[May 12, 1840.]

The Hero as Divinity, the Hero as Prophet, are productions of old ages; not to be repeated in the new.  They presuppose a certain rudeness of conception, which the progress of mere scientific knowledge puts an end to.  There needs to be, as it were, a world vacant, or almost vacant of scientific forms, if men in their loving wonder are to fancy their fellow-man either a god or one speaking with the voice of a god.  Divinity and Prophet are past.  We are now to see our Hero in the less ambitious, but also less questionable, character of Poet; a character which does not pass.  The Poet is a heroic figure belonging to all ages; whom all ages possess, when once he is produced, whom the newest age as the oldest may produce; ­and will produce, always when Nature pleases.  Let Nature send a Hero-soul; in no age is it other than possible that he may be shaped into a Poet.

Hero, Prophet, Poet, ­many different names, in different times, and places, do we give to Great Men; according to varieties we note in them, according to the sphere in which they have displayed themselves!  We might give many more names, on this same principle.  I will remark again, however, as a fact not unimportant to be understood, that the different sphere constitutes the grand origin of such distinction; that the Hero can be Poet, Prophet, King, Priest or what you will, according to the kind of world he finds himself born into.  I confess, I have no notion of a truly great man that could not be all sorts of men.  The Poet who could merely sit on a chair, and compose stanzas, would never make a stanza worth much.  He could not sing the Heroic warrior, unless he himself were at least a Heroic warrior too.  I fancy there is in him the Politician, the Thinker, Legislator, Philosopher; ­in one or the other degree, he could have been, he is all these.  So too I cannot understand how a Mirabeau, with that great glowing heart, with the fire that was in it, with the bursting tears that were in it, could not have written verses, tragedies, poems, and touched all hearts in that way, had his course of life and education led him thitherward.  The grand fundamental character is that of Great Man; that the man be great.  Napoleon has words in him which are like Austerlitz Battles.  Louis Fourteenth’s Marshals are a kind of poetical men withal; the things Turenne says are full of sagacity and geniality, like sayings of Samuel Johnson.  The great heart, the clear deep-seeing eye:  there it lies; no man whatever, in what province soever, can prosper at all without these.  Petrarch and Boccaccio did diplomatic messages, it seems, quite well:  one can easily believe it; they had done things a little harder than these!  Burns, a gifted song-writer, might have made a still better Mirabeau.  Shakspeare, ­one knows not what he could not have made, in the supreme degree.

True, there are aptitudes of Nature too.  Nature does not make all great men, more than all other men, in the self-same mould.  Varieties of aptitude doubtless; but infinitely more of circumstance; and far oftenest it is the latter only that are looked to.  But it is as with common men in the learning of trades.  You take any man, as yet a vague capability of a man, who could be any kind of craftsman; and make him into a smith, a carpenter, a mason:  he is then and thenceforth that and nothing else.  And if, as Addison complains, you sometimes see a street-porter, staggering under his load on spindle-shanks, and near at hand a tailor with the frame of a Samson handling a bit of cloth and small Whitechapel needle, ­it cannot be considered that aptitude of Nature alone has been consulted here either! ­The Great Man also, to what shall he be bound apprentice?  Given your Hero, is he to become Conqueror, King, Philosopher, Poet?  It is an inexplicably complex controversial-calculation between the world and him!  He will read the world and its laws; the world with its laws will be there to be read.  What the world, on this matter, shall permit and bid is, as we said, the most important fact about the world. ­

Poet and Prophet differ greatly in our loose modern notions of them.  In some old languages, again, the titles are synonymous; Vates means both Prophet and Poet:  and indeed at all times, Prophet and Poet, well understood, have much kindred of meaning.  Fundamentally indeed they are still the same; in this most important respect especially, That they have penetrated both of them into the sacred mystery of the Universe; what Goethe calls “the open secret.”  “Which is the great secret?” asks one. ­“The open secret,” ­open to all, seen by almost none!  That divine mystery, which lies everywhere in all Beings, “the Divine Idea of the World, that which lies at the bottom of Appearance,” as Fichte styles it; of which all Appearance, from the starry sky to the grass of the field, but especially the Appearance of Man and his work, is but the vesture, the embodiment that renders it visible.  This divine mystery is in all times and in all places; veritably is.  In most times and places it is greatly overlooked; and the Universe, definable always in one or the other dialect, as the realized Thought of God, is considered a trivial, inert, commonplace matter, ­as if, says the Satirist, it were a dead thing, which some upholsterer had put together!  It could do no good, at present, to speak much about this; but it is a pity for every one of us if we do not know it, live ever in the knowledge of it.  Really a most mournful pity; ­a failure to live at all, if we live otherwise!

But now, I say, whoever may forget this divine mystery, the Vates, whether Prophet or Poet, has penetrated into it; is a man sent hither to make it more impressively known to us.  That always is his message; he is to reveal that to us, ­that sacred mystery which he more than others lives ever present with.  While others forget it, he knows it; ­I might say, he has been driven to know it; without consent asked of him, he finds himself living in it, bound to live in it.  Once more, here is no Hearsay, but a direct Insight and Belief; this man too could not help being a sincere man!  Whosoever may live in the shows of things, it is for him a necessity of nature to live in the very fact of things.  A man once more, in earnest with the Universe, though all others were but toying with it.  He is a Vates, first of all, in virtue of being sincere.  So far Poet and Prophet, participators in the “open secret,” are one.

With respect to their distinction again:  The Vates Prophet, we might say, has seized that sacred mystery rather on the moral side, as Good and Evil, Duty and Prohibition; the Vates Poet on what the Germans call the aesthetic side, as Beautiful, and the like.  The one we may call a revealer of what we are to do, the other of what we are to love.  But indeed these two provinces run into one another, and cannot be disjoined.  The Prophet too has his eye on what we are to love:  how else shall he know what it is we are to do?  The highest Voice ever heard on this earth said withal, “Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they spin:  yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”  A glance, that, into the deepest deep of Beauty.  “The lilies of the field,” ­dressed finer than earthly princes, springing up there in the humble furrow-field; a beautiful eye looking out on you, from the great inner Sea of Beauty!  How could the rude Earth make these, if her Essence, rugged as she looks and is, were not inwardly Beauty?  In this point of view, too, a saying of Goethe’s, which has staggered several, may have meaning:  “The Beautiful,” he intimates, “is higher than the Good; the Beautiful includes in it the Good.”  The true Beautiful; which however, I have said somewhere, “differs from the false as Heaven does from Vauxhall!” So much for the distinction and identity of Poet and Prophet. ­

In ancient and also in modern periods we find a few Poets who are accounted perfect; whom it were a kind of treason to find fault with.  This is noteworthy; this is right:  yet in strictness it is only an illusion.  At bottom, clearly enough, there is no perfect Poet!  A vein of Poetry exists in the hearts of all men; no man is made altogether of Poetry.  We are all poets when we read a poem well.  The “imagination that shudders at the Hell of Dante,” is not that the same faculty, weaker in degree, as Dante’s own?  No one but Shakspeare can embody, out of Saxo Grammaticus, the story of Hamlet as Shakspeare did:  but every one models some kind of story out of it; every one embodies it better or worse.  We need not spend time in defining.  Where there is no specific difference, as between round and square, all definition must be more or less arbitrary.  A man that has so much more of the poetic element developed in him as to have become noticeable, will be called Poet by his neighbors.  World-Poets too, those whom we are to take for perfect Poets, are settled by critics in the same way.  One who rises so far above the general level of Poets will, to such and such critics, seem a Universal Poet; as he ought to do.  And yet it is, and must be, an arbitrary distinction.  All Poets, all men, have some touches of the Universal; no man is wholly made of that.  Most Poets are very soon forgotten:  but not the noblest Shakspeare or Homer of them can be remembered forever; ­a day comes when he too is not!

