; that it has its roots far down in the history of\nscience. The first mention of it in the book, however, is made for the\npurpose of disavowing the claim, advanced by many homoeopathists, to\nHippocrates as one of their order. Not to mention the curious story\nabout Galen and the patient ill from an overdose of theriacum, who was\ncured by another dose of the same substance, nor the ridicule of the\ndoctrine of contraries by Paracelsus and Van Helmont, nor the fact that\nthe _contraries_ of Boerhaave, by his own explanation, merely signify\nwhatever substances prove their contrariety to the disease by curing\nit--to pass by these, we find one of the main objects of homoeopathy,\nthe discovery of specifics, insisted upon by Lord Bacon in his words\nalready quoted. Not that homoeopaths, while they depend upon specifics,\nbelieve that there is any such thing as a specific for a disease--a\ndisease being as various as the individuality of the human beings whom\nit may attack; but that an approximate specific may be found for every\nwell-defined stage in every individual disease; a disease having its\nprocess of change, development, and decline, like a vegetable or animal\nlife. Besides an equally strong desire for specifics, and a determined\nopposition to compound medicines, Boyle, who was born the year of\nBacon\u2019s death, and inherited the mantle of the great philosopher,\nmanifests a strong belief in the power of the infinitesimal dose.\nNeither Bacon nor Boyle, however, were medical men by profession. But\nSydenham followed them, according to Dr. Russell, in their tendency\ntowards specifics. It is almost needless to mention Jenner\u2019s victory\nover the small-pox as, in the eyes of the homoeopaths, a grand step in\nthe development of their system. It gives Dr. Russell an opportunity of\nshowing in a strong instance that the best discoveries for delivering\nmankind from those ills even of which they are most sensible have been\nreceived with derision, with more than bare unbelief. This is one of his\nobjects in the book, and while it is no proof whatever of the truth of\nhomoepathy, it shows at least that the opposition manifested to it is no\nproof of its falsehood. This is enough; for it seeks to be tried on its\nown merits; and its foes are bound to accord it this when it is\nadvocated in such an honest and dignified manner as in the book before\nus.\n\nThe need of man, in physics as well as in higher things, is the guide to\ntruth. With evils of any sort we need no further acquaintance than may\nbe gained in the endeavour to combat them. The discovery of what will\ncure diseases seems the only natural mode of rising by generalization to\nthe discovery of the laws of cure and the nature of disease.\n\nThose portions of the volume which discuss the influence of Christianity\non the healing art, likewise those relating to the different feelings\nwith which at different times in different countries physicians have\nbeen regarded, are especially interesting.\n\nThe only portion of the book we should be inclined to find fault with,\nas to the quality of the thought expended upon it, is the dissertation\nin the second chapter on the [Greek: psuchae] and [Greek: pneuma]. We\ndoubt likewise whether the author gives the Archaeus of Van Helmont\nquite fair play; but these are questions so purely theoretical that they\nscarcely admit of discussion here. We rise from the perusal of the\nbook, whatever may be our feelings with regard to the truth or falsehood\nof the system it advocates, with increased respect for the profession of\nmedicine, with enlarged hope for its future, and with a strong feeling\nof the nobility conferred by the art upon every one of its practitioners\nwho is aware of the dignity of his calling.\n\n\n\n\nWORDSWORTH\u2019S POETRY\n\n\n[Footnote: Delivered extempore at Manchester.]\n\nThe history of the poetry of Wordsworth is a true reflex of the man\nhimself. The life of Wordsworth was not outwardly eventful, but his\ninner life was full of conflict, discovery, and progress. His outward\nlife seems to have been so ordered by Providence as to favour the\ndevelopment of the poetic life within. Educated in the country, and\nspending most of his life in the society of nature, he was not subjected\nto those violent external changes which have been the lot of some poets.\nPerfectly fitted as he was to cope with the world, and to fight his way\nto any desired position, he chose to retire from it, and in solitude to\nwork out what appeared to him to be the true destiny of his life.\n\nThe very element in which the mind of Wordsworth lived and moved was a\nChristian pantheism. Allow me to explain the word. The poets of the Old\nTestament speak of everything as being the work of God\u2019s hand:--We are\nthe \u201cwork of his hand;\u201d \u201cThe world was made by him.\u201d But in the New\nTestament there is a higher form used to express the relation in which\nwe stand to him--\u201cWe are his offspring;\u201d not the work of his hand, but\nthe children that came forth from his heart. Our own poet Goldsmith,\nwith the high instinct of genius, speaks of God as having \u201cloved us into\nbeing.\u201d Now I think this is not only true with regard to man, but true\nlikewise with regard to the world in which we live. This world is not\nmerely a thing which God hath made, subjecting it to laws; but it is an\nexpression of the thought, the feeling, the heart of God himself. And so\nit must be; because, if man be the child of God, would he not feel to be\nout of his element if he lived in a world which came, not from the heart\nof God, but only from his hand? This Christian pantheism, this belief\nthat God is in everything, and showing himself in everything, has been\nmuch brought to the light by the poets of the past generation, and has\nits influence still, I hope, upon the poets of the present. We are not\nsatisfied that the world should be a proof and varying indication of the\nintellect of God. That was how Paley viewed it. He taught us to believe\nthere is a God from the mechanism of the world. But, allowing all the\nargument to be quite correct, what does it prove? A mechanical God, and\nnothing more.\n\nLet us go further; and, looking at beauty, believe that God is the first\nof artists; that he has put beauty into nature, knowing how it will\naffect us, and intending that it should so affect us; that he has\nembodied his own grand thoughts thus that we might see them and be glad.\nThen, let us go further still, and believe that whatever we feel in the\nhighest moments of truth shining through beauty, whatever comes to our\nsouls as a power of life, is meant to be seen and felt by us, and to be\nregarded not as the work of his hand, but as the flowing forth of his\nheart, the flowing forth of his love of us, making us blessed in the\nunion of his heart and ours.\n\nNow, Wordsworth is the high priest of nature thus regarded. He saw God\npresent everywhere; not always immediately, in his own form, it is true;\nbut whether he looked upon the awful mountain-peak, sky-encompassed with\nloveliness, or upon the face of a little child, which is as it were eyes\nin the face of nature--in all things he felt the solemn presence of the\nDivine Spirit. By Keats this presence was recognized only as the spirit\nof beauty; to Wordsworth, God, as the Spirit of Truth, was manifested\nthrough the forms of the external world.\n\nI have said that the life of Wordsworth was so ordered as to bring this\nout of him, in the forms of _his_ art, to the ears of men. In childhood\neven his conscience was partly developed through the influences of\nnature upon him. He thus retrospectively describes this special\ninfluence of nature:--\n\n  One summer evening (led by her) I found\n  A little boat, tied to a willow tree,\n  Within a rocky cave, its usual home.\n  Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in,\n  Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth,\n  And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice\n  Of mountain echoes did my boat move on,\n  Leaving behind her still, on either side,\n  Small circles glittering idly in the moon,\n  Until they melted all into one track\n  Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows\n  Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point\n  With an unswerving line, I fixed my view\n  Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,\n  The horizon\u2019s utmost boundary; far above\n  Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.\n  She was an elfin pinnace; lustily\n  I dipped my oars into the silent lake,\n  And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat\n  Went heaving through the water like a swan;\n  When, from behind that craggy steep, till then\n  The horizon\u2019s bound, a huge peak, black and huge,\n  As if with voluntary power instinct,\n  Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,\n  And, growing still in stature, the grim shape\n  Towered up between me and the stars, and still\n  For so it seemed, with purpose of its own,\n  And measured motion like a living thing,\n  Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,\n  And through the silent water stole my way\n  Back to the covert of the willow tree;\n  There in her mooring place I left my bark,\n  And through the meadows homeward went, in grave\n  And serious mood; but after I had seen\n  That spectacle, for many days, my brain\n  Worked with a dim and undetermined sense\n  Of unknown modes of being; o\u2019er my thoughts\n  There hung a darkness, call it solitude,\n  Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes\n  Remained, no pleasant images of trees,\n  Of sea, or sky, no colours of green fields;\n  But huge and mighty forms, that do not live\n  Like living men, moved slowly through the mind\n  By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.\n\nHere we see that a fresh impulse was given to his life even in boyhood,\nby the influence of nature. If we have had any similar experience, we\nshall be able to enter into this feeling of Wordsworth\u2019s; if not, the\ntale will be almost incredible.\n\nOne passage more I would refer to, as showing what Wordsworth felt with\nregard to nature, in his youth; and the growth that took place in him in\nconsequence. Nature laid up in the storehouse of his mind and heart her\nmost beautiful and grand forms, whence they might be brought,\nafterwards, to be put to the highest human service. I quote only a few\nlines from that poem, deservedly a favourite with all the lovers of\nWordsworth, \u201cLines written above Tintern Abbey:\u201d--\n\n                    I cannot paint\n  What then I was. The sounding cataract\n  Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,\n  The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,\n  Their colours and their forms, were then to me\n  An appetite; a feeling and a love,\n  That had no need of a remoter charm\n  By thought supplied, nor any interest\n  Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,\n  And all its aching joys are now no more,\n  And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this\n  Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts\n  Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,\n  Abundant recompense. For I have learned\n  To look on nature, not as in the hour\n  Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes\n  The still, sad music of humanity,\n  Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power\n  To chasten and subdue. And I have felt\n  A presence that disturbs me with the joy\n  Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime\n  Of something far more deeply interfused,\n  Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,\n  And the round ocean, and the living air\n  And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;\n  A motion and a spirit, that impels\n  All thinking things, all objects of all thought,\n  And rolls through all things.\n\nIn this little passage you see the growth of the influence of nature on\nthe mind of the poet. You observe, too, that nature passes into poetry;\nthat form is sublimed into speech. You see the result of the conjunction\nof the mind of man, and the mind of God manifested in His works; spirit\ncoming to know the speech of spirit. The outflowing of spirit in nature\nis received by the poet, and he utters again, in his form, what God has\nalready uttered in His. Wordsworth wished to give to man what he found\nin nature. It was to him a power of good, a world of teaching, a\nstrength of life. He knew that nature was not his, and that his\nenjoyment of nature was given to him that he might give it to man. It\nwas the birthright of man.\n\nBut what did Wordsworth find in nature? To begin with the lowest; he\nfound amusement in nature. Right amusement is a part of teaching; it is\nthe childish form of teaching, and if we can get this in nature, we get\nsomething that lies near the root of good. In proof that Wordsworth\nfound this, I refer to a poem which you probably know well, \u201cThe Daisy.\u201d\n The poet sits playing with the flower, and listening to the suggestions\nthat come to him of odd resemblances that this flower bears to other\nthings. He likens the daisy to--\n\n  A little cyclops, with one eye\n  Staring to threaten and defy,\n  That thought comes next--and instantly\n      The freak is over,\n  The shape will vanish--and behold\n  A silver shield with boss of gold,\n  That spreads itself, some fa\u00ebry bold\n      In fight to cover!\n\nLook at the last stanza, too, and you will see how close amusement may\nlie to deep and earnest thought:--\n\n  Bright _Flower_! for by that name at last\n  When all my reveries are past,\n  I call thee, and to that cleave fast,\n          Sweet silent creature!\n  That breath\u2019st with me in sun and air,\n  Do thou, as thou art wont, repair\n  My heart with gladness, and a share\n          Of thy meek nature!\n\nBut Wordsworth found also joy in nature, which is a better thing than\namusement, and consequently easier to be found. We can often have joy\nwhere we can have no amusement,--\n\n  I wandered lonely as a cloud\n    That floats on high o\u2019er vales and hills\n  When all at once I saw a crowd,\n    A host, of golden daffodils;\n  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,\n  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n  The waves beside them danced; but they\n    Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:\n  A poet could not but be gay,\n    In such a jocund company:\n  I gazed--and gazed--but little thought\n  What Health the show to me had brought.\n\n  \u201cFor oft, when on my couch I lie\n    In vacant or in pensive mood,\n  They flash upon that inward eye\n    Which is the bliss of solitude;\n  And then my heart with pleasure fills,\n  And dances with the daffodils.\u201d\n\nThis is the joy of the eye, as far as that can be separated from the joy\nof the whole nature; for his whole nature rejoiced in the joy of the\neye; but it was simply joy; there was no further teaching, no attempt to\ngo through this beauty and find the truth below it. We are not always to\nbe in that hungry, restless condition, even after truth itself. If we\nkeep our minds quiet and ready to receive truth, and _sometimes_ are\nhungry for it, that is enough.\n\nGoing a step higher, you will find that he sometimes _draws_ a lesson\nfrom nature, seeming almost to force a meaning from her. I do not object\nto this, if he does not make too much of it as _existing_ in nature. It\nis rather finding a meaning in nature that he brought to it. The meaning\nexists, if not _there_. For illustration I refer to another poem.