Nevertheless, you will say, there must be a difference between true Poetry and true Speech not poetical:  what is the difference?  On this point many things have been written, especially by late German Critics, some of which are not very intelligible at first.  They say, for example, that the Poet has an infinitude in him; communicates an Unendlichkeit, a certain character of “infinitude,” to whatsoever he delineates.  This, though not very precise, yet on so vague a matter is worth remembering:  if well meditated, some meaning will gradually be found in it.  For my own part, I find considerable meaning in the old vulgar distinction of Poetry being metrical, having music in it, being a Song.  Truly, if pressed to give a definition, one might say this as soon as anything else:  If your delineation be authentically musical, musical not in word only, but in heart and substance, in all the thoughts and utterances of it, in the whole conception of it, then it will be poetical; if not, not. ­Musical:  how much lies in that!  A musical thought is one spoken by a mind that has penetrated into the inmost heart of the thing; detected the inmost mystery of it, namely the melody that lies hidden in it; the inward harmony of coherence which is its soul, whereby it exists, and has a right to be, here in this world.  All inmost things, we may say, are melodious; naturally utter themselves in Song.  The meaning of Song goes deep.  Who is there that, in logical words, can express the effect music has on us?  A kind of inarticulate unfathomable speech, which leads us to the edge of the Infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into that!

Nay all speech, even the commonest speech, has something of song in it:  not a parish in the world but has its parish-accent; ­the rhythm or tune to which the people there sing what they have to say!  Accent is a kind of chanting; all men have accent of their own, ­though they only notice that of others.  Observe too how all passionate language does of itself become musical, ­with a finer music than the mere accent; the speech of a man even in zealous anger becomes a chant, a song.  All deep things are Song.  It seems somehow the very central essence of us, Song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls!  The primal element of us; of us, and of all things.  The Greeks fabled of Sphere-Harmonies:  it was the feeling they had of the inner structure of Nature; that the soul of all her voices and utterances was perfect music.  Poetry, therefore, we will call musical Thought.  The Poet is he who thinks in that manner.  At bottom, it turns still on power of intellect; it is a man’s sincerity and depth of vision that makes him a Poet.  See deep enough, and you see musically; the heart of Nature being everywhere music, if you can only reach it.

The Vates Poet, with his melodious Apocalypse of Nature, seems to hold a poor rank among us, in comparison with the Vates Prophet; his function, and our esteem of him for his function, alike slight.  The Hero taken as Divinity; the Hero taken as Prophet; then next the Hero taken only as Poet:  does it not look as if our estimate of the Great Man, epoch after epoch, were continually diminishing?  We take him first for a god, then for one god-inspired; and now in the next stage of it, his most miraculous word gains from us only the recognition that he is a Poet, beautiful verse-maker, man of genius, or such like! ­It looks so; but I persuade myself that intrinsically it is not so.  If we consider well, it will perhaps appear that in man still there is the same altogether peculiar admiration for the Heroic Gift, by what name soever called, that there at any time was.

I should say, if we do not now reckon a Great Man literally divine, it is that our notions of God, of the supreme unattainable Fountain of Splendor, Wisdom and Heroism, are ever rising higher; not altogether that our reverence for these qualities, as manifested in our like, is getting lower.  This is worth taking thought of.  Sceptical Dilettantism, the curse of these ages, a curse which will not last forever, does indeed in this the highest province of human things, as in all provinces, make sad work; and our reverence for great men, all crippled, blinded, paralytic as it is, comes out in poor plight, hardly recognizable.  Men worship the shows of great men; the most disbelieve that there is any reality of great men to worship.  The dreariest, fatalest faith; believing which, one would literally despair of human things.  Nevertheless look, for example, at Napoleon!  A Corsican lieutenant of artillery; that is the show of him:  yet is he not obeyed, worshipped after his sort, as all the Tiaraed and Diademed of the world put together could not be?  High Duchesses, and ostlers of inns, gather round the Scottish rustic, Burns; ­a strange feeling dwelling in each that they never heard a man like this; that, on the whole, this is the man!  In the secret heart of these people it still dimly reveals itself, though there is no accredited way of uttering it at present, that this rustic, with his black brows and flashing sun-eyes, and strange words moving laughter and tears, is of a dignity far beyond all others, incommensurable with all others.  Do not we feel it so?  But now, were Dilettantism, Scepticism, Triviality, and all that sorrowful brood, cast out of us, ­as, by God’s blessing, they shall one day be; were faith in the shows of things entirely swept out, replaced by clear faith in the things, so that a man acted on the impulse of that only, and counted the other non-extant; what a new livelier feeling towards this Burns were it!

Nay here in these ages, such as they are, have we not two mere Poets, if not deified, yet we may say beatified?  Shakspeare and Dante are Saints of Poetry; really, if we will think of it, canonized, so that it is impiety to meddle with them.  The unguided instinct of the world, working across all these perverse impediments, has arrived at such result.  Dante and Shakspeare are a peculiar Two.  They dwell apart, in a kind of royal solitude; none equal, none second to them:  in the general feeling of the world, a certain transcendentalism, a glory as of complete perfection, invests these two.  They are canonized, though no Pope or Cardinals took hand in doing it!  Such, in spite of every perverting influence, in the most unheroic times, is still our indestructible reverence for heroism. ­We will look a little at these Two, the Poet Dante and the Poet Shakspeare:  what little it is permitted us to say here of the Hero as Poet will most fitly arrange itself in that fashion.

Many volumes have been written by way of commentary on Dante and his Book; yet, on the whole, with no great result.  His Biography is, as it were, irrecoverably lost for us.  An unimportant, wandering, sorrow-stricken man, not much note was taken of him while he lived; and the most of that has vanished, in the long space that now intervenes.  It is five centuries since he ceased writing and living here.  After all commentaries, the Book itself is mainly what we know of him.  The Book; ­and one might add that Portrait commonly attributed to Giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot help inclining to think genuine, whoever did it.  To me it is a most touching face; perhaps of all faces that I know, the most so.  Lonely there, painted as on vacancy, with the simple laurel wound round it; the deathless sorrow and pain, the known victory which is also deathless; ­significant of the whole history of Dante!  I think it is the mournfulest face that ever was painted from reality; an altogether tragic, heart-affecting face.  There is in it, as foundation of it, the softness, tenderness, gentle affection as of a child; but all this is as if congealed into sharp contradiction, into abnegation, isolation, proud hopeless pain.  A soft ethereal soul looking out so stern, implacable, grim-trenchant, as from imprisonment of thick-ribbed ice!  Withal it is a silent pain too, a silent scornful one:  the lip is curled in a kind of godlike disdain of the thing that is eating out his heart, ­as if it were withal a mean insignificant thing, as if he whom it had power to torture and strangle were greater than it.  The face of one wholly in protest, and lifelong unsurrendering battle, against the world.  Affection all converted into indignation:  an implacable indignation; slow, equable, silent, like that of a god!  The eye too, it looks out as in a kind of surprise, a kind of inquiry, Why the world was of such a sort?  This is Dante:  so he looks, this “voice of ten silent centuries,” and sings us “his mystic unfathomable song.”

The little that we know of Dante’s Life corresponds well enough with this Portrait and this Book.  He was born at Florence, in the upper class of society, in the year 1265.  His education was the best then going; much school-divinity, Aristotelean logic, some Latin classics, ­no inconsiderable insight into certain provinces of things:  and Dante, with his earnest intelligent nature, we need not doubt, learned better than most all that was learnable.  He has a clear cultivated understanding, and of great subtlety; this best fruit of education he had contrived to realize from these scholastics.  He knows accurately and well what lies close to him; but, in such a time, without printed books or free intercourse, he could not know well what was distant:  the small clear light, most luminous for what is near, breaks itself into singular chiaroscuro striking on what is far off.  This was Dante’s learning from the schools.  In life, he had gone through the usual destinies; been twice out campaigning as a soldier for the Florentine State, been on embassy; had in his thirty-fifth year, by natural gradation of talent and service, become one of the Chief Magistrates of Florence.  He had met in boyhood a certain Beatrice Portinari, a beautiful little girl of his own age and rank, and grown up thenceforth in partial sight of her, in some distant intercourse with her.  All readers know his graceful affecting account of this; and then of their being parted; of her being wedded to another, and of her death soon after.  She makes a great figure in Dante’s Poem; seems to have made a great figure in his life.  Of all beings it might seem as if she, held apart from him, far apart at last in the dim Eternity, were the only one he had ever with his whole strength of affection loved.  She died:  Dante himself was wedded; but it seems not happily, far from happily.  I fancy, the rigorous earnest man, with his keen excitabilities, was not altogether easy to make happy.