\nObserve that Wordsworth found the lesson because he looked for it, and\n_would_ find it.\n\n  This Lawn, a carpet all alive\n  With shadows flung from leaves--to strive\n          In dance, amid a press\n  Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields\n  Of Worldlings revelling in the fields\n          Of strenuous idleness.\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n  Yet, spite of all this eager strife,\n  This ceaseless play, the genuine life\n          That serves the steadfast hours,\n  Is in the grass beneath, that grows\n  Unheeded, and the mute repose\n          Of sweetly-breathing flowers.\n\nWhether he forced this lesson from nature, or not, it is a good lesson,\nteaching a great many things with regard to life and work.\n\nAgain, nature sometimes flashes a lesson on his mind; _gives_ it to\nhim--and when nature gives, we cannot but receive. As in this sonnet\ncomposed during a storm,--\n\n  One who was suffering tumult in his soul\n  Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer,\n  Went forth; his course surrendering to the care\n  Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl\n  Insiduously, untimely thunders growl;\n  While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers tear\n  The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,\n  And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl\n  As if the sun were not. He raised his eye\n  Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear\n  Large space (mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky,\n  An azure disc--shield of Tranquillity;\n  Invisible, unlooked-for, minister\n  Of providential goodness ever nigh!\n\nObserve that he was not looking for this; he had not thought of praying;\nhe was in such distress that it had benumbed the out-goings of his\nspirit towards the source whence alone sure comfort comes. He went out\ninto the storm; and the uproar in the outer world was in harmony with\nthe tumult within his soul. Suddenly a clear space in the sky makes him\nfeel--he has no time to think about it--that there is a shield of\ntranquillity spread over him. For was it not as it were an opening up\ninto that region where there are no storms; the regions of peace,\nbecause the regions of love, and truth, and purity,--the home of God\nhimself?\n\nThere is yet a higher and more sustained influence exercised by nature,\nand that takes effect when she puts a man into that mood or condition in\nwhich thoughts come of themselves. That is perhaps the best thing that\ncan be done for us, the best at least that nature can do. It is\ncertainly higher than mere intellectual teaching. That nature did this\nfor Wordsworth is very clear; and it is easily intelligible. If the\nworld proceeded from the imagination of God, and man proceeded from the\nlove of God, it is easy to believe that that which proceeded from the\nimagination of God should rouse the best thoughts in the mind of a being\nwho proceeded from the love of God. This I think is the relation between\nman and the world. As an instance of what I mean, I refer to one of\nWordsworth\u2019s finest poems, which he classes under the head of \u201cEvening\nVoluntaries.\u201d It was composed upon an evening of extraordinary splendour\nand beauty:--\n\n  \u201cHad this effulgence disappeared\n  With flying haste, I might have sent,\n  Among the speechless clouds, a look\n  Of blank astonishment;\n  But \u2018tis endued with power to stay,\n  And sanctify one closing day,\n  That frail Mortality may see--\n  What is?--ah no, but what _can_, be!\n  Time was when field and watery cove\n  With modulated echoes rang,\n  While choirs of fervent Angels sang\n  Their vespers in the grove;\n  Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height,\n  Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,\n  Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite,\n  Methinks, if audibly repeated now\n  From hill or valley, could not move\n  Sublimer transport, purer love,\n  Than doth this silent spectacle--the gleam--\n  The shadow--and the peace supreme!\n\n  \u201cNo sound is uttered,--but a deep\n    And solemn harmony pervades\n  The hollow vale from steep to steep,\n    And penetrates the glades.\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n  \u201cWings at my shoulders seem to play;\n  But, rooted here, I stand and gaze\n  On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise\n  Their practicable way.\n  Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,\n  And see to what fair countries ye are bound!\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n  \u201cDread Power! whom peace and calmness serve\n  No less than Nature\u2019s threatening voice,\n  From THEE, if I would swerve,\n  Oh, let Thy grace remind me of the light\n  Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored;\n  Which, at this moment, on my waking sight\n  Appears to shine, by miracle restored;\n  My soul, though yet confined to earth,\n  Rejoices in a second birth!\u201d\n\nPicture the scene for yourselves; and observe how it moves in him the\nsense of responsibility, and the prayer, that if he has in any matter\nwandered from the right road, if he has forgotten the simplicity of\nchildhood in the toil of life, he may, from this time, remember the vow\nthat he now records--from this time to press on towards the things that\nare unseen, but which are manifested through the things that are seen. I\nrefer you likewise to the poem \u201cResolution and Independence,\u201d commonly\ncalled \u201cThe Leech Gatherer;\u201d also to that grandest ode that has ever\nbeen written, the \u201cOde on Immortality.\u201d You will find there, whatever\nyou may think of his theory, in the latter, sufficient proof that nature\nwas to him a divine teaching power. Do not suppose that I mean that man\ncan do without more teaching than nature\u2019s, or that a man with only\nnature\u2019s teaching would have seen these things in nature. No, the soul\nmust be tuned to such things. Wordsworth could not have found such\nthings, had he not known something that was more definite and helpful to\nhim; but this known, then nature was full of teaching. When we\nunderstand the Word of God, then we understand the works of God; when we\nknow the nature of an artist, we know his pictures; when we have known\nand talked with the poet, we understand his poetry far better. To the\nman of God, all nature will be but changeful reflections of the face of\nGod.\n\nLoving man as Wordsworth did, he was most anxious to give him this\nteaching. How was he to do it? By poetry. Nature put into the crucible\nof a loving heart becomes poetry. We cannot explain poetry\nscientifically; because poetry is something beyond science. The poet may\nbe man of science, and the man of science may be a poet; but poetry\nincludes science, and the man who will advance science most, is the man\nwho, other qualifications being equal, has most of the poetic faculty in\nhim. Wordsworth defines poetry to be \u201cthe impassioned expression which\nis on the face of science.\u201d Science has to do with the construction of\nthings. The casting of the granite ribs of the mighty earth, and all the\nthousand operations that result in the manifestations on its surface,\nthis is the domain of science. But when there come the grass-bearing\nmeadows, the heaven-reared hills, the great streams that go ever\ndownward, the bubbling fountains that ever arise, the wind that wanders\namongst the leaves, and the odours that are wafted upon its wings; when\nwe have colour, and shape, and sound, then we have the material with\nwhich poetry has to do. Science has to do with the underwork. For what\ndoes this great central world exist, with its hidden winds and waters,\nits upheavings and its downsinkings, its strong frame of rock, and its\nheart of fire? What do they all exist for? Not for themselves surely,\nbut for the sake of this out-spreading world of beauty, that floats up,\nas it were, to the surface of the shapeless region of force. Science has\nto do with the one, and poetry with the other: poetry is \u201cthe\nimpassioned expression that is on the face of science.\u201d To illustrate it\nstill further. You are walking in the woods, and you find the first\nprimrose of the year. You feel almost as if you had found a child. You\nknow in yourself that you have found a new beauty and a new joy, though\nyou have seen it a thousand times before. It is a primrose. A little\nflower that looks at me, thinks itself into my heart, and gives me a\npleasure distinct in itself, and which I feel as if I could not do\nwithout. The impassioned expression on the face of this little outspread\nflower is its childhood; it means trust, consciousness of protection,\nfaith, and hope. Science, in the person of the botanist, comes after\nyou, and pulls it to pieces to see its construction, and delights the\nintellect; but the science itself is dead, and kills what it touches.\nThe flower exists not for it, but for the expression on its face, which\nis its poetry,--that expression which you feel to mean a living thing;\nthat expression which makes you feel that this flower is, as it were,\njust growing out of the heart of God. The intellect itself is but the\nscaffolding for the uprearing of the spiritual nature.\n\nIt will make all this yet plainer, if you can suppose a human form to be\ncreated without a soul in it. Divine science _has_ put it together, but\nonly for the sake of the outshining soul that shall cause it to live,\nand move, and have a being of its own in God. When you see the face\nlighted up with soul, when you recognize in it thought and feeling, joy\nand love, then you know that here is the end for which it was made. Thus\nyou see the relation that poetry has to science; and you find that, to\nspeak in an apparent paradox, the surface is the deepest after all; for,\nthrough the surface, for the sake of which all this building went on, we\nhave, as it were, a window into the depths of truth. There is not a form\nthat lives in the world, but is a window cloven through the blank\ndarkness of nothingness, to let us look into the heart, and feeling, and\nnature of God. So the surface of things is the best and the deepest,\nprovided it is not mere surface, but the impassioned expression, for the\nsake of which the science of God has thought and laboured.\n\nSatisfied that this was the nature of poetry, and wanting to convey this\nto the minds of his fellow-men, \u201cWhat vehicle,\u201d Wordsworth may be\nsupposed to have asked himself, \u201cshall I use? How shall I decide what\nform of words to employ? Where am I to find the right language for\nspeaking such great things to men?\u201d He saw that the poetry of the\neighteenth century (he was born in 1770) was not like nature at all, but\nwas an artificial thing, with no more originality in it than there would\nbe in a picture a hundred times copied, the copyists never reverting to\nthe original. You cannot look into this eighteenth century poetry,\nexcepting, of course, a great proportion of the poetry of Cowper and\nThompson, without being struck with the sort of agreement that nothing\nshould be said naturally. A certain set form and mode was employed for\nsaying things that ought never to have been said twice in the same way.\nWordsworth resolved to go back to the root of the thing, to the natural\nsimplicity of speech; he would have none of these stereotyped forms of\nexpression. \u201cWhere shall I find,\u201d said he, \u201cthe language that will be\nsimple and powerful?\u201d And he came to the conclusion that the language of\nthe common people was the only language suitable for his purpose. Your\nexperience of the everyday language of the common people may be that it\nis not poetical. True, but not even a poet can speak poetically in his\nstupid moments. Wordsworth\u2019s idea was to take the language of the common\npeople in their uncommon moods, in their high and, consequently, simple\nmoods, when their minds are influenced by grief, hope, reverence,\nworship, love; for then he believed he could get just the language\nsuitable for the poet. As far as that language will go, I think he was\nright, if I may venture to give an opinion in support of Wordsworth. Of\ncourse, there will occur necessities to the poet which would not be\ncomprehended in the language of a man whose thoughts had never moved in\nthe same directions, but the kind of language will be the right thing,\nand I have heard such amongst the common people myself--language which\nthey did not know to be poetic, but which fell upon my ear and heart as\nprofoundly poetic both in its feeling and its form.\n\nIn attempting to carry out this theory, I am not prepared to say that\nWordsworth never transgressed his own self-imposed laws. But he adhered\nto his theory to the last. A friend of the poet\u2019s told me that\nWordsworth had to him expressed his belief that he would be remembered\nlongest, not by his sonnets, as his friend thought, but by his lyrical\nballads, those for which he had been reviled and laughed at; the most by\ncritics who could not understand him, and who were unworthy to read what\nhe had written. As a proof of this let me read to you three verses,\ncomposing a poem that was especially marked for derision:--\n\n  She dwelt among the untrodden ways,\n  Beside the springs of Dove;\n  A maid whom there were none to praise,\n  And very few to love.\n\n  A violet by a mossy stone.\n  Half hidden from the eye;\n  Fair as a star, when only one\n  Is shining in the sky.\n\n  She lived unknown, and few could know\n  When Lucy ceased to be;\n  But she is in her grave, and Oh!\n  The difference to me.\n\nThe last line was especially chosen as the object of ridicule; but I\nthink with most of us the feeling will be, that its very simplicity of\nexpression is overflowing in suggestion, it throws us back upon our own\nexperience; for, instead of trying to utter what he felt, he says in\nthose simple and common words, \u201cYou who have known anything of the kind,\nwill know what the difference to me is, and only you can know.\u201d \u201cMy\nintention and desire,\u201d he says in one of his essays, \u201care that the\ninterest of the poem shall owe nothing to the circumstances; but that\nthe circumstances shall be made interesting by the thing itself.\u201d In\nmost novels, for instance, the attempt is made to interest us in\nworthless, commonplace people, whom, if we had our choice, we would far\nrather not meet at all, by surrounding them with peculiar and\nextraordinary circumstances; but this is a low source of interest.\nWordsworth was determined to owe nothing to such an adventitious cause.\nFor illustration allow me to read that well-known little ballad, \u201cThe\nReverie of Poor Susan,\u201d and you will see how entirely it bears out what\nhe lays down as his theory. The scene is in London:--\n\n  At the corner of Wood-street, when daylight appears,\n  Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years;\n  Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard,\n  In the silence of morning, the song of the Bird.\n\n  \u2018Tis a note of enchantment: what ails her? She sees\n  A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;\n  Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,\n  And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.\n\n  Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,\n  Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;\n  And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove\u2019s,\n  The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.\n\n  She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,\n  The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:\n  The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,\n  And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!\n\nIs any of the interest here owing to the circumstances? Is it not a very\ncommon incident? But has he not treated it so that it is not\n_commonplace_ in the least? We recognize in this girl just the feelings\nwe discover in ourselves, and acknowledge almost with tears her\nsisterhood to us all.\n\nI have tried to make you feel something of what Wordsworth attempts to\ndo, but I have not given you the best of his poems. Allow me to finish\nby reading the closing portion of the _Prelude_, the poem that was\npublished after his death. It is addressed to Coleridge:--\n\n  Oh! yet a few short years of useful life,\n  And all will be complete, thy race be run,\n  Thy monument of glory will be raised;\n  Then, though (too weak to head the ways of truth)\n  This age fall back to old idolatry,\n  Though men return to servitude as fast\n  As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame\n  By nations sink together, we shall still\n  Find solace--knowing what we have learnt to know--\n  Rich in true happiness, if allowed to be\n  Faithful alike in forwarding a day\n  Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work\n  (Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe)\n  Of their deliverance, surely yet to come.\n  Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak\n  A lasting inspiration, sanctified\n  By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved,\n  Others will love, and we will teach them how;\n  Instruct them how the mind of man becomes\n  A thousand times more beautiful than the earth\n  On which he dwells, above this frame of things\n  (Which, \u2018mid all revolution in the hopes\n  And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)\n  In beauty exalted, as it is itself\n  Of quality and fabric more divine.\n\n\n\n\nSHELLEY.\n\n\nWhatever opinion may be held with regard to the relative position\noccupied by Shelley as a poet, it will be granted by most of those who\nhave studied his writings, that they are of such an individual and\noriginal kind, that he can neither be hidden in the shade, nor lost in\nthe brightness, of any other poet. No idea of his works could be\nconveyed by instituting a comparison, for he does not sufficiently\nresemble any other among English writers to make such a comparison\npossible.\n\nPercy Bysshe Shelley was born at Field Place, near Horsham, in the\ncounty of Sussex, on the 4th of August, 1792. He was the son of Timothy\nShelley, Esq., and grandson of Sir Bysshe Shelley, the first baronet.\nHis ancestors had long been large landed proprietors in Sussex.\n\nAs a child his habits were noticeable. He was especially fond of\nrambling by moonlight, of inventing wonderful tales, of occupying\nhimself with strange, and sometimes dangerous, amusements. At the age of\nthirteen he went to Eton. In this little world, that determined\nopposition to whatever appeared to him an invasion of human rights and\nliberty, which was afterwards the animating principle of most of his\nwritings, was first roused in the mind of Shelley. Were we not aware of\nfar keener distress which he afterwards endured from yet greater\ninjustice, we might suppose that the sufferings he had to bear from\nplacing himself in opposition to the custom of the school, by refusing\nto fag, had made him morbidly sensitive on the point of liberty. At a\ntime, however, when freedom of speech, as indicating freedom of thought,\nwas especially obnoxious to established authorities; when no allowance\ncould be made on the score of youth, still less on that of individual\npeculiarity, Shelley became a student at Oxford. He was then eighteen.\nDevoted to metaphysical speculation, and especially fond of logical\ndiscussion, he, in his first year, printed and distributed among the\nauthorities and members of his college a pamphlet, if that can be called\na pamphlet which consisted only of two pages, in which he opposed the\nusual arguments for the existence of a Deity; arguments which, perhaps,\nthe most ardent believers have equally considered inconclusive. Whether\nShelley wrote this pamphlet as an embodiment of his own opinions, or\nmerely as a logical confutation of certain arguments, the mode of\nprocedure adopted with him was certainly not one which necessarily\nresulted from the position of those to whose care the education of his\nopinions was entrusted. Without waiting to be assured that he was the\nauthor, and satisfying themselves with his refusal to answer when\nquestioned as to the authorship, they handed him his sentence of\nexpulsion, which had been already drawn up in due form.\n\nAbout this time Shelley wrote, or commenced writing, _Queen Mab_, a poem\nwhich he never published, although he distributed copies among his\nfriends. In after years he had such a low opinion of it in every\nrespect, that he regretted having printed it at all; and when an edition\nof it was published without his consent, he applied to the Court of\nChancery for an injunction to suppress it.\n\nShelley\u2019s opinions in politics and theology, which he appears to have\nbeen far more anxious to maintain than was consistent with the peace of\nthe household, were peculiarly obnoxious to his father, a man as\ndifferent from his son as it is possible to conceive; and his expulsion\nfrom Oxford was soon followed by exile from his home. He went to London,\nwhere, through his sisters, who were at school in the neighbourhood, he\nmade the acquaintence of Harriet West brook, whom he eloped with and\nmarried, when he was nineteen and she sixteen years of age. It seems\ndoubtful whether the attachment between them was more than the result of\nthe reception accorded by the enthusiasm of the girl to the enthusiasm\nof the youth, manifesting itself in wild talk about human rights, and\nequally wild plans for their recovery and security. However this may be,\nthe result was unfortunate. They wandered about England, Scotland, and\nIreland, with frequent and sudden change of residence, for rather more\nthan two years. During this time Shelley gained the friendship of some\nof the most eminent men of the age, of whom the one who exercised the\nmost influence upon his character and future history was William Godwin,\nwhose instructions and expostulations tended to reduce to solidity and\nform the vague and extravagant opinions and projects of the youthful\nreformer. Shortly after the commencement of the third year of their\nmarried life, an estrangement of feeling, which had been gradually\nwidening between them, resulted in the final separation of the poet and\nhis wife. We are not informed as to the causes of this estrangement,\nfurther than that it seems to have been owing, in a considerable degree,\nto the influence of an elder sister of Mrs. Shelley, who domineered over\nher, and whose presence became at last absolutely hateful to Shelley.\nHis wife returned to her father\u2019s house; where, apparently about three\nyears after, she committed suicide. There seems to have been no\nimmediate connection between this act and any conduct of Shelley. One of\nhis biographers informs us, that while they were living happily\ntogether, suicide was with Mrs. Shelley a favourite subject of\nspeculation and conversation.\n\nShortly after his first wife\u2019s death, Shelley married the daughter of\nWilliam Godwin. He had lived with her almost from the date of the\nseparation, during which time they had twice visited Switzerland. In the\nfollowing year (1817), it was decreed in Chancery that Shelley was not a\nproper person to take charge of his two children by his first wife, who\nhad lived with her till her death. The bill was filed in Chancery by\ntheir grandfather, Mr. Westbrook. The effects of this proceeding upon\nShelley may be easily imagined. Perhaps he never recovered from them,\nfor they were not of a nature to pass away. During this year he resided\nat Marlow, and wrote _The Revolt of Islam_, besides portions of other\npoems; and the next year he left England, not to return. The state of\nhis health, for he had appeared to be in a consumption for some time,\nand the fear lest his son, by his second wife, should be taken from him,\ncombined to induce him to take refuge in Italy from both impending\nevils. At Lucca he began his _Prometheus_, and wrote _Julian and\nMaddalo_. He moved from place to place in Italy, as he had done in his\nown country. Their two children dying, they were for a time left\nchildless; but the loss of these grieved Shelley less than that of his\neldest two, who were taken from him by the hand of man. In 1819, Shelley\nfinished his _Prometheus Unbound_, writing the greater part at Rome, and\ncompleting it at Florence. In this year also he wrote his tragedy, _The\nCenci_, which attracted more attention during his lifetime than any\nother of his works. The _Ode to a Skylark_ was written at Leghorn in the\nspring of 1820; and in August of the same year, the _Witch of Atlas_ was\nwritten, near Pisa. In the following year Shelley and Byron met at Pisa.\nThey were a good deal together; but their friendship, although real,\ndoes not appear to have been of a very profound nature; for though\nunlikeness be one of the necessary elements of friendship, there are\nkinds of unlikeness which will not harmonize. During all this time, he\nwas not only maligned by unknown enemies, and abused by anonymous\nwriters, but attempts of other kinds are said to have been made to\nrender his life as uncomfortable as possible. There are grounds,\nhowever, for doubting whether Shelley was not subject to a kind of\nmonomania upon this and similar points. In 1821, he wrote his _Adonais_,\na monody on the death of Keats. Part of this poem had its origin in the\nmistaken notion, that the illness and death of Keats were caused by a\nbrutal criticism of his _Endymion_, which appeared in the _Quarterly\nReview_. The last verse of the _Adonais_ seems almost prophetic of his\nown end. Passionately fond of boating, he and a friend of his, Mr.\nWilliams, united in constructing a boat of a peculiar build, a very fast\nsailer, but difficult to manage. On the 8th of July, 1822, Shelley and\nhis friend Williams sailed from Leghorn for Lerici, on the Bay of\nSpezia, near which lay his home for the time. A sudden squall came on,\nand their boat disappeared. The bodies of the two friends were cast on\nshore; and, according to quarantine regulations, were burned to ashes.\nLord Byron, Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Trelawney were present when the body of\nShelley was burned; so that his ashes were saved, and buried in the\nProtestant burial-ground at Rome, near the grave of Keats, whose body\nhad been laid there in the spring of the preceding year. _Cor Cordium_\nwere the words inscribed by his widow on the tomb of the poet.\n\nThe character of Shelley has been sadly maligned. Whatever faults he may\nhave committed against society, they were not the result of sensuality.\nOne of his biographers, who was his companion at Oxford, and who does\nnot seem inclined to do him _more_ than justice, asserts that while\nthere his conduct was immaculate. The whole picture he gives of the\nyouth, makes it easy to believe this. To discuss the moral question\ninvolved in one part of his history would be out of place here; but even\non the supposition that a man\u2019s conduct is altogether inexcusable in\nindividual instances, there is the more need that nothing but the truth\nshould be said concerning that, and other portions thereof. And whatever\nsociety may have thought itself justified in making subject of\nreprobation, it must be remembered that Shelley was under less\nobligation to society than most men. Yet his heart seemed full of love\nto his kind; and the distress which the oppression of others caused him,\nwas the source of much of that wild denunciation which exposed him to\nthe contempt and hatred of those who were rendered uncomfortable by his\nunsparing and indiscriminate anathemas. In private, he was beloved by\nall who knew him; a steady, generous, self-denying friend, not only to\nthose who moved in his own circle, but to all who were brought within\nthe reach of any aid he could bestow. To the poor he was a true and\nlaborious benefactor. That man must have been good to whom the heart of\nhis widow returns with such earnest devotion and thankfulness in the\nrecollection of the past, and such fond hope for the future, as are\nmanifested by Mrs. Shelley in those extracts from her private journal\ngiven us by Lady Shelley.\n\nAs regards his religious opinions, one of the thoughts which most\nstrongly suggest themselves is,--how ill he must have been instructed in\nthe principles of Christianity! He says himself in a letter to Godwin,\n\u201cI have known no tutor or adviser (_not excepting my father_) from whose\nlessons and suggestions I have not recoiled with disgust.\u201d So far is he\nfrom being an opponent of Christianity properly so called, that one can\nhardly help feeling what a Christian he would have been, could he but\nhave seen Christianity in any other way than through the traditional and\npractical misrepresentations of it which surrounded him. All his attacks\non Christianity are, in reality, directed against evils to which the\ntrue doctrines of Christianity are more opposed than those of Shelley\ncould possibly be. How far he was excusable in giving the name of\nChristianity to what he might have seen to be only a miserable\nperversion of it, is another question, and one which hardly admits of\ndiscussion here. It was in the _name_ of Christianity, however, that the\nworst injuries of which he had to complain were inflicted upon him.\nComing out of the cathedral at Pisa one day, [Footnote: From _Shelley\nMemorials_, edited by Lady Shelley, which the writer of this paper has\nprincipally followed in regard to the external facts of Shelley\u2019s\nhistory.] Shelley warmly assented to a remark of Leigh Hunt, \u201cthat a\ndivine religion might be found out, if charity were really made the\nprinciple of it instead of faith.\u201d Surely the founders of Christianity,\neven when they magnified faith, intended thereby a spiritual condition,\nof which the central principle is coincident with charity. Shelley\u2019s own\nfeelings towards others, as judged from his poetry, seem to be tinctured\nwith the very essence of Christianity. [Footnote: His _Essay on\nChristianity_ is full of noble views, some of which are held at the\npresent day by some of the most earnest believers. At what time of his\nlife it was written we are not informed; but it seems such as would\ninsure his acceptance with any company of intelligent and devout\nUnitarians.] He did not, at one time at least, believe that we could\nknow the source of our being; and seemed to take it as a self-evident\ntruth, that the Creator could not be like the creature. But it is unjust\nto fix upon any utterance of opinion, and regard it as the religion of a\nman who died in his thirtieth year, and whose habits of thinking were\nsuch, that his opinions must have been in a state of constant change.\nColeridge says in a letter: \u201cHis (Shelley\u2019s) discussions, tending\ntowards atheism of a certain sort, would not have scared _me;_ for _me_\nit would have been a semitransparent larva, soon to be sloughed, and\nthrough which I should have seen the true _image_--the final\nmetamorphosis. Besides, I have ever thought that sort of atheism the\nnext best religion to Christianity; nor does the better faith I have\nlearned from Paul and John interfere with the cordial reverence I feel\nfor Benedict Spinoza.