We will not complain of Dante’s miseries:  had all gone right with him as he wished it, he might have been Prior, Podesta, or whatsoever they call it, of Florence, well accepted among neighbors, ­and the world had wanted one of the most notable words ever spoken or sung.  Florence would have had another prosperous Lord Mayor; and the ten dumb centuries continued voiceless, and the ten other listening centuries (for there will be ten of them and more) had no Divina Commedia to hear!  We will complain of nothing.  A nobler destiny was appointed for this Dante; and he, struggling like a man led towards death and crucifixion, could not help fulfilling it.  Give him the choice of his happiness!  He knew not, more than we do, what was really happy, what was really miserable.

In Dante’s Priorship, the Guelf-Ghibelline, Bianchi-Neri, or some other confused disturbances rose to such a height, that Dante, whose party had seemed the stronger, was with his friends cast unexpectedly forth into banishment; doomed thenceforth to a life of woe and wandering.  His property was all confiscated and more; he had the fiercest feeling that it was entirely unjust, nefarious in the sight of God and man.  He tried what was in him to get reinstated; tried even by warlike surprisal, with arms in his hand:  but it would not do; bad only had become worse.  There is a record, I believe, still extant in the Florence Archives, dooming this Dante, wheresoever caught, to be burnt alive.  Burnt alive; so it stands, they say:  a very curious civic document.  Another curious document, some considerable number of years later, is a Letter of Dante’s to the Florentine Magistrates, written in answer to a milder proposal of theirs, that he should return on condition of apologizing and paying a fine.  He answers, with fixed stern pride:  “If I cannot return without calling myself guilty, I will never return, nunquam revertar.”

For Dante there was now no home in this world.  He wandered from patron to patron, from place to place; proving, in his own bitter words, “How hard is the path, Come e duro calle.”  The wretched are not cheerful company.  Dante, poor and banished, with his proud earnest nature, with his moody humors, was not a man to conciliate men.  Petrarch reports of him that being at Can della Scala’s court, and blamed one day for his gloom and taciturnity, he answered in no courtier-like way.  Della Scala stood among his courtiers, with mimes and buffoons (nebulones ac histriones) making him heartily merry; when turning to Dante, he said:  “Is it not strange, now, that this poor fool should make himself so entertaining; while you, a wise man, sit there day after day, and have nothing to amuse us with at all?” Dante answered bitterly:  “No, not strange; your Highness is to recollect the Proverb, Like to Like;” ­given the amuser, the amusée must also be given!  Such a man, with his proud silent ways, with his sarcasms and sorrows, was not made to succeed at court.  By degrees, it came to be evident to him that he had no longer any resting-place, or hope of benefit, in this earth.  The earthly world had cast him forth, to wander, wander; no living heart to love him now; for his sore miseries there was no solace here.

The deeper naturally would the Eternal World impress itself on him; that awful reality over which, after all, this Time-world, with its Florences and banishments, only flutters as an unreal shadow.  Florence thou shalt never see:  but Hell and Purgatory and Heaven thou shalt surely see!  What is Florence, Can della Scala, and the World and Life altogether?  ETERNITY:  thither, of a truth, not elsewhither, art thou and all things bound!  The great soul of Dante, homeless on earth, made its home more and more in that awful other world.  Naturally his thoughts brooded on that, as on the one fact important for him.  Bodied or bodiless, it is the one fact important for all men: ­but to Dante, in that age, it was bodied in fixed certainty of scientific shape; he no more doubted of that Malebolge Pool, that it all lay there with its gloomy circles, with its alti guai, and that he himself should see it, than we doubt that we should see Constantinople if we went thither.  Dante’s heart, long filled with this, brooding over it in speechless thought and awe, bursts forth at length into “mystic unfathomable song;” and this his Divine Comedy, the most remarkable of all modern Books, is the result.

It must have been a great solacement to Dante, and was, as we can see, a proud thought for him at times, That he, here in exile, could do this work; that no Florence, nor no man or men, could hinder him from doing it, or even much help him in doing it.  He knew too, partly, that it was great; the greatest a man could do.  “If thou follow thy star, Se tu seguí tua stella,” ­so could the Hero, in his forsakenness, in his extreme need, still say to himself:  “Follow thou thy star, thou shalt not fail of a glorious haven!” The labor of writing, we find, and indeed could know otherwise, was great and painful for him; he says, This Book, “which has made me lean for many years.”  Ah yes, it was won, all of it, with pain and sore toil, ­not in sport, but in grim earnest.  His Book, as indeed most good Books are, has been written, in many senses, with his heart’s blood.  It is his whole history, this Book.  He died after finishing it; not yet very old, at the age of fifty-six; ­broken-hearted rather, as is said.  He lies buried in his death-city Ravenna:  Hic claudor Dantes patriis extorris ab oris.  The Florentines begged back his body, in a century after; the Ravenna people would not give it.  “Here am I Dante laid, shut out from my native shores.”

I said, Dante’s Poem was a Song:  it is Tieck who calls it “a mystic unfathomable Song;” and such is literally the character of it.  Coleridge remarks very pertinently somewhere, that wherever you find a sentence musically worded, of true rhythm and melody in the words, there is something deep and good in the meaning too.  For body and soul, word and idea, go strangely together here as everywhere.  Song:  we said before, it was the Heroic of Speech!  All old Poems, Homer’s and the rest, are authentically Songs.  I would say, in strictness, that all right Poems are; that whatsoever is not sung is properly no Poem, but a piece of Prose cramped into jingling lines, ­to the great injury of the grammar, to the great grief of the reader, for most part!  What we wants to get at is the thought the man had, if he had any:  why should he twist it into jingle, if he could speak it out plainly?  It is only when the heart of him is rapt into true passion of melody, and the very tones of him, according to Coleridge’s remark, become musical by the greatness, depth and music of his thoughts, that we can give him right to rhyme and sing; that we call him a Poet, and listen to him as the Heroic of Speakers, ­whose speech is Song.  Pretenders to this are many; and to an earnest reader, I doubt, it is for most part a very melancholy, not to say an insupportable business, that of reading rhyme!  Rhyme that had no inward necessity to be rhymed; ­it ought to have told us plainly, without any jingle, what it was aiming at.  I would advise all men who can speak their thought, not to sing it; to understand that, in a serious time, among serious men, there is no vocation in them for singing it.  Precisely as we love the true song, and are charmed by it as by something divine, so shall we hate the false song, and account it a mere wooden noise, a thing hollow, superfluous, altogether an insincere and offensive thing.

I give Dante my highest praise when I say of his Divine Comedy that it is, in all senses, genuinely a Song.  In the very sound of it there is a canto fermo; it proceeds as by a chant.  The language, his simple terza rima, doubtless helped him in this.  One reads along naturally with a sort of lilt.  But I add, that it could not be otherwise; for the essence and material of the work are themselves rhythmic.  Its depth, and rapt passion and sincerity, makes it musical; ­go deep enough, there is music everywhere.  A true inward symmetry, what one calls an architectural harmony, reigns in it, proportionates it all:  architectural; which also partakes of the character of music.  The three kingdoms, Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso, look out on one another like compartments of a great edifice; a great supernatural world-cathedral, piled up there, stern, solemn, awful; Dante’s World of Souls!  It is, at bottom, the sincerest of all Poems; sincerity, here too, we find to be the measure of worth.  It came deep out of the author’s heart of hearts; and it goes deep, and through long generations, into ours.  The people of Verona, when they saw him on the streets, used to say, “Eccovi l’ uom ch’ e stato all’ Inferno, See, there is the man that was in Hell!” Ah yes, he had been in Hell; ­in Hell enough, in long severe sorrow and struggle; as the like of him is pretty sure to have been.  Commedias that come out divine are not accomplished otherwise.  Thought, true labor of any kind, highest virtue itself, is it not the daughter of Pain?  Born as out of the black whirlwind; ­true effort, in fact, as of a captive struggling to free himself:  that is Thought.  In all ways we are “to become perfect through suffering.” ­But, as I say, no work known to me is so elaborated as this of Dante’s.  It has all been as if molten, in the hottest furnace of his soul.  It had made him “lean” for many years.  Not the general whole only; every compartment of it is worked out, with intense earnestness, into truth, into clear visuality.  Each answers to the other; each fits in its place, like a marble stone accurately hewn and polished.  It is the soul of Dante, and in this the soul of the middle ages, rendered forever rhythmically visible there.  No light task; a right intense one:  but a task which is done.