\u201d\n\nShelley\u2019s favourite study was metaphysics. The more impulse there is in\nany direction, the more education and experience are necessary to\nbalance that impulse: one cannot help thinking that Shelley\u2019s _taste_\nfor exercises of this kind was developed more rapidly than the\ncorresponding _power_. His favourite physical studies were chemistry and\nelectricity. With these he occupied himself from his childhood;\napparently, however, with more delight in the experiments themselves,\nthan interest in the general conclusions to be arrived at by means of\nthem. In the embodiment of his metaphysical ideas in poetry, the\ninfluence of these studies seems to show itself; for he uses forms which\nappeal more to the outer senses than to the inward eye; and his similes\nbelong to the realm of the fancy, rather than the imagination: they lack\n_vital_ resemblance. Logic had considerable attractions for him. To\ngeometry and mathematics he was quite indifferent. One of his\nbiographers states that \u201che was neglectful of flowers,\u201d because he had\nno interest in botany; but one who derived such full delight from the\ncontemplation of their external forms, could hardly be expected to feel\nvery strongly the impulse to dissect them. He derived exceeding pleasure\nfrom Greek literature, especially from the works of Plato.\n\nSeveral little peculiarities in Shelley\u2019s tastes are worth mentioning,\nbecause, although in themselves insignificant, they seem to correspond\nwith the nature of his poetry. Perhaps the most prominent of these was\nhis passion for boat-sailing. He could not pass any piece of water\nwithout launching upon it a number of boats, constructed from what paper\nhe could find in his pockets. The fly-leaves of the books he was in the\nway of carrying with him, for he was constantly reading, often went to\nthis end. He would watch the fate of these boats with the utmost\ninterest, till they sank or reached the opposite side. He was just as\nfond of real boating, and that frequently of a dangerous kind; but it is\ncharacteristic of him, that all the boats he describes in his poems are\nof a fairy, fantastic sort, barely related to the boats which battle\nwith earthly winds and waves. Pistol-shooting was also a favourite\namusement. Fireworks, too, gave him great delight. Some of his habits\nwere likewise peculiar. He was remarkably abstemious, preferring bread\nand raisins to anything else in the way of eating, and very seldom\ndrinking anything stronger than water. Honey was a favourite luxury with\nhim. While at college, his biographer Hogg says he was in the habit,\nduring the evening, of going to sleep on the rug, close to a blazing\nfire, heat seeming never to have other than a beneficial effect upon\nhim. After sleeping some hours, he would awake perfectly restored, and\ncontinue actively occupied till far into the morning. His whole\nmovements are represented as rapid, hurried, and uncertain. He would\nappear and disappear suddenly and unexpectedly; forget appointments;\nburst into wild laughter, heedless of his situation, whenever anything\nstruck him as peculiarly ludicrous. His changes of residence were most\nnumerous, and frequently made with so much haste that whole little\nlibraries were left behind, and often lost. He was very fond of\nchildren, and used to make humorous efforts to induce them to disclose\nto him the still-remembered secrets of their pre-existence. He seemed to\nhave a peculiar attraction towards mystery, and was ready to believe in\na hidden secret, where no one else would have thought of one. His room,\nwhile he was at college, was in a state of indescribable confusion. Not\nonly were all sorts of personal necessaries mingled with books and\nphilosophical instruments, but things belonging to one department of\nservice were not unfrequently pressed into the slavery of another. He\ndressed well but carelessly. In person he was tall, slender, and\nstooping; awkward in gait, but in manners a thorough gentleman. His\ncomplexion was delicate; his head, face, and features, remarkably small;\nthe last not very regular, but in expression, both intellectual and\nmoral, wonderfully beautiful. His eyes were deep blue, \u201cof a wild,\nstrange beauty;\u201d his forehead high and white; his hair dark brown,\ncurling, long, and bushy. His appearance in later life is described as\nsingularly combining the appearances of premature age and prolonged\nyouth.\n\nThe only art in which his taste appears to have been developed was\npoetry. Even in his poetry, taken as a whole, the artistic element is\nnot generally very manifest. His earliest verses (none of which are\nincluded in his collected works) can hardly be said to be good in any\nsense. He seems in these to have chosen poetry as a fitting material for\nthe embodiment of his ardent, hopeful, indignant thoughts and feelings,\nbut, provided he can say what he wants to say, does not seem to\ncare much about _how_ he says it. Indeed, there is too much of\nthis throughout his works; for if the _utterance_, instead of\nthe _conveyance_ of thought, were the object pursued in art, of\ncourse not merely imperfection of language, but absolute external\nunintelligibility, would be admissible. But his art constantly increases\nwith his sense of its necessity; so that the _Cenci_, which is the last\nwork of any pretension that he wrote, is decidedly the most artistic of\nall. There are beautiful passages in _Queen Mab_, but it is the work of\na boy-poet; and as it was all but repudiated by himself, it is not\nnecessary to remark further upon it. _The Revolt of Islam_ is a poem of\ntwelve cantos, in the Spenserian stanza; but in all respects except the\narrangement of lines and rimes, his stanza, in common with all other\nimitations of the Spenserian, has little or nothing of the spirit or\nindividuality of the original. The poem is dedicated to the cause of\nfreedom, and records the efforts, successes, defeats, and final\ntriumphant death of two inspired champions of liberty--a youth and\nmaiden. The adventures are marvellous, not intended to be within the\nbounds of probability, scarcely of possibility. There are very noble\nsentiments and fine passages throughout the poem. Now and then there is\ngrandeur. But the absence of art is too evident in the fact that the\nmeaning is often obscure; an obscurity not unfrequently occasioned by\nthe difficulty of the stanza, which is the most difficult mode of\ncomposition in English, except the rigid sonnet. The words and forms he\nemploys to express thought seem sometimes mechanical devices for that\npurpose, rather than an utterance which suggested itself naturally to a\nmind where the thought was vitally present. The words are more a\n_clothing_ for the thought than an _embodiment_ of it. They do not lie\nnear enough to the thing which is intended to be represented by them. It\nis, however, but just to remark, that some of the obscurity is owing to\nthe fact, that, even with Mrs. Shelley\u2019s superintendence, the works have\nnot yet been satisfactorily edited, or at least not conducted through\nthe press with sufficient care. [Footnote: This statement is no longer\ntrue.]\n\n_The Cenci_ is a very powerful tragedy, but unfitted for public\nrepresentation by the horrible nature of the historical facts upon which\nit is founded. In the execution of it, however, Shelley has kept very\nmuch nearer to nature than in any other of his works. He has rigidly\nadhered to his perception of artistic propriety in respect to the\ndramatic utterance. It may be doubted whether there is sufficient\ndifference between the modes of speech of the different actors in the\ntragedy, but it is quite possible to individualize speech far too\nminutely for probable nature; and in this respect, at least, Shelley has\nnot erred. Perhaps the action of the whole is a little hurried, and a\ncentral moment of awful repose and fearful anticipation might add to the\nforce of the tragedy. The scenes also might, perhaps, have been\nconstructed so as to suggest more of evolution; but the central point of\nhorror is most powerfully and delicately handled. You see a possible\nspiritual horror yet behind, more frightful than all that has gone\nbefore. The whole drama, indeed, is constructed around, not a prominent\npoint, but a dim, infinitely-withdrawn, underground perspective of\ndismay and agony. Perhaps it detracts a little from our interest in the\nLady Beatrice, that after all she should wish to live, and should seek\nto preserve her life by a denial of her crime. She, however, evidently\njustifies the denial to herself on the ground that, the deed being\nabsolutely right, although regarded as most criminal by her judges, the\nonly way to get true justice is to deny the fact, which, there being no\nguilt, she might consider as only a verbal lie. Her very purity of\nconscience enables her to utter this with the most absolute innocence of\nlook, and word, and tone. This is probably a historical fact, and\nShelley had to make the best of it. In the drama there is great\ntenderness, as well as terror; but for a full effect, one feels it\ndesirable to be brought better acquainted with the individuals than the\ndrama, from its want of graduation, permits. Shelley, however, was only\nsix-and-twenty when he wrote it. He must have been attracted to the\nsubject by its embodying the concentration of tyranny, lawlessness, and\nbrutality in old Cenci, as opposed to, and exercised upon, an ideal\nloveliness and nobleness in the person of Beatrice.\n\nBut of all Shelley\u2019s works, the _Prometheus Unbound_ is that which\ncombines the greatest amount of individual power and peculiarity. There\nis an airy grandeur about it, reminding one of the vast masses of cloud\nscattered about in broken, yet magnificently suggestive forms, all over\nthe summer sky, after a thunderstorm. The fundamental ideas are grand;\nthe superstructure, in many parts, so ethereal, that one hardly knows\nwhether he is gazing on towers of solid masonry rendered dim and\nunsubstantial by intervening vapour, or upon the golden turrets of\ncloudland, themselves born of the mist which surrounds them with a halo\nof glory. The beings of Greek, mythology are idealized and etherealized\nby the new souls which he puts into them, making them think his thoughts\nand say his words. In reading this, as in reading most of his poetry, we\nfeel that, unable to cope with the evils and wrongs of the world as it\nand they are, he constructs a new universe, wherein he may rule\naccording to his will; and a good will in the main it is--good always in\nintent, good generally in form and utterance. Of the wrongs which\nShelley endured from the collision and resulting conflict between his\nlawless goodness and the lawful wickedness of those in authority, this\nis one of the greatest,--that during the right period of pupillage, he\nwas driven from the place of learning, cast on his own mental resources\nlong before those resources were sufficient for his support, and\nirritated against the purest embodiment of good by the harsh treatment\nhe received under its name. If that reverence which was far from wanting\nto his nature, had been but presented, in the person of some guide to\nhis spiritual being, with an object worthy of its homage and trust, it\nis probable that the yet free and noble result of Shelley\u2019s\nindividuality would have been presented to the world in a form which,\nwhile it attracted still only the few, would not have repelled the many;\nat least, not by such things as were merely accidental in their\nassociation with his earnest desires and efforts for the well-being of\nhumanity.\n\nThat which chiefly distinguishes Shelley from other writers is the\nunequalled exuberance of his fancy. The reader, say for instance of that\nfantastically brilliant poem, _The Witch of Atlas_, the work of three\ndays, is overwhelmed in a storm, as it were, of rainbow snow-flakes and\nmany-coloured lightnings, accompanied ever by \u201ca low melodious thunder.\u201d\n The evidences of pure imagination in his writings are unfrequent as\ncompared with those of fancy: there are not half the instances of the\ndirect embodiment of idea in form, that there are of the presentation of\nstrange resemblances between external things.\n\nOne of the finest short specimens of Shelley\u2019s peculiar mode is his _Ode\nto the West Wind_, full of mysterious melody of thought and sound. But\nof all his poems, the most popular, and deservedly so, is the _Skylark_.\nPerhaps the _Cloud_ may contest it with the _Skylark_ in regard to\npopular favour; but the _Cloud_, although full of beautiful words and\nfantastic cloud-like images, is, after all, principally a work of the\nfancy; while the _Skylark_, though even in it fancy predominates over\nimagination in the visual images, forms, as a whole, a lovely, true,\nindividual work of art; a _lyric_ not unworthy of the _lark_, which\nMason apostrophizes as \u201csweet feathered lyric.\u201d The strain of sadness\nwhich pervades it is only enough to make the song of the lark human.\n\nIn _The Sensitive Plant_, a poem full of the peculiarities of his\ngenius, tending through a wilderness of fanciful beauties to a thicket\nof mystical speculation, one curious idiosyncrasy is more prominent than\nin any other--curious, as belonging to the poet of beauty and\nloveliness: it is the tendency to be fascinated by what is ugly and\nrevolting, so that he cannot withdraw his thoughts from it till he has\ndescribed it in language, powerful, it is true, and poetic, when\nconsidered as to its fitness for the desired end, but, in force of these\nvery excellences in the means, nearly as revolting as the objects\nthemselves. Associated with this is the tendency to discover strangely\nunpleasant likenesses between things; which likenesses he is not content\nwith seeing, but seems compelled, perhaps in order to get rid of them\nhimself, to force upon the observation of his reader. But the admirer of\nShelley is not pleased to find that one or two passages of this nature\nhave been omitted in some editions of his works.\n\nFew men have been more misunderstood or misrepresented than Shelley.\nDoubtless this has in part been his own fault, as Coleridge implies when\nhe writes to this effect of him: that his horror of hypocrisy made him\nspeak in such a wild way, that Southey (who was so much a man of forms\nand proprieties) was quite misled, not merely in his estimate of his\nworth, but in his judgment of his character. But setting aside this\nconsideration altogether, and regarding him merely as a poet, Shelley\nhas written verse which will last as long as English literature lasts;\nvaluable not only from its excellence, but from the peculiarity of its\nexcellence. To say nothing of his noble aims and hopes, Shelley will\nalways be admired for his sweet melodies, lovely pictures, and wild\nprophetic imaginings. His indignant remonstrances, intermingled with\ngrand imprecations, burst in thunder from a heart overcharged with the\nlove of his kind, and roused to a keener sense of all oppression by the\nwrongs which sought to overwhelm himself. But as he recedes further in\ntime, and men are able to see more truly the proportions of the man,\nthey will judge, that without having gained the rank of a great\nreformer, Shelley had in him that element of wide sympathy and lofty\nhope for his kind which is essential both to the _birth_ and the\nsubsequent _making_ of the greatest of poets.\n\n\n\n\nA SERMON.\n\n\n[Footnote: Read in the Unitarian chapel, Essex-street, London, 1879.]\n\nPHILIPPIANS iii. 15, 16.--Let us therefore, as many as be perfect, be\nthus minded; and if in anything ye be otherwise minded, God shall reveal\neven this unto you. Nevertheless, whereto we have already attained, let\nus walk by that same.\n\n\nThis is the reading of the oldest manuscripts. The rest of the verse is\npretty clearly a not overwise marginal gloss that has crept into the\ntext.\n\nIn its origin, opinion is the intellectual body, taken for utterance and\npresentation by something necessarily larger than any intellect can\nafford stuff sufficient for the embodiment of. To the man himself,\ntherefore, in whose mind it arose, an opinion will always represent and\nrecall the spirit whose form it is,--so long, at least, as the man\nremains true to his better self. Hence, a man\u2019s opinion may be for him\ninvaluable, the needle of his moral compass, always pointing to the\ntruth whence it issued, and whose form it is. Nor is the man\u2019s opinion\nof the less value to him that it may change. Nay, to be of true value,\nit must have in it not only the possibility, but the necessity of\nchange: it must change in every man who is alive with that life which,\nin the New Testament, is alone treated as life at all. For, if a man\u2019s\nopinion be in no process of change whatever, it must be dead, valueless,\nhurtful Opinion is the offspring of that which is itself born to grow;\nwhich, being imperfect, must grow or die. Where opinion is growing, its\nimperfections, however many and serious, will do but little hurt; where\nit is not growing, these imperfections will further the decay and\ncorruption which must already have laid hold of the very heart of the\nman. But it is plain in the world\u2019s history that what, at some given\nstage of the same, was the embodiment in intellectual form of the\nhighest and deepest of which it was then spiritually capable, has often\nand speedily become the source of the most frightful outrages upon\nhumanity. How is this? Because it has passed from the mind in which it\ngrew into another in which it did not grow, and has of necessity altered\nits nature. Itself sprung from that which was deepest in the man, it\ncasts seeds which take root only in the intellectual understanding of\nhis neighbour; and these, springing up, produce flowers indeed which\nlook much the same to the eye, but fruit which is poison and\nbitterness,--worst of it all, the false and arrogant notion that it is\nduty to force the opinion upon the acceptance of others. But it is\nbecause such men themselves hold with so poor a grasp the truth\nunderlying their forms that they are, in their self-sufficiency, so\nambitious of propagating the forms, making of themselves the worst\nenemies of the truth of which they fancy themselves the champions. How\ntruly, in the case of all genuine teachers of men, shall a man\u2019s foes be\nthey of his own household! For of all the destroyers of the truth which\nany man has preached, none have done it so effectually or so grievously\nas his own followers. So many of them have received but the forms, and\nknow nothing of the truth which gave him those forms! They lay hold but\nof the non-essential, the specially perishing in those forms; and these\naspects, doubly false and misleading in their crumbling disjunction,\nthey proceed to force upon the attention and reception of men, calling\nthat the truth which is at best but the draggled and useless fringe of\nits earth-made garment. Opinions so held belong to the theology of\nhell,--not necessarily altogether false in form, but false utterly in\nheart and spirit. The opinion then that is hurtful is not that which is\nformed in the depths, and from the honest necessities of a man\u2019s own\nnature, but that which he has taken up at second hand, the study of\nwhich has pleased his intellect; has perhaps subdued fears and mollified\ndistresses which ought rather to have grown and increased until they had\ndriven the man to the true physician; has puffed him up with a sense of\nsuperiority as false as foolish, and placed in his hand a club with\nwhich to subjugate his neighbour to his spiritual dictation. The true\nman even, who aims at the perpetuation of his opinion, is rather\nobstructing than aiding the course of that truth for the love of which\nhe holds his opinion; for truth is a living thing, opinion is a dead\nthing, and transmitted opinion a deadening thing.\n\nLet us look at St. Paul\u2019s feeling in this regard. And, in order that we\nmay deprive it of none of its force, let us note first the nature of the\ntruth which he had just been presenting to his disciples, when he\nfollows it with the words of my text:--\n\n\nBut what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ.\n\nYea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the\nknowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of\nall things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ,\n\nAnd be found in him, not having mine own righteousness, which is of the\nlaw, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness\nwhich is of God by faith:\n\nThat I may know him, and the power of his resurrection, and the\nfellowship of his sufferings, being made conformable unto his death;\n\nIf by any means I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead.\n\nNot as though I had already attained, either were already perfect: but I\nfollow after, if that I may apprehend that for which also I am\napprehended of Christ Jesus.\n\nBrethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I\ndo, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto\nthose things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of\nthe high calling of God in Christ Jesus.\n\n\nSt. Paul, then, had been declaring to the Philippians the idea upon\nwhich, so far as it lay with him, his life was constructed, the thing\nfor which he lived, to which the whole conscious effort of his being was\ndirected,--namely, to be in his very nature one with Christ, to become\nrighteous as he is righteous; to die into his death, so that he should\nno more hold the slightest personal relation to evil, but be alive in\nevery fibre to all that is pure, lovely, loving, beautiful, perfect. He\nhad been telling them that he spent himself in continuous effort to lay\nhold upon that for the sake of which Christ had laid hold on him. This\nhe declares the sole thing worth living for: the hope of this, the hope\nof becoming one with the living God, is that which keeps a glorious\nconsciousness awake in him, amidst all the unrest of a being not yet at\nharmony with itself, and a laborious and persecuted life. It cannot\ntherefore be any shadow of indifference to the truth to which he has\nborne this witness, that causes him to add, \u201cIf in anything ye be\notherwise minded.\u201d It is to him even the test of perfection, whether\nthey be thus minded or not; for, although a moment before, he has\ndeclared himself short of the desired perfection, he now says, \u201cLet as\nmany of us as are perfect be thus minded.\u201d There is here no room for\nthat unprofitable thing, bare logic: we must look through the shifting\nrainbow of his words,--rather, we must gather all their tints together,\nthen turn our backs upon the rainbow, that we may see the glorious light\nwhich is the soul of it. St. Paul is not that which he would be, which\nhe must be; but he, and all they who with him believe that the\nperfection of Christ is the sole worthy effort of a man\u2019s life, are in\nthe region, though not yet at the centre, of perfection. They are, even\nnow, not indeed grasping, but in the grasp of, that perfection. He tells\nthem this is the one thing to mind, the one thing to go on desiring and\nlabouring for, with all the earnestness of a God-born existence; but, if\nany one be at all otherwise minded,--that is, of a different\nopinion,--what then? That it is of little or no consequence? No, verily;\nbut of such endless consequence that God will himself unveil to them the\ntruth of the matter. This is Paul\u2019s faith, not his opinion. Faith is\nthat by which a man lives inwardly, and orders his way outwardly. Faith\nis the root, belief the tree, and opinion the foliage that falls and is\nrenewed with the seasons. Opinion is, at best, even the opinion of a\ntrue man, but the cloak of his belief, which he may indeed cast to his\nneighbour, but not with the truth inside it: that remains in his own\nbosom, the oneness between him and his God. St. Paul knows well--who\nbetter?--that by no argument, the best that logic itself can afford, can\na man be set right with the truth; that the spiritual perception which\ncomes of hungering contact with the living truth--a perception which is\nin itself a being born again--can alone be the mediator between a man\nand the truth. He knows that, even if he could pass his opinion over\nbodily into the understanding of his neighbour, there would be little or\nnothing gained thereby, for the man\u2019s spiritual condition would be just\nwhat it was before. God must reveal, or nothing is known. And this,\nthrough thousands of difficulties occasioned by the man himself, God is\never and always doing his mighty best to effect.\n\nSee the grandeur of redeeming liberality in the Apostle. In his heart of\nhearts he knows that salvation consists in nothing else than being one\nwith Christ; that the only life of every man is hid with Christ in God,\nand to be found by no search anywhere else. He believes that for this\ncause was he born into the world,--that he should give himself, heart\nand soul, body and spirit, to him who came into the world that he might\nbear witness to the truth. He believes that for the sake of this, and\nnothing less,--anything more there cannot be,--was the world, with its\nendless glories, created. Nay, more than all, he believes that for this\ndid the Lord, in whose cross, type and triumph of his self-abnegation,\nhe glories, come into the world, and live and die there. And yet, and\nyet, he says, and says plainly, that a man thinking differently from all\nthis or at least, quite unprepared to make this whole-hearted profession\nof faith, is yet his brother in Christ, in whom the knowledge of Christ\nthat he has will work and work, the new leaven casting out the old\nleaven until he, too, in the revelation of the Father, shall come to the\nperfect stature of the fulness of Christ. Meantime, Paul, the Apostle,\nmust show due reverence to the halting and dull disciple. He must and\nwill make no demand upon him on the grounds of what he, Paul, believes.\nHe is where he is, and God is his teacher. To his own Master,--that is,\nPaul\u2019s Master, and not Paul,--he stands. He leaves him to the company of\nhis Master. \u201cLeaves him?\u201d No: that he does not; that he will never do,\nany more than God will leave him. Still and ever will he hold him and\nhelp him. But how help him, if he is not to press upon him his own\nlarger and deeper and wiser insights? The answer is ready: he will\npress, not his opinion, not even the man\u2019s opinion, but the man\u2019s own\nfaith upon him. \u201cO brother, beloved of the Father, walk in the\nlight,--in the light, that is, which is thine, not which is mine; in the\nlight which is given to thee, not to me: thou canst not walk by my\nlight, I cannot walk by thine: how should either walk except by the\nlight which is in him? O brother, what thou seest, that do; and what\nthou seest not, that thou shalt see: God himself, the Father of Lights,\nwill show it to you.\u201d This, this is the condition of all growth,--that\nwhereto we have attained, we mind that same; for such, following the\nmanuscripts, at least the oldest, seems to me the Apostle\u2019s meaning.\nObedience is the one condition of progress, and he entreats them to\nobey. If a man will but work that which is in him, will but make the\npower of God his own, then is it well with him for evermore. Like his\nMaster, Paul urges to action, to the highest operation, therefore to the\nhighest condition of humanity. As Christ was the Son of his Father\nbecause he did the will of the Father, so the Apostle would have them\nthe sons of the Father by doing the will of the Father. Whereto ye have\nattained, walk by _that_.\n\nBut there is more involved in this utterance than the words themselves\nwill expressly carry. Next to his love to the Father and the Elder\nBrother, the passion of Paul\u2019s life--I cannot call it less--is love to\nall his brothers and sisters. Everything human is dear to him: he can\npart with none of it. Division, separation, the breaking of the body of\nChrist, is that which he cannot endure. The body of his flesh had once\nbeen broken, that a grander body might be prepared for him: was it for\nthat body itself to tear itself asunder? With the whole energy of his\ngreat heart, Paul clung to unity. He could clasp together with might and\nmain the body of his Master--the body that Master loved because it was a\nspiritual body, with the life of his Father in it. And he knew well that\nonly by walking in the truth to which they had attained, could they ever\ndraw near to each other. Whereto we have attained, let us walk by that.\n\nMy honoured friends, if we are not practical, we are nothing. Now, the\none main fault in the Christian Church is separation, repulsion, recoil\nbetween the component particles of the Lord\u2019s body. I will not, I do not\ncare to inquire who is more to blame than another in the evil fact. I\nonly care to insist that it is the duty of every individual man to be\ninnocent of the same. One main cause, perhaps I should say _the one_\ncause of this deathly condition, is that whereto we had, we did not,\nwhereto we have attained, we do not walk by that. Ah, friend! do not now\nthink of thy neighbour. Do not applaud my opinion as just from what thou\nhast seen around thee, but answer it from thy own being, thy own\nbehaviour. Dost thou ever feel thus toward thy neighbour,--\u201cYes, of\ncourse, every man is my brother; but how can I be a brother to him so\nlong as he thinks me wrong in what I believe, and so long as I think he\nwrongs in his opinions the dignity of the truth?\u201d What, I return, has\nthe man no hand to grasp, no eyes into which yours may gaze far deeper\nthan your vaunted intellect can follow? Is there not, I ask, anything in\nhim to love? Who asks you to be of one opinion? It is the Lord who asks\nyou to be of one heart. Does the Lord love the man? Can the Lord love,\nwhere there is nothing to love? Are you wiser than he, inasmuch as you\nperceive impossibility where he has failed to discover it? Or will you\nsay, \u201cLet the Lord love where he pleases: I will love where I please\u201d?\nor say, and imagine you yield, \u201cWell, I suppose I must, and therefore I\nwill,--but with certain reservations, politely quiet in my own heart\u201d?\nOr wilt thou say none of all these things, but do them all, one after\nthe other, in the secret chambers of thy proud spirit? If you delight to\ncondemn, you are a wounder, a divider of the oneness of Christ. If you\npride yourself on your loftier vision, and are haughty to your\nneighbour, you are yourself a division and have reason to ask: \u201cAm I a\nparticle of the body at all?\u201d The Master will deal with thee upon the\nscore. Let it humble thee to know that thy dearest opinion, the one thou\ndost worship as if it, and not God, were thy Saviour, this very opinion\nthou art doomed to change, for it cannot possibly be right, if it work\nin thee for death and not for life.\n\nFriends, you have done me the honour and the kindness to ask me to speak\nto you. I will speak plainly. I come before you neither hiding anything\nof my belief, nor foolishly imagining I can transfer my opinions into\nyour bosoms. If there is one r\u00f4le I hate, it is that of the\nproselytizer. But shall I not come to you as a brother to brethren?