Perhaps one would say, intensity, with the much that depends on it, is the prevailing character of Dante’s genius.  Dante does not come before us as a large catholic mind; rather as a narrow, and even sectarian mind:  it is partly the fruit of his age and position, but partly too of his own nature.  His greatness has, in all senses, concentred itself into fiery emphasis and depth.  He is world-great not because he is worldwide, but because he is world-deep.  Through all objects he pierces as it were down into the heart of Being.  I know nothing so intense as Dante.  Consider, for example, to begin with the outermost development of his intensity, consider how he paints.  He has a great power of vision; seizes the very type of a thing; presents that and nothing more.  You remember that first view he gets of the Hall of Dite:  red pinnacle, red-hot cone of iron glowing through the dim immensity of gloom; ­so vivid, so distinct, visible at once and forever!  It is as an emblem of the whole genius of Dante.  There is a brevity, an abrupt precision in him:  Tacitus is not briefer, more condensed; and then in Dante it seems a natural condensation, spontaneous to the man.  One smiting word; and then there is silence, nothing more said.  His silence is more eloquent than words.  It is strange with what a sharp decisive grace he snatches the true likeness of a matter:  cuts into the matter as with a pen of fire.  Plutus, the blustering giant, collapses at Virgil’s rebuke; it is “as the sails sink, the mast being suddenly broken.”  Or that poor Brunetto Latini, with the cotto aspetto, “face baked,” parched brown and lean; and the “fiery snow” that falls on them there, a “fiery snow without wind,” slow, deliberate, never-ending!  Or the lids of those Tombs; square sarcophaguses, in that silent dim-burning Hall, each with its Soul in torment; the lids laid open there; they are to be shut at the Day of Judgment, through Eternity.  And how Farinata rises; and how Cavalcante falls ­at hearing of his Son, and the past tense “fue”!  The very movements in Dante have something brief; swift, decisive, almost military.  It is of the inmost essence of his genius this sort of painting.  The fiery, swift Italian nature of the man, so silent, passionate, with its quick abrupt movements, its silent “pale rages,” speaks itself in these things.

For though this of painting is one of the outermost developments of a man, it comes like all else from the essential faculty of him; it is physiognomical of the whole man.  Find a man whose words paint you a likeness, you have found a man worth something; mark his manner of doing it, as very characteristic of him.  In the first place, he could not have discerned the object at all, or seen the vital type of it, unless he had, what we may call, sympathized with it, ­had sympathy in him to bestow on objects.  He must have been sincere about it too; sincere and sympathetic:  a man without worth cannot give you the likeness of any object; he dwells in vague outwardness, fallacy and trivial hearsay, about all objects.  And indeed may we not say that intellect altogether expresses itself in this power of discerning what an object is?  Whatsoever of faculty a man’s mind may have will come out here.  Is it even of business, a matter to be done?  The gifted man is he who sees the essential point, and leaves all the rest aside as surplusage:  it is his faculty too, the man of business’s faculty, that he discern the true likeness, not the false superficial one, of the thing he has got to work in.  And how much of morality is in the kind of insight we get of anything; “the eye seeing in all things what it brought with it the faculty of seeing”!  To the mean eye all things are trivial, as certainly as to the jaundiced they are yellow.  Raphael, the Painters tell us, is the best of all Portrait-painters withal.  No most gifted eye can exhaust the significance of any object.  In the commonest human face there lies more than Raphael will take away with him.

Dante’s painting is not graphic only, brief, true, and of a vividness as of fire in dark night; taken on the wider scale, it is every way noble, and the outcome of a great soul.  Francesca and her Lover, what qualities in that!  A thing woven as out of rainbows, on a ground of eternal black.  A small flute-voice of infinite wail speaks there, into our very heart of hearts.  A touch of womanhood in it too:  della bella persona, che mi fu tolta; and how, even in the Pit of woe, it is a solace that he will never part from her!  Saddest tragedy in these alti guai.  And the racking winds, in that aer bruno, whirl them away again, to wail forever! ­Strange to think:  Dante was the friend of this poor Francesca’s father; Francesca herself may have sat upon the Poet’s knee, as a bright innocent little child.  Infinite pity, yet also infinite rigor of law:  it is so Nature is made; it is so Dante discerned that she was made.  What a paltry notion is that of his Divine Comedy’s being a poor splenetic impotent terrestrial libel; putting those into Hell whom he could not be avenged upon on earth!  I suppose if ever pity, tender as a mother’s, was in the heart of any man, it was in Dante’s.  But a man who does not know rigor cannot pity either.  His very pity will be cowardly, egoistic, ­sentimentality, or little better.  I know not in the world an affection equal to that of Dante.  It is a tenderness, a trembling, longing, pitying love:  like the wail of AEolian harps, soft, soft; like a child’s young heart; ­and then that stern, sore-saddened heart!  These longings of his towards his Beatrice; their meeting together in the Paradiso; his gazing in her pure transfigured eyes, her that had been purified by death so long, separated from him so far: ­one likens it to the song of angels; it is among the purest utterances of affection, perhaps the very purest, that ever came out of a human soul.

For the intense Dante is intense in all things; he has got into the essence of all.  His intellectual insight as painter, on occasion too as reasoner, is but the result of all other sorts of intensity.  Morally great, above all, we must call him; it is the beginning of all.  His scorn, his grief are as transcendent as his love; ­as indeed, what are they but the inverse or converse of his love? “A Dio spiacenti ed a’ nemici sui, Hateful to God and to the enemies of God:”  lofty scorn, unappeasable silent reprobation and aversion; “Non ragionam di lor, We will not speak of them, look only and pass.”  Or think of this; “They have not the hope to die, Non han speranza di morte.”  One day, it had risen sternly benign on the scathed heart of Dante, that he, wretched, never-resting, worn as he was, would full surely die; “that Destiny itself could not doom him not to die.”  Such words are in this man.  For rigor, earnestness and depth, he is not to be paralleled in the modern world; to seek his parallel we must go into the Hebrew Bible, and live with the antique Prophets there.

I do not agree with much modern criticism, in greatly preferring the Inferno to the two other parts of the Divine Commedia.  Such preference belongs, I imagine, to our general Byronism of taste, and is like to be a transient feeling.  The Purgatorio and Paradiso, especially the former, one would almost say, is even more excellent than it.  It is a noble thing that Purgatorio, “Mountain of Purification;” an emblem of the noblest conception of that age.  If sin is so fatal, and Hell is and must be so rigorous, awful, yet in Repentance too is man purified; Repentance is the grand Christian act.  It is beautiful how Dante works it out.  The tremolar dell’ onde, that “trembling” of the ocean-waves, under the first pure gleam of morning, dawning afar on the wandering Two, is as the type of an altered mood.  Hope has now dawned; never-dying Hope, if in company still with heavy sorrow.  The obscure sojourn of demons and reprobate is underfoot; a soft breathing of penitence mounts higher and higher, to the Throne of Mercy itself.  “Pray for me,” the denizens of that Mount of Pain all say to him.  “Tell my Giovanna to pray for me,” my daughter Giovanna; “I think her mother loves me no more!” They toil painfully up by that winding steep, “bent down like corbels of a building,” some of them, ­crushed together so “for the sin of pride;” yet nevertheless in years, in ages and aeons, they shall have reached the top, which is heaven’s gate, and by Mercy shall have been admitted in.  The joy too of all, when one has prevailed; the whole Mountain shakes with joy, and a psalm of praise rises, when one soul has perfected repentance and got its sin and misery left behind!  I call all this a noble embodiment of a true noble thought.