\nShall I not use the privilege of your invitation and of the place in\nwhich I stand, nay, must I not myself be obedient to the heavenly\nvision, in urging you with all the power of my persuasion to set\nyourselves afresh to _walk_ according to that to which you have\nattained. So doing, whatever yet there is to learn, you shall learn it.\nThus doing, and thus only, can you draw nigh to the centre truth; thus\ndoing, and thus only, shall we draw nigh to each other, and become\nbrothers and sisters in Christ, caring for each other\u2019s honour and\nrighteousness and true well-being. It is to them that keep his\ncommandments that he and his Father will come to take up their abode\nwith them. Whether you or I have the larger share of the truth in that\nwhich we hold, of this I am sure, that it is to them that keep his\ncommandments that it shall be given to eat of the Tree of Life. I\nbelieve that Jesus is the eternal son of the eternal Father; that in him\nthe ideal humanity sat enthroned from all eternity; that as he is the\ndivine man, so is he the human God; that there was no taking of our\nnature upon himself, but the showing of himself as he really was, and\nthat from evermore: these things, friends, I believe, though never would\nI be guilty of what in me would be the irreverence of opening my mouth\nin dispute upon them. Not for a moment would I endeavour by argument to\nconvince another of this, my opinion. If it be true, it is God\u2019s work to\nshow it, for logic cannot. But the more, and not the less, do I believe\nthat he, who is no respecter of persons, will, least of all, respect the\nperson of him who thinks to please him by respecting his person, calling\nhim, \u201cLord, Lord,\u201d and not doing the things that he tells him. Even if I\nbe right, friend, and thou wrong, to thee who doest his commandments\nmore faithfully than I, will the more abundant entrance be administered.\nGod grant that, when thou art admitted first, I may not be cast out, but\nadmitted to learn of thee that it is truth in the inward parts that he\nrequireth, and they that have that truth, and they alone, shall ever\nknow wisdom. Bear with me, friends, for I love and honour you. I seek\nbut to stir up your hearts, as I would daily stir up my own, to be true\nto that which is deepest in us,--the voice and the will of the Father of\nour spirits.\n\nFriends, I have not said we are not to utter our opinions. I have only\nsaid we are not to make those opinions the point of a fresh start, the\nfoundation of a new building, the groundwork of anything. They are not\nto occupy us in our dealings with our brethren. Opinion is often the\nvery death of love. Love aright, and you will come to think aright; and\nthose who think aright must think the same. In the meantime, it matters\nnothing. The thing that does matter is, that whereto we have attained,\nby that we should walk. But, while we are not to insist upon our\nopinions, which is only one way of insisting upon ourselves, however we\nmay cloak the fact from ourselves in the vain imagination of thereby\nspreading the truth, we are bound by loftiest duty to spread the truth;\nfor that is the saving of men. Do you ask, How spread it, if we are not\nto talk about it? Friends, I never said, Do not talk about the truth,\nalthough I insist upon a better and the only indispensable way: let your\nlight shine. What I said before, and say again, is, Do not talk about\nthe lantern that holds the lamp, but make haste, uncover the light, and\nlet it shine. Let your light so shine before men that they may see your\ngood works,--I incline to the Vatican reading of _good things_,--and\nglorify your Father who is in heaven. It is not, Let your good works\nshine, but, Let your light shine. Let it be the genuine love of your\nhearts, taking form in true deeds; not the doing of good deeds to prove\nthat your opinions are right. If ye are thus true, your very talk about\nthe truth will be a good work, a shining of the light that is in you. A\ntrue smile is a good work, and may do much to reveal the Father who is\nin heaven; but the smile that is put on for the sake of looking right,\nor even for the sake of being right, will hardly reveal him, not being\nlike him. Men say that you are cold: if you fear it may be so, do not\nthink to make yourselves warm by putting on the cloak of this or that\nfresh opinion; draw nearer to the central heat, the living humanity of\nthe Son of Man, that ye may have life in yourselves, so heat in\nyourselves, so light in yourselves; understand him, obey him, then your\nlight will shine, and your warmth will warm. There is an infection, as\nin evil, so in good. The better we are, the more will men glorify God.\nIf we trim our lamps so that we have light in our house, that light will\nshine through our windows, and give light to those that are not in the\nhouse. But remember, love of the light alone can trim the lamp. Had Love\ntrimmed Psyche\u2019s lamp, it had never dropped the scalding oil that scared\nhim from her.\n\nThe man who holds his opinion the most honestly ought to see the most\nplainly that his opinion must change. It is impossible a man should hold\nanything aright. How shall the created embrace the self-existent\nCreator? That Creator, and he alone, is _the truth_: how, then, shall a\nman embrace the truth? But to him who will live it,--to him, that is,\nwho walks by that to which he has attained,--the truth will reach down a\nthousand true hands for his to grasp. We would not wish to enclose that\nwhich we can do more than enclose,--live in, namely, as our home,\ninherit, exult in,--the presence of the infinitely higher and better,\nthe heart of the living one. And, if we know that God himself is our\ninheritance, why should we tremble even with hatred at the suggestion\nthat we may, that we must, change our opinions? If we held them aright,\nwe should know that nothing in them that is good can ever be lost; for\nthat is the true, whatever in them may be the false. It is only as they\nhelp us toward God, that our opinions are worth a straw; and every\nnecessary change in them must be to more truth, to greater uplifting\npower. Lord, change me as thou wilt, only do not send me away. That in\nmy opinions for which I really hold them, if I be a true man, will never\npass away; that which my evils and imperfections have, in the process of\nembodying it, associated with the truth, must, thank God, perish and\nfall. My opinions, as my life, as my love, I leave in the hands of him\nwho is my being. I commend my spirit to him of whom it came. Why, then,\nthat dislike to the very idea of such change, that dread of having to\naccept the thing offered by those whom we count our opponents, which is\nsuch a stumbling-block in the way in which we have to walk, such an\nobstruction to our yet inevitable growth? It may be objected that no man\nwill hold his opinions with the needful earnestness, who can entertain\nthe idea of having to change them. But the very objection speaks\npowerfully against such an overvaluing of opinion. For what is it but to\nsay that, in order to be wise, a man must consent to be a fool. Whatever\nmust be, a man must be able to look in the face. It is because we cleave\nto our opinions rather than to the living God, because self and pride\ninterest themselves for their own vile sakes with that which belongs\nonly to the truth, that we become such fools of logic and temper that we\nlie in the prison-houses of our own fancies, ideas, and experiences,\nshut the doors and windows against the entrance of the free spirit, and\nwill not inherit the love of the Father.\n\nYet, for the help and comfort of even such a refuser as this, I would\nsay: Nothing which you reject can be such as it seems to you. For a\nthing is either true or untrue: if it be untrue, it looks, so far like\nitself that you reject it, and with it we have nothing more to do; but,\nif it be true, the very fact that you reject it shows that to you it has\nnot appeared true,--has not appeared itself. The truth can never be even\nbeheld but by the man who accepts it: the thing, therefore, which you\nreject, is not that which it seems to you, but a thing good, and\naltogether beautiful, altogether fit for your gladsome embrace,--a thing\nfrom which you would not turn away, did you see it as it is, but rush to\nit, as Dante says, like the wild beast to his den,--so eager for the\nrefuge of home. No honest man holds a truth for the sake of that because\nof which another honest man rejects it: how it may be with the\ndishonest, I have no confidence in my judgment, and hope I am not bound\nto understand.\n\nLet us then, my friends, beware lest our opinions come between us and\nour God, between us and our neighbour, between us and our better selves.\nLet us be jealous that the human shall not obscure the divine. For we\nare not _mere_ human: we, too, are divine; and there is no such\nobliterator of the divine as the human that acts undivinely. The one\nsecurity against our opinions is to walk according to the truth which\nthey contain.\n\nAnd if men seem to us unreasonable, opposers of that which to us is\nplainly true, let us remember that we are not here to convince men, but\nto let our light shine. Knowledge is not necessarily light; and it is\nlight, not knowledge, that we have to diffuse. The best thing we can do,\ninfinitely the best, indeed the only thing, that men may receive the\ntruth, is to be ourselves true. Beyond all doing of good is the being\ngood; for he that is good not only does good things, but all that he\ndoes is good. Above all, let us be humble before the God of truth,\nfaithfully desiring of him that truth in the inward parts which alone\ncan enable us to walk according to that which we have attained. May the\nGod of peace give you his peace; may the love of Christ constrain you;\nmay the gift of the Holy Spirit be yours. Amen.\n\n\n\n\nTRUE CHRISTIAN MINISTERING.\n\n\n[Footnote: A spoken sermon.]\n\nMATT. xx. 25--28--But Jesus called them unto him and said, Ye know that\nthe princes of the Gentiles exercise dominion over them, and they that\nare great exercise authority upon them. But it should not be so among\nyou: but whosoever will be great among you, let him be your minister;\nand whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant: even as\nthe Son of Man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to\ngive his life a ransom for many.\n\n\nHow little this is believed! People think, if they think about it at\nall, that this is very well in the church, but, as things go in the\nworld, it won\u2019t do. At least, their actions imply this, for every man is\nstruggling to get above the other. Every man would make his neighbour\nhis footstool that he may climb upon him to some throne of glory which\nhe has in his own mind. There is a continual jostling, and crowding, and\nbuzzing, and striving to get promotion. Of course there are known and\nnoble exceptions; but still, there it is. And yet we call ourselves\n\u201cChristians,\u201d and we are Christians, all of us, thus far, that the truth\nis within reach of us all, that it has come nigh to us, talking to us at\nour door, and even speaking in our hearts, and yet this is the way in\nwhich we go on! The Lord said, \u201cIt shall not be so among you.\u201d Did he\nmean only his twelve disciples? This was all that he had to say to them,\nbut--thanks be to him!--he says the same to every one of us now. \u201cIt\nshall not be so among you: that is not the way in my kingdom.\u201d The\npeople of the world--the people who live in the world--will always think\nit best to get up, to have less and less of service to do, more and more\nof service done to them. The notion of rank in the world is like a\npyramid; the higher you go up, the fewer are there who have to serve\nthose above them, and who are served more than those underneath them.\nAll who are under serve those who are above, until you come to the apex,\nand there stands some one who has to do no service, but whom all the\nothers have to serve. Something like that is the notion of position--of\nsocial standing and rank. And if it be so in an intellectual way\neven--to say nothing of mere bodily service--if any man works to a\nposition that others shall all look up to him and that he may have to\nlook up to nobody, he has just put himself precisely into the same\ncondition as the people of whom our Lord speaks--as those who exercise\ndominion and authority, and really he thinks it a fine thing to be\nserved.\n\nBut it is not so in the kingdom of heaven. The figure there is entirely\nreversed. As you may see a pyramid reflected in the water, just so, in a\nreversed way altogether, is the thing to be found in the kingdom of God.\nIt is in this way: the Son of Man lies at the inverted apex of the\npyramid; he upholds, and serves, and ministers unto all, and they who\nwould be high in his kingdom must go near to him at the bottom, to\nuphold and minister to all that they may or can uphold and minister\nunto. There is no other law of precedence, no other law of rank and\nposition in God\u2019s kingdom. And mind, that is _the_ kingdom. The other\nkingdom passes away--it is a transitory, ephemeral, passing, bad thing,\nand away it must go. It is only there on sufferance, because in the mind\nof God even that which is bad ministers to that which is good; and when\nthe new kingdom is built the old kingdom shall pass away.\n\nBut the man who seeks this rank of which I have spoken, must be honest\nto follow it. It will not do to say, \u201cI want to be great, and therefore\nI will serve.\u201d A man will not get at it so. He may begin so, but he will\nsoon find that that will not do. He must seek it for the truth\u2019s sake,\nfor the love of his fellows, for the worship of God, for the delight in\nwhat is good. In the kingdom of heaven people do not think whether I am\npromoted, or whether you are promoted. They are so absorbed in the\ndelight and glory of the goodness that is round about them, that they\nlearn not to think much about themselves. It is the bad that is in us\nthat makes us think about ourselves. It is necessary for us, because\nthere is bad in us, to think about ourselves, but as we go on we think\nless and less about ourselves, until at last we are possessed with the\nspirit of the truth, the spirit of the kingdom, and live in gladness and\nin peace. We are prouder of our brothers and sisters than of ourselves;\nwe delight to look at them. God looks at us, and makes us what he\npleases, and this is what we must come to; there is no escape from it.\n\nBut the Lord says, that \u201cthe Son of Man came not to be ministered unto.\u201d\n Was he not ministered unto then? Ah! he was ministered unto as never man\nwas, but he did not come for that. Even now we bring to him the\nburnt-offerings of our very spirits, but he did not come for that. It\nwas to help us that he came. We are told, likewise, that he is the\nexpress image of the Father. Then what he does, the Father must do; and\nhe says himself, when he is accused of breaking the Sabbath by doing\nwork on it, \u201cMy Father worketh hitherto, and I work.\u201d Then this must be\nGod\u2019s way too, or else it could not have been Jesus\u2019s way. It is God\u2019s\nway. Oh! do not think that God made us with his hands, and then turned\nus out to find out our own way. Do not think of him as being always over\nour heads, merely throwing over us a wide-spread benevolence. You can\nimagine the tenderness of a mother\u2019s heart who takes her child even from\nits beloved nurse to soothe and to minister to it, and that is like God;\nthat is God. His hand is not only over us, but recollect what David\nsaid--\u201cHis hand was upon me.