But indeed the Three compartments mutually support one another, are indispensable to one another.  The Paradiso, a kind of inarticulate music to me, is the redeeming side of the Inferno; the Inferno without it were untrue.  All three make up the true Unseen World, as figured in the Christianity of the Middle Ages; a thing forever memorable, forever true in the essence of it, to all men.  It was perhaps delineated in no human soul with such depth of veracity as in this of Dante’s; a man sent to sing it, to keep it long memorable.  Very notable with what brief simplicity he passes out of the every-day reality, into the Invisible one; and in the second or third stanza, we find ourselves in the World of Spirits; and dwell there, as among things palpable, indubitable!  To Dante they were so; the real world, as it is called, and its facts, was but the threshold to an infinitely higher Fact of a World.  At bottom, the one was as preternatural as the other.  Has not each man a soul?  He will not only be a spirit, but is one.  To the earnest Dante it is all one visible Fact; he believes it, sees it; is the Poet of it in virtue of that.  Sincerity, I say again, is the saving merit, now as always.

Dante’s Hell, Purgatory, Paradise, are a symbol withal, an emblematic representation of his Belief about this Universe: ­some Critic in a future age, like those Scandinavian ones the other day, who has ceased altogether to think as Dante did, may find this too all an “Allegory,” perhaps an idle Allegory!  It is a sublime embodiment, or sublimest, of the soul of Christianity.  It expresses, as in huge world-wide architectural emblems, how the Christian Dante felt Good and Evil to be the two polar elements of this Creation, on which it all turns; that these two differ not by preferability of one to the other, but by incompatibility absolute and infinite; that the one is excellent and high as light and Heaven, the other hideous, black as Gehenna and the Pit of Hell!  Everlasting Justice, yet with Penitence, with everlasting Pity, ­all Christianism, as Dante and the Middle Ages had it, is emblemed here.  Emblemed:  and yet, as I urged the other day, with what entire truth of purpose; how unconscious of any embleming!  Hell, Purgatory, Paradise:  these things were not fashioned as emblems; was there, in our Modern European Mind, any thought at all of their being emblems!  Were they not indubitable awful facts; the whole heart of man taking them for practically true, all Nature everywhere confirming them?  So is it always in these things.  Men do not believe an Allegory.  The future Critic, whatever his new thought may be, who considers this of Dante to have been all got up as an Allegory, will commit one sore mistake! ­Paganism we recognized as a veracious expression of the earnest awe-struck feeling of man towards the Universe; veracious, true once, and still not without worth for us.  But mark here the difference of Paganism and Christianism; one great difference.  Paganism emblemed chiefly the Operations of Nature; the destinies, efforts, combinations, vicissitudes of things and men in this world; Christianism emblemed the Law of Human Duty, the Moral Law of Man.  One was for the sensuous nature:  a rude helpless utterance of the first Thought of men, ­the chief recognized virtue, Courage, Superiority to Fear.  The other was not for the sensuous nature, but for the moral.  What a progress is here, if in that one respect only !

And so in this Dante, as we said, had ten silent centuries, in a very strange way, found a voice.  The Divina Commedia is of Dante’s writing; yet in truth it belongs to ten Christian centuries, only the finishing of it is Dante’s.  So always.  The craftsman there, the smith with that metal of his, with these tools, with these cunning methods, ­how little of all he does is properly his work!  All past inventive men work there with him; ­as indeed with all of us, in all things.  Dante is the spokesman of the Middle Ages; the Thought they lived by stands here, in everlasting music.  These sublime ideas of his, terrible and beautiful, are the fruit of the Christian Meditation of all the good men who had gone before him.  Precious they; but also is not he precious?  Much, had not he spoken, would have been dumb; not dead, yet living voiceless.

On the whole, is it not an utterance, this mystic Song, at once of one of the greatest human souls, and of the highest thing that Europe had hitherto realized for itself?  Christianism, as Dante sings it, is another than Paganism in the rude Norse mind; another than “Bastard Christianism” half-articulately spoken in the Arab Desert, seven hundred years before! ­The noblest idea made real hitherto among men, is sung, and emblemed forth abidingly, by one of the noblest men.  In the one sense and in the other, are we not right glad to possess it?  As I calculate, it may last yet for long thousands of years.  For the thing that is uttered from the inmost parts of a man’s soul, differs altogether from what is uttered by the outer part.  The outer is of the day, under the empire of mode; the outer passes away, in swift endless changes; the inmost is the same yesterday, to-day and forever.  True souls, in all generations of the world, who look on this Dante, will find a brotherhood in him; the deep sincerity of his thoughts, his woes and hopes, will speak likewise to their sincerity; they will feel that this Dante too was a brother.  Napoleon in Saint Helena is charmed with the genial veracity of old Homer.  The oldest Hebrew Prophet, under a vesture the most diverse from ours, does yet, because he speaks from the heart of man, speak to all men’s hearts.  It is the one sole secret of continuing long memorable.  Dante, for depth of sincerity, is like an antique Prophet too; his words, like theirs, come from his very heart.  One need not wonder if it were predicted that his Poem might be the most enduring thing our Europe has yet made; for nothing so endures as a truly spoken word.  All cathedrals, pontificalities, brass and stone, and outer arrangement never so lasting, are brief in comparison to an unfathomable heart-song like this:  one feels as if it might survive, still of importance to men, when these had all sunk into new irrecognizable combinations, and had ceased individually to be.  Europe has made much; great cities, great empires, encyclopaedias, creeds, bodies of opinion and practice:  but it has made little of the class of Dante’s Thought.  Homer yet is veritably present face to face with every open soul of us; and Greece, where is it?  Desolate for thousands of years; away, vanished; a bewildered heap of stones and rubbish, the life and existence of it all gone.  Like a dream; like the dust of King Agamemnon!  Greece was; Greece, except in the words it spoke, is not.

The uses of this Dante?  We will not say much about his “uses.”  A human soul who has once got into that primal element of Song, and sung forth fitly somewhat therefrom, has worked in the depths of our existence; feeding through long times the life-roots of all excellent human things whatsoever, ­in a way that “utilities” will not succeed well in calculating!  We will not estimate the Sun by the quantity of gaslight it saves us; Dante shall be invaluable, or of no value.  One remark I may make:  the contrast in this respect between the Hero-Poet and the Hero-Prophet.  In a hundred years, Mahomet, as we saw, had his Arabians at Grenada and at Delhi; Dante’s Italians seem to be yet very much where they were.  Shall we say, then, Dante’s effect on the world was small in comparison?  Not so:  his arena is far more restricted; but also it is far nobler, clearer; ­perhaps not less but more important.  Mahomet speaks to great masses of men, in the coarse dialect adapted to such; a dialect filled with inconsistencies, crudities, follies:  on the great masses alone can he act, and there with good and with evil strangely blended.  Dante speaks to the noble, the pure and great, in all times and places.  Neither does he grow obsolete, as the other does.  Dante burns as a pure star, fixed there in the firmament, at which the great and the high of all ages kindle themselves:  he is the possession of all the chosen of the world for uncounted time.  Dante, one calculates, may long survive Mahomet.  In this way the balance may be made straight again.