\u201d I wish we were all as good Christians as\nDavid was. \u201cWherever I go,\u201d he said, \u201cGod is there--beneath me, before\nme, his hand is upon me; if I go to sleep he is there; when I go down to\nthe dead he is there.\u201d Everywhere is God. The earth underneath us is his\nhand upholding us. [Footnote: The waters are in the hollow of it.] Every\nspring-fountain of gladness about us is his making and his delight. He\ntends us and cares for us; he is close to us, breathing into our\nnostrils the breath of life, and breathing into our spirit this thought\nand that thought to make us look up and recognize the love and the care\naround us. What a poor thing for the little baby would it be if it were\nto be constantly tended thus tenderly and preciously by its mother, but\nif it were never to open its eyes to look up and see her mother\u2019s face\nbending over it. A poor thing all its tending would be without that. It\nis for that that the other exists; it is by that that the other comes.\nTo recognize and know this loving-kindness, and to stand up in it strong\nand glad; this is the ministration of God unto us. Do you ever think \u201cI\ncould worship God if he was so-and-so?\u201d Do you imagine that God is not\nas good, as perfect, as absolutely all-in-all as your thoughts can\nimagine? Aye, you cannot come up to it; do what you will you never will\ncome up to it. Use all the symbols that we have in nature, in human\nrelations, in the family--all our symbols of grace and tenderness, and\nloving-kindness between man and man, and between man and woman, and\nbetween woman and woman, but you can never come up to the thought of\nwhat God\u2019s ministration is. When our Lord came he just let us see how\nhis Father was doing this always, he \u201ccame to give his life a ransom for\nmany.\u201d It was in giving his life a ransom for us that he died; that was\nthe consummation and crown of it all, but it was his life that he gave\nfor us--his whole being, his whole strength, his whole energy--not alone\nhis days of trouble and of toil, but deeper than that, he gave his whole\nbeing for us; yea, he even went down to death for us.\n\nBut how are we to learn this ministration? I will tell you where it\nbegins. The most of us are forced to work; if you do not see that the\ncommonest things in life belong to the Christian scheme, the plan of\nGod, you have got to learn it. I say this is at the beginning. Most of\nus have to work, and infinitely better is that for us than if we were\nnot forced to work, but not a very fine thing unless it goes to\nsomething farther. We are forced to work; and what is our work? It is\ndoing something for other people always. It is doing; it is ministration\nin some shape or other. All kind of work is a serving, but it may not be\nalways Christian service. No. Some of us only work for our wages; we\nmust have them. We starve, and deserve to starve, if we do not work to\nget them. But we must go a little beyond that; yes, a very great way\nbeyond that. There is no honest work that one man does for another which\nhe may not do as unto the Lord and not unto men; in which he cannot do\nright as he ought to do right. Thus, I say that the man who sees the\ncommonest thing in the world, recognizing it as part of the divine order\nof things, the law by which the world goes, being the intention of God\nthat one man should be serviceable and useful to another--the man, I\nsay, who does a thing well because of this, and who tries to do it\nbetter, is doing God service.\n\nWe talk of \u201cdivine service.\u201d It is a miserable name for a great thing.\nIt is not service, properly speaking, at all. When a boy comes to his\nfather and says, \u201cMay I do so and so for you?\u201d or, rather, comes and\nbreaks out in some way, showing his love to his father--says, \u201cMay I\ncome and sit beside you? May I have some of your books? May I come and\nbe quiet a little in your room?\u201d what would you think of that boy if he\nwent and said, \u201cI have been doing my father a service.\u201d So with praying\nto and thanking God, do you call that serving God? If it is not serving\nyourselves it is worth nothing; if it is not the best condition you can\nfind yourselves in, you have to learn what it is yet. Not so; the work\nyou have to do to-morrow in the counting-house, in the shop, or wherever\nyou may be, is that by which you are to serve God. Do it with a high\nregard, and then there is nothing mean in it; but there is everything\nmean in it if you are pretending to please people when you only look for\nyour wages. It is mean then; but if you have regard to doing a thing\nnobly, greatly, and truly, because it is the work that God has given you\nto do, then you are doing the divine service.\n\nOf course, this goes a great deal farther. We have endless opportunities\nof showing ourselves neighbours to the man who comes near us. That is\nthe divine service; that is the reality of serving God. The others ought\nto be your reward, if \u201creward\u201d is a word that can be used in such a\nrelation at all. Go home and speak to God; nay, hold your tongue, and\nquietly go to him in the secret recesses of your own heart, and know\nthat God is there. Say, \u201cGod has given me this work to do, and I am\ndoing it;\u201d and that is your joy, that is your refuge, that is your going\nto heaven. It is not service. The words \u201cdivine service,\u201d as they are\nused, always move me to something of indignation. It is perfect\npaganism; it is looking to please God by gathering together your\nservices,--something that is supposed to be service to him. He is\nserving us for ever, and our Lord says, \u201cIf I have washed your feet, so\nyou ought to wash one another\u2019s feet.\u201d This will be the way in which to\nminister for some.\n\nBut still, when we are beginning to learn this, some of us are looking\nabout us in a blind kind of way, thinking, \u201cI wish I could serve God; I\ndo not know what to do! How is it to be begun? What is it at the root of\nit? What shall I find out to do? Where is there something to do?\u201d\n\nNow, first of all, service is obedience, or it is nothing. This is what\nI would gladly impress upon you; upon every young man who has come to\nthe point to be able to receive it. There is a tendency in us to think\nthat there is something degrading in obedience, something degrading in\nservice. According to the social judgment there is; according to the\njudgment of the earth there is. Not so according to the judgment of\nheaven, for God would only have us do the very thing he is doing\nhimself. You may see the tendency of this nowadays. There is scarcely a\nyoung man who will speak of his \u201cmaster.\u201d He feels as if there is\nsomething that hurts his dignity in doing so. He does just what so many\ntheologians have done about God, who, instead of taking what our Lord\nhas given us, talk about God as \u201cthe Governor of the Universe.\u201d So a\nyoung man talks about his master as \u201cthe governor;\u201d nay, he even talks\nof his own father in that way, and then you come in another region\naltogether, and a worse one. I take these things as symptoms, mind. I\nknow habits may be picked up, when they get common, without any great\ncorresponding feeling; but a wrong habit tends always to a wrong\nfeeling, and if a man cannot learn to honour his father, so as to be\nable to call him \u201cfather,\u201d I think one or the other of them is greatly\nto blame, whether the father or the son I cannot say. I know there are\nsuch parents that to tell their children that God is their \u201cFather\u201d is\nno help to them, but the contrary. I heard of a lady just the other day\nto whom, in trying to comfort her, some one said, \u201cRemember God is your\nFather.\u201d \u201cDo not mention the name \u2018father\u2019 to me,\u201d she said. Ah! that\nkind of fault does not lie in God, but in those who, not being like him,\ncannot use the names aright which belong to him.\n\nBut now, as to this service, this obedience. Our Lord came to give his\nlife a ransom for the many, and to minister unto all in obedience to his\nFather\u2019s will. We call him equal with God--at least, most of us here, I\nsuppose, do; of course we do not pretend to explain; we know that God is\ngreater than he, because he said so; but somehow, we can worship him\nwith our God, and we need not try to distinguish more than is necessary\nabout it. But do you think that he was less divine than the Father when\nhe was obedient? Observe his obedience to the will of his Father. He was\nnot the ruler there. He did not give the commands; he obeyed them. And\nyet we say He is God! Ah, that is no difficulty to me. Obedience is as\ndivine in its essence as command; nay, it may be more divine in the\nhuman being far; it cannot be more divine in God, but obedience is far\nmore divine in its essence with regard to humanity than command is. It\nis not the ruling being who is most like God; it is the man who\nministers to his fellow, who is like God; and the man who will just\nsternly and rigidly do what his master tells him--be that master what he\nmay--who is likest Christ in that one particular matter. Obedience is\nthe grandest thing in the world to begin with. Yes, and we shall end\nwith it too. I do not think the time will ever come when we shall not\nhave something to do, because we are told to do it without knowing why.\nThose parents act most foolishly who wish to explain everything to their\nchildren--most foolishly. No; teach your child to obey, and you give him\nthe most precious lesson that can be given to a child. Let him come to\nthat before you have had him long, to do what he is told, and you have\ngiven him the plainest, first, and best lesson that you can give him. If\nhe never goes to school at all he had better have that lesson than all\nthe schooling in the world. Hence, when some people are accustomed to\nglorify this age of ours as being so much better in everything than\nthose which went before, I look back to the times of chivalry, which we\nregard now, almost, as a thing to laugh at, or a merry thing to make\njokes about; but I find that the one essential of chivalry was\nobedience. It is recognized in our army still, but in those times it was\ncarried much farther. When a boy was seven years old he was sent into\nanother family, and put with another boy there to do what? To wait with\nhim upon the master and the mistress of the house, and to be taught, as\nwell, what few things they knew in those times in the way of\nintellectual cultivation. But he also learned stern, strict obedience,\nsuch as it was impossible for him to forget. Then, when he had been\nthere seven years, hard at work, standing behind the chair, and\nministering, he was advanced a step; and what was that step? He was made\nan esquire. He had his armour given him; he had to watch his armour in\nthe chapel all night, laying it on the altar in silent devotion to God.\nI do not say that all these things were carried out afterwards, but this\nwas the idea of them. He was an esquire, and what was the duty of an\nesquire? More service; more important service. He still had to attend to\nhis master, the knight. He had to watch him; he had to groom his horse\nfor him; he had to see that his horse was sound; he had to clean his\narmour for him; to see that every bolt, every rivet, every strap, every\nbuckle was sound, for the life of his master was in his hands. The\nmaster, having to fight, must not be troubled with these things, and\ntherefore the squire had to attend to them. Then seven years after that\na more solemn ceremony is gone through, and the squire is made a knight;\nbut is he free of service then? No; he makes a solemn oath to help\neverybody who needs help, especially women and children, and so he rides\nout into the world to do the work of a true man. There was a grand and\nessential idea of Christianity in that--no doubt wonderfully broken and\nshattered, but not more so than the Christian church has been;\nwonderfully broken and shattered, but still the essence of obedience;\nand I say it is recognized in our army still, and in every army; and\nwhere it is lost it is a terrible loss, and an army is worth nothing\nwithout it. You remember that terrible story from the East, that fearful\ndeath-charge, one of the grandest things in our history, although one of\nthe most blundering:--\n\n  \u201cTheirs not to make reply,\n  Theirs not to reason why,\n  Theirs but to do and die;\n  Into the valley of death\n       Rode the Six Hundred.\u201d\n\nSo with the Christian man; whatever meets him, obedience is the thing.\nIf he is told by his conscience, which is the candle of God within him,\nthat he must do a thing, why he must do it. He may tremble from head to\nfoot at having to do it, but he will tremble more if he turns his back.\nYou recollect how our old poet Spenser shows us the Knight of the Red\nCross, who is the knight of holiness, ill in body, diseased in mind,\nwithout any of his armour on, attacked by a fearful giant. What does he\ndo? Run away? No, he has but time to catch up his sword, and, trembling\nin every limb, he goes on to meet the giant; and that is the thing that\nevery Christian man must do. I cannot put it too strongly; it is\nimpossible. There is no escape from it. If death itself lies before us,\nand we know it, there is nothing to be said; it is all to be done, and\nthen there is no loss; everything else is all lost unto God. Look at our\nLord. He gave his life to do the will of his Father, and on he went and\ndid it. Do you think it was easy for him--easier for him than it would\nhave been for us? Ah! the greater the man the more delicate and tender\nhis nature, and the more he shrinks from the opposition even of his\nfellowmen, because he loves them. It was a terrible thing for Christ.\nEven now and then, even in the little touches that come to us in the\nscanty story (though enough) this breaks out. \u201cWe are told by John that\nat the Last Supper He was troubled in spirit, and testified.\u201d And then\nhow he tries to comfort himself as soon as Judas has gone out to do the\nthing which was to finish his great work: \u201cNow is the Son of Man\nglorified, and God is glorified in him. If God be glorified in him, God\nshall also glorify him in himself.\u201d Then he adds,--just gathering up his\nstrength,--\u201cI shall straightway glorify him.\u201d This was said to his\ndisciples, but I seem to see in it that some of it was said for himself.\nThis is the grand obedience! Oh, friends, this is a hard lesson to\nlearn. We find every day that it is a hard thing to teach. We are\ncontinually grumbling because we cannot get the people about us, our\nservants, our tradespeople, or whoever they may be, to do just what we\ntell them. It makes half the misery in the world because they will have\nsomething of their own in it against what they are told. But are we not\nalways doing the same thing? and ought we not to learn something of\nforgiveness for them, and very much from the fact that we are just in\nthe same position? We only recognize in part that we are put here in\nthis world precisely to learn to be obedient. He who is our Lord and our\nGod went on being obedient all the time, and was obedient always; and I\nsay it is as divine for us to obey as it is for God to rule. As I have\nsaid already, God is ministering the whole time. Now, do you want to\nknow how to minister? Begin by obeying. Obey every one who has a right\nto command you; but above all, look to what our Lord has said, and find\nout what he wants you to do out of what he left behind, and try whether\nobedience to that will not give a consciousness of use, of ministering,\nof being a part of the grand scheme and way of God in this world. In\nfact, take your place in it as a vital portion of the divine kingdom,\nor--to use a better figure than that--a vital portion of the Godhead.\nTry it, and see whether obedience is not salvation; whether service is\nnot dignity; whether you will not feel in yourselves that you have begun\nto be cleansed from your plague when you begin to say, \u201cI will seek no\nmore to be above my fellows, but I will seek to minister to them, doing\nmy work in God\u2019s name for them.\u201d\n\n  \u201cWho sweeps a room as for Thy law,\n  Makes that and the action fine.\u201d\n\nBoth the room and the action are good when done for God\u2019s sake. That is\ndear old George Herbert\u2019s way of saying the same truth, for every man\nhas his own way of saying it. The gift of the Spirit of God to make you\nthink as God thinks, feel as God feels, judge as God judges, is just the\none thing that is promised. I do not know anything else that is promised\npositively but that, and who dares pray for anything else with perfect\nconfidence? God will not give us what we pray for except it be good for\nus, but that is one thing that we must have or perish. Therefore, let us\npray for that, and with the name of God dwelling in us--if this is not\ntrue, the whole world is a heap of ruins--let us go forth and do this\nservice of God in ministering to our fellows, and so helping him in his\nwork of upholding, and glorifying and saving all.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FANTASTIC IMAGINATION\n\n\nThat we have in English no word corresponding to the German _M\u00e4hrchen_,\ndrives us to use the word _Fairytale_, regardless of the fact that the\ntale may have nothing to do with any sort of fairy. The old use of the\nword _Fairy_, by Spenser at least, might, however, well be adduced, were\njustification or excuse necessary where _need must_.\n\nWere I asked, what is a fairytale? I should reply, _Read Undine: that\nis a fairytale; then read this and that as well, and you will see what\nis a fairytale_. Were I further begged to describe the _fairytale_, or\ndefine what it is, I would make answer, that I should as soon think of\ndescribing the abstract human face, or stating what must go to\nconstitute a human being. A fairytale is just a fairytale, as a face is\njust a face; and of all fairytales I know, I think _Undine_ the most\nbeautiful.\n\nMany a man, however, who would not attempt to define _a man_, might\nventure to say something as to what a man ought to be: even so much I\nwill not in this place venture with regard to the fairytale, for my long\npast work in that kind might but poorly instance or illustrate my now\nmore matured judgment. I will but say some things helpful to the\nreading, in right-minded fashion, of such fairytales as I would wish to\nwrite, or care to read.\n\nSome thinkers would feel sorely hampered if at liberty to use no forms\nbut such as existed in nature, or to invent nothing save in accordance\nwith the laws of the world of the senses; but it must not therefore be\nimagined that they desire escape from the region of law. Nothing lawless\ncan show the least reason why it should exist, or could at best have\nmore than an appearance of life.\n\nThe natural world has its laws, and no man must interfere with them in\nthe way of presentment any more than in the way of use; but they\nthemselves may suggest laws of other kinds, and man may, if he pleases,\ninvent a little world of his own, with its own laws; for there is that\nin him which delights in calling up new forms--which is the nearest,\nperhaps, he can come to creation. When such forms are new embodiments of\nold truths, we call them products of the Imagination; when they are mere\ninventions, however lovely, I should call them the work of the Fancy: in\neither case, Law has been diligently at work.\n\nHis world once invented, the highest law that comes next into play is,\nthat there shall be harmony between the laws by which the new world has\nbegun to exist; and in the process of his creation, the inventor must\nhold by those laws. The moment he forgets one of them, he makes the\nstory, by its own postulates, incredible. To be able to live a moment in\nan imagined world, we must see the laws of its existence obeyed. Those\nbroken, we fall out of it. The imagination in us, whose exercise is\nessential to the most temporary submission to the imagination of\nanother, immediately, with the disappearance, of Law, ceases to act.\nSuppose the gracious creatures of some childlike region of Fairyland\ntalking either cockney or Gascon! Would not the tale, however lovelily\nbegun, sink at once to the level of the Burlesque--of all forms of\nliterature the least worthy? A man\u2019s inventions may be stupid or clever,\nbut if he do not hold by the laws of them, or if he make one law jar\nwith another, he contradicts himself as an inventor, he is no artist. He\ndoes not rightly consort his instruments, or he tunes them in different\nkeys. The mind of man is the product of live Law; it thinks by law, it\ndwells in the midst of law, it gathers from law its growth; with law,\ntherefore, can it alone work to any result. Inharmonious, unconsorting\nideas will come to a man, but if he try to use one of such, his work\nwill grow dull, and he will drop it from mere lack of interest. Law is\nthe soil in which alone beauty will grow; beauty is the only stuff in\nwhich Truth can be clothed; and you may, if you will, call Imagination\nthe tailor that cuts her garments to fit her, and Fancy his journeyman\nthat puts the pieces of them together, or perhaps at most embroiders\ntheir button-holes. Obeying law, the maker works like his creator; not\nobeying law, he is such a fool as heaps a pile of stones and calls it a\nchurch.\n\nIn the moral world it is different: there a man may clothe in new forms,\nand for this employ his imagination freely, but he must invent nothing.\nHe may not, for any purpose, turn its laws upside down. He must not\nmeddle with the relations of live souls. The laws of the spirit of man\nmust hold, alike in this world and in any world he may invent. It were\nno offence to suppose a world in which everything repelled instead of\nattracted the things around it; it would be wicked to write a tale\nrepresenting a man it called good as always doing bad things, or a man\nit called bad as always doing good things: the notion itself is\nabsolutely lawless. In physical things a man may invent; in moral things\nhe must obey--and take their laws with him into his invented world as\nwell.\n\n\u201cYou write as if a fairytale were a thing of importance: must it have a\nmeaning?\u201d\n\nIt cannot help having some meaning; if it have proportion and harmony it\nhas vitality, and vitality is truth. The beauty may be plainer in it\nthan the truth, but without the truth the beauty could not be, and the\nfairytale would give no delight. Everyone, however, who feels the story,\nwill read its meaning after his own nature and development: one man will\nread one meaning in it, another will read another.\n\n\u201cIf so, how am I to assure myself that I am not reading my own meaning\ninto it, but yours out of it?\u201d\n\nWhy should you be so assured? It may be better that you should read your\nmeaning into it. That may be a higher operation of your intellect than\nthe mere reading of mine out of it: your meaning may be superior to\nmine.\n\n\u201cSuppose my child ask me what the fairytale means, what am I to say?\u201d\n\nIf you do not know what it means, what is easier than to say so? If you\ndo see a meaning in it, there it is for you to give him. A genuine work\nof art must mean many things; the truer its art, the more things it will\nmean. If my drawing, on the other hand, is so far from being a work of\nart that it needs THIS IS A HORSE written under it, what can it matter\nthat neither you nor your child should know what it means? It is there\nnot so much to convey a meaning as to wake a meaning. If it do not even\nwake an interest, throw it aside. A meaning may be there, but it is not\nfor you. If, again, you do not know a horse when you see it, the name\nwritten under it will not serve you much. At all events, the business of\nthe painter is not to teach zoology.\n\nBut indeed your children are not likely to trouble you about the\nmeaning. They find what they are capable of finding, and more would be\ntoo much. For my part, I do not write for children, but for the\nchildlike, whether of five, or fifty, or seventy-five.\n\nA fairytale is not an allegory. There may be allegory in it, but it is\nnot an allegory. He must be an artist indeed who can, in any mode,\nproduce a strict allegory that is not a weariness to the spirit. An\nallegory must be Mastery or Moorditch.\n\nA fairytale, like a butterfly or a bee, helps itself on all sides, sips\nat every wholesome flower, and spoils not one. The true fairytale is, to\nmy mind, very like the sonata. We all know that a sonata means\nsomething; and where there is the faculty of talking with suitable\nvagueness, and choosing metaphor sufficiently loose, mind may approach\nmind, in the interpretation of a sonata, with the result of a more or\nless contenting consciousness of sympathy. But if two or three men sat\ndown to write each what the sonata meant to him, what approximation to\ndefinite idea would be the result? Little enough--and that little more\nthan needful. We should find it had roused related, if not identical,\nfeelings, but probably not one common thought. Has the sonata therefore\nfailed? Had it undertaken to convey, or ought it to be expected to\nimpart anything defined, anything notionally recognizable?\n\n\u201cBut words are not music; words at least are meant and fitted to carry a\nprecise meaning!\u201d\n\nIt is very seldom indeed that they carry the exact meaning of any user\nof them! And if they can be so used as to convey definite meaning, it\ndoes not follow that they ought never to carry anything else. Words are\nlive things that may be variously employed to various ends. They can\nconvey a scientific fact, or throw a shadow of her child\u2019s dream on the\nheart of a mother. They are things to put together like the pieces of a\ndissected map, or to arrange like the notes on a stave. Is the music in\nthem to go for nothing? It can hardly help the definiteness of a\nmeaning: is it therefore to be disregarded? They have length, and\nbreadth, and outline: have they nothing to do with depth? Have they only\nto describe, never to impress? Has nothing any claim to their use but\nthe definite? The cause of a child\u2019s tears may be altogether\nundefinable: has the mother therefore no antidote for his vague misery?\nThat may be strong in colour which has no evident outline. A fairytale,\na sonata, a gathering storm, a limitless night, seizes you and sweeps\nyou away: do you begin at once to wrestle with it and ask whence its\npower over you, whither it is carrying you? The law of each is in the\nmind of its composer; that law makes one man feel this way, another man\nfeel that way. To one the sonata is a world of odour and beauty, to\nanother of soothing only and sweetness. To one, the cloudy rendezvous is\na wild dance, with a terror at its heart; to another, a majestic march\nof heavenly hosts, with Truth in their centre pointing their course, but\nas yet restraining her voice. The greatest forces lie in the region of\nthe uncomprehended.\n\nI will go farther.--The best thing you can do for your fellow, next to\nrousing his conscience, is--not to give him things to think about, but\nto wake things up that are in him; or say, to make him think things for\nhimself. The best Nature does for us is to work in us such moods in\nwhich thoughts of high import arise. Does any aspect of Nature wake but\none thought? Does she ever suggest only one definite thing? Does she\nmake any two men in the same place at the same moment think the same\nthing? Is she therefore a failure, because she is not definite? Is it\nnothing that she rouses the something deeper than the understanding--the\npower that underlies thoughts? Does she not set feeling, and so thinking\nat work? Would it be better that she did this after one fashion and not\nafter many fashions? Nature is mood-engendering, thought-provoking: such\nought the sonata, such ought the fairytale to be.\n\n\u201cBut a man may then imagine in your work what he pleases, what you never\nmeant!\u201d\n\nNot what he pleases, but what he can. If he be not a true man, he will\ndraw evil out of the best; we need not mind how he treats any work of\nart! If he be a true man, he will imagine true things; what matter\nwhether I meant them or not? They are there none the less that I cannot\nclaim putting them there! One difference between God\u2019s work and man\u2019s\nis, that, while God\u2019s work cannot mean more than he meant, man\u2019s must\nmean more than he meant. For in everything that God has made, there is\nlayer upon layer of ascending significance; also he expresses the same\nthought in higher and higher kinds of that thought: it is God\u2019s things,\nhis embodied thoughts, which alone a man has to use, modified and\nadapted to his own purposes, for the expression of his thoughts;\ntherefore he cannot help his words and figures falling into such\ncombinations in the mind of another as he had himself not foreseen, so\nmany are the thoughts allied to every other thought, so many are the\nrelations involved in every figure, so many the facts hinted in every\nsymbol. A man may well himself discover truth in what he wrote; for he\nwas dealing all the time with things that came from thoughts beyond his\nown.\n\n\u201cBut surely you would explain your idea to one who asked you?\u201d\n\nI say again, if I cannot draw a horse, I will not write THIS IS A HORSE\nunder what I foolishly meant for one. Any key to a work of imagination\nwould be nearly, if not quite, as absurd. The tale is there, not to\nhide, but to show: if it show nothing at your window, do not open your\ndoor to it; leave it out in the cold. To ask me to explain, is to say,\n\u201cRoses! Boil them, or we won\u2019t have them!\u201d My tales may not be roses,\nbut I will not boil them.\n\nSo long as I think my dog can bark, I will not sit up to bark for him.\n\nIf a writer\u2019s aim be logical conviction, he must spare no logical pains,\nnot merely to be understood, but to escape being misunderstood; where\nhis object is to move by suggestion, to cause to imagine, then let him\nassail the soul of his reader as the wind assails an aeolian harp. If\nthere be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it. Let fairytale of\nmine go for a firefly that now flashes, now is dark, but may flash\nagain. Caught in a hand which does not love its kind, it will turn to an\ninsignificant, ugly thing, that can neither flash nor fly.\n\nThe best way with music, I imagine, is not to bring the forces of our\nintellect to bear upon it, but to be still and let it work on that part\nof us for whose sake it exists. We spoil countless precious things by\nintellectual greed. He who will be a man, and will not be a child,\nmust--he cannot help himself--become a little man, that is, a dwarf. He\nwill, however, need no consolation, for he is sure to think himself a\nvery large creature indeed.\n\nIf any strain of my \u201cbroken music\u201d make a child\u2019s eyes flash, or his\nmother\u2019s grow for a moment dim, my labour will not have been in vain.","title":"A Dish of Orts : Chiefly Papers on the Imagination, and on Shakespeare","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":89396}