But, at any rate, it is not by what is called their effect on the world, by what we can judge of their effect there, that a man and his work are measured.  Effect?  Influence?  Utility?  Let a man do his work; the fruit of it is the care of Another than he.  It will grow its own fruit; and whether embodied in Caliph Thrones and Arabian Conquests, so that it “fills all Morning and Evening Newspapers,” and all Histories, which are a kind of distilled Newspapers; or not embodied so at all; ­what matters that?  That is not the real fruit of it!  The Arabian Caliph, in so far only as he did something, was something.  If the great Cause of Man, and Man’s work in God’s Earth, got no furtherance from the Arabian Caliph, then no matter how many scimetars he drew, how many gold piasters pocketed, and what uproar and blaring he made in this world, ­he was but a loud-sounding inanity and futility; at bottom, he was not at all.  Let us honor the great empire of Silence, once more!  The boundless treasury which we do not jingle in our pockets, or count up and present before men!  It is perhaps, of all things, the usefulest for each of us to do, in these loud times. ­

As Dante, the Italian man, was sent into our world to embody musically the Religion of the Middle Ages, the Religion of our Modern Europe, its Inner Life; so Shakspeare, we may say, embodies for us the Outer Life of our Europe as developed then, its chivalries, courtesies, humors, ambitions, what practical way of thinking, acting, looking at the world, men then had.  As in Homer we may still construe Old Greece; so in Shakspeare and Dante, after thousands of years, what our modern Europe was, in Faith and in Practice, will still be legible.  Dante has given us the Faith or soul; Shakspeare, in a not less noble way, has given us the Practice or body.  This latter also we were to have; a man was sent for it, the man Shakspeare.  Just when that chivalry way of life had reached its last finish, and was on the point of breaking down into slow or swift dissolution, as we now see it everywhere, this other sovereign Poet, with his seeing eye, with his perennial singing voice, was sent to take note of it, to give long-enduring record of it.  Two fit men:  Dante, deep, fierce as the central fire of the world; Shakspeare, wide, placid, far-seeing, as the Sun, the upper light of the world.  Italy produced the one world-voice; we English had the honor of producing the other.

Curious enough how, as it were by mere accident, this man came to us.  I think always, so great, quiet, complete and self-sufficing is this Shakspeare, had the Warwickshire Squire not prosecuted him for deer-stealing, we had perhaps never heard of him as a Poet!  The woods and skies, the rustic Life of Man in Stratford there, had been enough for this man!  But indeed that strange outbudding of our whole English Existence, which we call the Elizabethan Era, did not it too come as of its own accord?  The “Tree Igdrasil” buds and withers by its own laws, ­too deep for our scanning.  Yet it does bud and wither, and every bough and leaf of it is there, by fixed eternal laws; not a Sir Thomas Lucy but comes at the hour fit for him.  Curious, I say, and not sufficiently considered:  how everything does co-operate with all; not a leaf rotting on the highway but is indissoluble portion of solar and stellar systems; no thought, word or act of man but has sprung withal out of all men, and works sooner or later, recognizably or irrecognizable, on all men!  It is all a Tree:  circulation of sap and influences, mutual communication of every minutest leaf with the lowest talon of a root, with every other greatest and minutest portion of the whole.  The Tree Igdrasil, that has its roots down in the Kingdoms of Hela and Death, and whose boughs overspread the highest Heaven !

In some sense it may be said that this glorious Elizabethan Era with its Shakspeare, as the outcome and flowerage of all which had preceded it, is itself attributable to the Catholicism of the Middle Ages.  The Christian Faith, which was the theme of Dante’s Song, had produced this Practical Life which Shakspeare was to sing.  For Religion then, as it now and always is, was the soul of Practice; the primary vital fact in men’s life.  And remark here, as rather curious, that Middle-Age Catholicism was abolished, so far as Acts of Parliament could abolish it, before Shakspeare, the noblest product of it, made his appearance.  He did make his appearance nevertheless.  Nature at her own time, with Catholicism or what else might be necessary, sent him forth; taking small thought of Acts of Parliament.  King Henrys, Queen Elizabeths go their way; and Nature too goes hers.  Acts of Parliament, on the whole, are small, notwithstanding the noise they make.  What Act of Parliament, debate at St. Stephen’s, on the hustings or elsewhere, was it that brought this Shakspeare into being?  No dining at Freemason’s Tavern, opening subscription-lists, selling of shares, and infinite other jangling and true or false endeavoring!  This Elizabethan Era, and all its nobleness and blessedness, came without proclamation, preparation of ours.  Priceless Shakspeare was the free gift of Nature; given altogether silently; ­received altogether silently, as if it had been a thing of little account.  And yet, very literally, it is a priceless thing.  One should look at that side of matters too.

Of this Shakspeare of ours, perhaps the opinion one sometimes hears a little idolatrously expressed is, in fact, the right one; I think the best judgment not of this country only, but of Europe at large, is slowly pointing to the conclusion, that Shakspeare is the chief of all Poets hitherto; the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has left record of himself in the way of Literature.  On the whole, I know not such a power of vision, such a faculty of thought, if we take all the characters of it, in any other man.  Such a calmness of depth; placid joyous strength; all things imaged in that great soul of his so true and clear, as in a tranquil unfathomable sea!  It has been said, that in the constructing of Shakspeare’s Dramas there is, apart from all other “faculties” as they are called, an understanding manifested, equal to that in Bacon’s Novum Organum That is true; and it is not a truth that strikes every one.  It would become more apparent if we tried, any of us for himself, how, out of Shakspeare’s dramatic materials, we could fashion such a result!  The built house seems all so fit, ­every way as it should be, as if it came there by its own law and the nature of things, ­we forget the rude disorderly quarry it was shaped from.  The very perfection of the house, as if Nature herself had made it, hides the builder’s merit.  Perfect, more perfect than any other man, we may call Shakspeare in this:  he discerns, knows as by instinct, what condition he works under, what his materials are, what his own force and its relation to them is.  It is not a transitory glance of insight that will suffice; it is deliberate illumination of the whole matter; it is a calmly seeing eye; a great intellect, in short.  How a man, of some wide thing that he has witnessed, will construct a narrative, what kind of picture and delineation he will give of it, ­is the best measure you could get of what intellect is in the man.  Which circumstance is vital and shall stand prominent; which unessential, fit to be suppressed; where is the true beginning, the true sequence and ending?  To find out this, you task the whole force of insight that is in the man.  He must understand the thing; according to the depth of his understanding, will the fitness of his answer be.  You will try him so.  Does like join itself to like; does the spirit of method stir in that confusion, so that its embroilment becomes order?  Can the man say, Fiat lux, Let there be light; and out of chaos make a world?  Precisely as there is light in himself, will he accomplish this.

Or indeed we may say again, it is in what I called Portrait-painting, delineating of men and things, especially of men, that Shakspeare is great.  All the greatness of the man comes out decisively here.  It is unexampled, I think, that calm creative perspicacity of Shakspeare.  The thing he looks at reveals not this or that face of it, but its inmost heart, and generic secret:  it dissolves itself as in light before him, so that he discerns the perfect structure of it.  Creative, we said:  poetic creation, what is this too but seeing the thing sufficiently?  The word that will describe the thing, follows of itself from such clear intense sight of the thing.  And is not Shakspeare’s morality, his valor, candor, tolerance, truthfulness; his whole victorious strength and greatness, which can triumph over such obstructions, visible there too?  Great as the world.  No twisted, poor convex-concave mirror, reflecting all objects with its own convexities and concavities; a perfectly level mirror; ­that is to say withal, if we will understand it, a man justly related to all things and men, a good man.  It is truly a lordly spectacle how this great soul takes in all kinds of men and objects, a Falstaff, an Othello, a Juliet, a Coriolanus; sets them all forth to us in their round completeness; loving, just, the equal brother of all. Novum Organum, and all the intellect you will find in Bacon, is of a quite secondary order; earthy, material, poor in comparison with this.  Among modern men, one finds, in strictness, almost nothing of the same rank.  Goethe alone, since the days of Shakspeare, reminds me of it.  Of him too you say that he saw the object; you may say what he himself says of Shakspeare:  “His characters are like watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal; they show you the hour like others, and the inward mechanism also is all visible.”

The seeing eye!  It is this that discloses the inner harmony of things; what Nature meant, what musical idea Nature has wrapped up in these often rough embodiments.  Something she did mean.  To the seeing eye that something were discernible.  Are they base, miserable things?  You can laugh over them, you can weep over them; you can in some way or other genially relate yourself to them; ­you can, at lowest, hold your peace about them, turn away your own and others’ face from them, till the hour come for practically exterminating and extinguishing them!  At bottom, it is the Poet’s first gift, as it is all men’s, that he have intellect enough.  He will be a Poet if he have:  a Poet in word; or failing that, perhaps still better, a Poet in act.  Whether he write at all; and if so, whether in prose or in verse, will depend on accidents:  who knows on what extremely trivial accidents, ­perhaps on his having had a singing-master, on his being taught to sing in his boyhood!  But the faculty which enables him to discern the inner heart of things, and the harmony that dwells there (for whatsoever exists has a harmony in the heart of it, or it would not hold together and exist), is not the result of habits or accidents, but the gift of Nature herself; the primary outfit for a Heroic Man in what sort soever.  To the Poet, as to every other, we say first of all, See.  If you cannot do that, it is of no use to keep stringing rhymes together, jingling sensibilities against each other, and name yourself a Poet; there is no hope for you.  If you can, there is, in prose or verse, in action or speculation, all manner of hope.  The crabbed old Schoolmaster used to ask, when they brought him a new pupil, “But are ye sure he’s not a dunce?” Why, really one might ask the same thing, in regard to every man proposed for whatsoever function; and consider it as the one inquiry needful:  Are ye sure he’s not a dunce?  There is, in this world, no other entirely fatal person.

For, in fact, I say the degree of vision that dwells in a man is a correct measure of the man.  If called to define Shakspeare’s faculty, I should say superiority of Intellect, and think I had included all under that.  What indeed are faculties?  We talk of faculties as if they were distinct, things separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, fancy, &c., as he has hands, feet and arms.  That is a capital error.  Then again, we hear of a man’s “intellectual nature,” and of his “moral nature,” as if these again were divisible, and existed apart.  Necessities of language do perhaps prescribe such forms of utterance; we must speak, I am aware, in that way, if we are to speak at all.  But words ought not to harden into things for us.  It seems to me, our apprehension of this matter is, for most part, radically falsified thereby.  We ought to know withal, and to keep forever in mind, that these divisions are at bottom but names; that man’s spiritual nature, the vital Force which dwells in him, is essentially one and indivisible; that what we call imagination, fancy, understanding, and so forth, are but different figures of the same Power of Insight, all indissolubly connected with each other, physiognomically related; that if we knew one of them, we might know all of them.  Morality itself, what we call the moral quality of a man, what is this but another side of the one vital Force whereby he is and works?  All that a man does is physiognomical of him.  You may see how a man would fight, by the way in which he sings; his courage, or want of courage, is visible in the word he utters, in the opinion he has formed, no less than in the stroke he strikes.  He is one; and preaches the same Self abroad in all these ways.

Without hands a man might have feet, and could still walk:  but, consider it, ­without morality, intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly immoral man could not know anything at all!  To know a thing, what we can call knowing, a man must first love the thing, sympathize with it:  that is, be virtuously related to it.  If he have not the justice to put down his own selfishness at every turn, the courage to stand by the dangerous-true at every turn, how shall he know?  His virtues, all of them, will lie recorded in his knowledge.  Nature, with her truth, remains to the bad, to the selfish and the pusillanimous forever a sealed book:  what such can know of Nature is mean, superficial, small; for the uses of the day merely. ­But does not the very Fox know something of Nature?  Exactly so:  it knows where the geese lodge!  The human Reynard, very frequent everywhere in the world, what more does he know but this and the like of this?  Nay, it should be considered too, that if the Fox had not a certain vulpine morality, he could not even know where the geese were, or get at the geese!  If he spent his time in splenetic atrabiliar reflections on his own misery, his ill usage by Nature, Fortune and other Foxes, and so forth; and had not courage, promptitude, practicality, and other suitable vulpine gifts and graces, he would catch no geese.  We may say of the Fox too, that his morality and insight are of the same dimensions; different faces of the same internal unity of vulpine life! ­These things are worth stating; for the contrary of them acts with manifold very baleful perversion, in this time:  what limitations, modifications they require, your own candor will supply.

If I say, therefore, that Shakspeare is the greatest of Intellects, I have said all concerning him.  But there is more in Shakspeare’s intellect than we have yet seen.  It is what I call an unconscious intellect; there is more virtue in it than he himself is aware of.  Novalis beautifully remarks of him, that those Dramas of his are Products of Nature too, deep as Nature herself.  I find a great truth in this saying.  Shakspeare’s Art is not Artifice; the noblest worth of it is not there by plan or precontrivance.  It grows up from the deeps of Nature, through this noble sincere soul, who is a voice of Nature.  The latest generations of men will find new meanings in Shakspeare, new élucidations of their own human being; “new harmonies with the infinite structure of the Universe; concurrences with later ideas, affinities with the higher powers and senses of man.”  This well deserves meditating.  It is Nature’s highest reward to a true simple great soul, that he get thus to be a part of herself.  Such a man’s works, whatsoever he with utmost conscious exertion and forethought shall accomplish, grow up withal unconsciously, from the unknown deeps in him; ­as the oak-tree grows from the Earth’s bosom, as the mountains and waters shape themselves; with a symmetry grounded on Nature’s own laws, conformable to all Truth whatsoever.  How much in Shakspeare lies hid; his sorrows, his silent struggles known to himself; much that was not known at all, not speakable at all:  like roots, like sap and forces working underground!  Speech is great; but Silence is greater.

Withal the joyful tranquillity of this man is notable.  I will not blame Dante for his misery:  it is as battle without victory; but true battle, ­the first, indispensable thing.  Yet I call Shakspeare greater than Dante, in that he fought truly, and did conquer.  Doubt it not, he had his own sorrows:  those Sonnets of his will even testify expressly in what deep waters he had waded, and swum struggling for his life; ­as what man like him ever failed to have to do?  It seems to me a heedless notion, our common one, that he sat like a bird on the bough; and sang forth, free and off-hand, never knowing the troubles of other men.  Not so; with no man is it so.  How could a man travel forward from rustic deer-poaching to such tragedy-writing, and not fall in with sorrows by the way?  Or, still better, how could a man delineate a Hamlet, a Coriolanus, a Macbeth, so many suffering heroic hearts, if his own heroic heart had never suffered? ­And now, in contrast with all this, observe his mirthfulness, his genuine overflowing love of laughter!  You would say, in no point does he exaggerate but only in laughter.  Fiery objurgations, words that pierce and burn, are to be found in Shakspeare; yet he is always in measure here; never what Johnson would remark as a specially “good hater.”  But his laughter seems to pour from him in floods; he heaps all manner of ridiculous nicknames on the butt he is bantering, tumbles and tosses him in all sorts of horse-play; you would say, with his whole heart laughs.  And then, if not always the finest, it is always a genial laughter.  Not at mere weakness, at misery or poverty; never.  No man who can laugh, what we call laughing, will laugh at these things.  It is some poor character only desiring to laugh, and have the credit of wit, that does so.  Laughter means sympathy; good laughter is not “the crackling of thorns under the pot.”  Even at stupidity and pretension this Shakspeare does not laugh otherwise than genially.  Dogberry and Verges tickle our very hearts; and we dismiss them covered with explosions of laughter:  but we like the poor fellows only the better for our laughing; and hope they will get on well there, and continue Presidents of the City-watch.  Such laughter, like sunshine on the deep sea, is very beautiful to me.

We have no room to speak of Shakspeare’s individual works; though perhaps there is much still waiting to be said on that head.  Had we, for instance, all his plays reviewed as Hamlet, in Wilhelm Meister, is!  A thing which might, one day, be done.  August Wilhelm Schlegel has a remark on his Historical Plays, Henry Fifth and the others, which is worth remembering.  He calls them a kind of National Epic.  Marlborough, you recollect, said, he knew no English History but what he had learned from Shakspeare.  There are really, if we look to it, few as memorable Histories.  The great salient points are admirably seized; all rounds itself off, into a kind of rhythmic coherence; it is, as Schlegel says, epic; ­as indeed all delineation by a great thinker will be.  There are right beautiful things in those Pieces, which indeed together form one beautiful thing.  That battle of Agincourt strikes me as one of the most perfect things, in its sort, we anywhere have of Shakspeare’s.  The description of the two hosts:  the worn-out, jaded English; the dread hour, big with destiny, when the battle shall begin; and then that deathless valor:  “Ye good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England!” There is a noble Patriotism in it, ­far other than the “indifference” you sometimes hear ascribed to Shakspeare.  A true English heart breathes, calm and strong, through the whole business; not boisterous, protrusive; all the better for that.  There is a sound in it like the ring of steel.  This man too had a right stroke in him, had it come to that!

But I will say, of Shakspeare’s works generally, that we have no full impress of him there; even as full as we have of many men.  His works are so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in him.  All his works seem, comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect, written under cramping circumstances; giving only here and there a note of the full utterance of the man.  Passages there are that come upon you like splendor out of Heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating the very heart of the thing:  you say, “That is true, spoken once and forever; wheresoever and whensoever there is an open human soul, that will be recognized as true!” Such bursts, however, make us feel that the surrounding matter is not radiant; that it is, in part, temporary, conventional.  Alas, Shakspeare had to write for the Globe Playhouse:  his great soul had to crush itself, as it could, into that and no other mould.  It was with him, then, as it is with us all.  No man works save under conditions.  The sculptor cannot set his own free Thought before us; but his Thought as he could translate it into the stone that was given, with the tools that were given. Disjecta membra are all that we find of any Poet, or of any man.

Whoever looks intelligently at this Shakspeare may recognize that he too was a Prophet, in his way; of an insight analogous to the Prophetic, though he took it up in another strain.  Nature seemed to this man also divine; unspeakable, deep as Tophet, high as Heaven; “We are such stuff as Dreams are made of!” That scroll in Westminster Abbey, which few read with understanding, is of the depth of any seer.  But the man sang; did not preach, except musically.  We called Dante the melodious Priest of Middle-Age Catholicism.  May we not call Shakspeare the still more melodious Priest of a true Catholicism, the “Universal Church” of the Future and of all times?  No narrow superstition, harsh asceticism, intolerance, fanatical fierceness or perversion:  a Revelation, so far as it goes, that such a thousand-fold hidden beauty and divineness dwells in all Nature; which let all men worship as they can!  We may say without offence, that there rises a kind of universal Psalm out of this Shakspeare too; not unfit to make itself heard among the still more sacred Psalms.  Not in disharmony with these, if we understood them, but in harmony! ­I cannot call this Shakspeare a “Sceptic,” as some do; his indifference to the creeds and theological quarrels of his time misleading them.  No:  neither unpatriotic, though he says little about his Patriotism; nor sceptic, though he says little about his Faith.  Such “indifference” was the fruit of his greatness withal:  his whole heart was in his own grand sphere of worship (we may call it such); these other controversies, vitally important to other men, were not vital to him.

But call it worship, call it what you will, is it not a right glorious thing, and set of things, this that Shakspeare has brought us?  For myself, I feel that there is actually a kind of sacredness in the fact of such a man being sent into this Earth.  Is he not an eye to us all; a blessed heaven-sent Bringer of Light? ­And, at bottom, was it not perhaps far better that this Shakspeare, every way an unconscious man, was conscious of no Heavenly message?  He did not feel, like Mahomet, because he saw into those internal Splendors, that he specially was the “Prophet of God:”  and was he not greater than Mahomet in that?  Greater; and also, if we compute strictly, as we did in Dante’s case, more successful.  It was intrinsically an error that notion of Mahomet’s, of his supreme Prophethood; and has come down to us inextricably involved in error to this day; dragging along with it such a coil of fables, impurities, intolérances, as makes it a questionable step for me here and now to say, as I have done, that Mahomet was a true Speaker at all, and not rather an ambitious charlatan, perversity and simulacrum; no Speaker, but a Babbler!  Even in Arabia, as I compute, Mahomet will have exhausted himself and become obsolete, while this Shakspeare, this Dante may still be young; ­while this Shakspeare may still pretend to be a Priest of Mankind, of Arabia as of other places, for unlimited periods to come!

Compared with any speaker or singer one knows, even with Aeschylus or Homer, why should he not, for veracity and universality, last like them?  He is sincere as they; reaches deep down like them, to the universal and perennial.  But as for Mahomet, I think it had been better for him not to be so conscious!  Alas, poor Mahomet; all that he was conscious of was a mere error; a futility and triviality, ­as indeed such ever is.  The truly great in him too was the unconscious:  that he was a wild Arab lion of the desert, and did speak out with that great thunder-voice of his, not by words which he thought to be great, but by actions, by feelings, by a history which were great!  His Koran has become a stupid piece of prolix absurdity; we do not believe, like him, that God wrote that!  The Great Man here too, as always, is a Force of Nature.  Whatsoever is truly great in him springs up from the inarticulate deeps.

Well:  this is our poor Warwickshire Peasant, who rose to be Manager of a Playhouse, so that he could live without begging; whom the Earl of Southampton cast some kind glances on; whom Sir Thomas Lucy, many thanks to him, was for sending to the Treadmill!  We did not account him a god, like Odin, while he dwelt with us; ­on which point there were much to be said.  But I will say rather, or repeat:  In spite of the sad state Hero-worship now lies in, consider what this Shakspeare has actually become among us.  Which Englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, which million of Englishmen, would we not give up rather than the Stratford Peasant?  There is no regiment of highest Dignitaries that we would sell him for.  He is the grandest thing we have yet done.  For our honor among foreign nations, as an ornament to our English Household, what item is there that we would not surrender rather than him?  Consider now, if they asked us, Will you give up your Indian Empire or your Shakspeare, you English; never have had any Indian Empire, or never have had any Shakspeare?  Really it were a grave question.  Official persons would answer doubtless in official language; but we, for our part too, should not we be forced to answer:  Indian Empire, or no Indian Empire; we cannot do without Shakspeare!  Indian Empire will go, at any rate, some day; but this Shakspeare does not go, he lasts forever with us; we cannot give up our Shakspeare!

Nay, apart from spiritualities; and considering him merely as a real, marketable, tangibly useful possession.  England, before long, this Island of ours, will hold but a small fraction of the English:  in America, in New Holland, east and west to the very Antipodes, there will be a Saxondom covering great spaces of the Globe.  And now, what is it that can keep all these together into virtually one Nation, so that they do not fall out and fight, but live at peace, in brotherlike intercourse, helping one another?  This is justly regarded as the greatest practical problem, the thing all manner of sovereignties and governments are here to accomplish:  what is it that will accomplish this?  Acts of Parliament, administrative prime-ministers cannot.  America is parted from us, so far as Parliament could part it.  Call it not fantastic, for there is much reality in it:  Here, I say, is an English King, whom no time or chance, Parliament or combination of Parliaments, can dethrone!  This King Shakspeare, does not he shine, in crowned sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of rallying-signs; indestructible; really more valuable in that point of view than any other means or appliance whatsoever?  We can fancy him as radiant aloft over all the Nations of Englishmen, a thousand years hence.  From Paramatta, from New York, wheresoever, under what sort of Parish-Constable soever, English men and women are, they will say to one another:  “Yes, this Shakspeare is ours; we produced him, we speak and think by him; we are of one blood and kind with him.”  The most common-sense politician, too, if he pleases, may think of that.

Yes, truly, it is a great thing for a Nation that it get an articulate voice; that it produce a man who will speak forth melodiously what the heart of it means!  Italy, for example, poor Italy lies dismembered, scattered asunder, not appearing in any protocol or treaty as a unity at all; yet the noble Italy is actually one:  Italy produced its Dante; Italy can speak!  The Czar of all the Russias, he is strong with so many bayonets, Cossacks and cannons; and does a great feat in keeping such a tract of Earth politically together; but he cannot yet speak.  Something great in him, but it is a dumb greatness.  He has had no voice of genius, to be heard of all men and times.  He must learn to speak.  He is a great dumb monster hitherto.  His cannons and Cossacks will all have rusted into nonentity, while that Dante’s voice is still audible.  The Nation that has a Dante is bound together as no dumb Russia can be. ­We must here end what we had to say of the Hero-Poet.