the proper faculties. This holds true of all the forms of art, and indeed, of nature herself; for unless we find or feel a meaning beyond her sensible manifestations, nature is but the feeder of our bodies, not the instructress of our minds. The reason, therefore, why some men see nothing valuable in nature but cornfields and cotton-plantations, is, they have none but corn-eating and cotton-wearing faculties to view her with. To such men nature is, properly speaking, no nature at all, but only a sort of huge machine, put in motion by some omnipotent diagram, to manufacture useful articles and agreeable sensations for them.

Even so, unless music express some sentiment or emotion, it is really no music at all, but only a succession of sounds, and touches but the outward ear. Hence, the reason why the singing of a bird is often so much sweeter than our artificial music, is, that the one is the outgushing of the little creature's sweet, innocent, happy soul, while the other is often but a volume of audible wind. Marble, also, may be fashioned with the utmost ingenuity; but unless it become radiant or eloquent of some spiritual conception, it is but marble still, and no mere external elegance can inspire into a statue, and make it divine. Paints, too, may be tempered and arranged with infinite skill; but unless transfused with life and meaning, they do not form a picture, and make it breathe, but only a collection of colours, and strike no deeper than the optic nerve. So also, words and figures of speech may be strung together never so smoothly, and elegantly, and sonorously; yet, unless informed and transfigured with the soul of truth, and beauty, and thought, and passion, they do not form

poetry, but only verse, and are but "as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal."

In all these cases, the sensuous forms, whether addressed to the eye, or the ear, or both, are obviously worth nothing whatever unless expressive or suggestive of some spiritual meaning. And, on the other hand, unless our minds receive or reproduce this meaning, the plain truth is, we are viewing the work only with our organic senses; that is, we do not understand it. Accordingly, Sir Joshua Reynolds says, that upon seeing the paintings of Rafaelle, his first emotion was mere astonishment, that the world should so much admire such ordinary productions. Upon a little reflection, however, he suspected the fault must be in himself; criticism gave place to docility; and, after studying them a few days, he found, sure enough, that it had scarcely entered into the heart of the world, to conceive the surpassing beauty that dwelt in them. Here the impression of the mere form on his organic senses was attended only with disappointment; but as soon as the contents struck home to his spiritual senses, he was overpowered with their glory. If, however, instead of endeavouring to grasp their contents, he had closed his senses, both spiritual and organic, and contemplated them only with his critical tools and fingers, he would probably have found them somewhat rude, and rough and irregular; for this Shakspeare of painters was far enough from polishing his works down to a lifeless, expressionless elegance. In that case, Sir Joshua would have been in much the same predicament as Mr. Hume and various others in their criticisms upon Shakspeare's plays.

LECTURE IV.

ON SHAKSPEARE'S CRITICS-DIFFERENCE OF THE CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC DRAMA-UNITIES OF TIME AND PLACE.

WORDSWORTH, Speaking, apparently, of some one who, by a courtesy of language not unfrequent now-a-days, had gotten the name of poet, says with a fine mixture

"A poet! he hath put his heart to school,

Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which art hath lodged within his hand; must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy art be nature: the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when critics grave and cool
Have killed him, scorn should write his epitaph.
How doth the meadow flower its bloom unfold?

Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
And so the grandeur of the forest tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality."

There is so much of pertinent truth as well as excellent poetry in this sonnet, that I thought I could not do better than introduce it here as a sort of text to the following lecture.

Probably half the complaints and inconsistencies of

Shakspeare's critics have proceeded on the assumption that, though certainly an astonishing genius, he either did not know, or, knowing, did not observe any law in the construction of his works. Whether this be really the fact, perhaps cannot be very easily shown; but one thing seems quite certain, namely, that, if it be, then Shakspeare was no genius at all, but only, at best, an inspired madman. Assuredly, most assuredly, genius and lawlessness do not and cannot go together. Undoubtedly, however, genius has its laws within itself; indeed, it is its instinctive capability of being a law unto itself, that makes it genius. The essential laws of thought were originally written on the human mind, as the essential laws of action were on the human heart. With most of us, indeed, these laws have lost their original, innate efficiency, whereby in following them we should have but to follow ourselves; they no longer exist and act within us, as guiding and impelling principles issuing in spontaneous rectitude of thought; but come to us from without to be superinduced upon us; set themselves over against us, to constrain us into rectitude of thought. Genius, however, is free, unstudied, spontaneous accordance with the laws of thought. Retaining the inward original transcript of these laws as a living essential part of its nature, in obeying them, it has but to obey itself. In other words, genius is, so to speak, unfallen intellect; it implies a sort of identity between the rule and the faculty of thought; and contains a living, salient spring or principle of truth, ready to run out and enlarge itself into suitable demonstrations, upon all emergent objects and occasions. Genius, therefore, can no more be lawless than virtue can; and the phrase,

lawless genius, really involves an absurd contradiction. Perhaps it is partly from the currency of this phrase, that men, or rather boys, sometimes affect lawlessness, in order to get the reputation of genius; which is much the same as if one should go about to approve the strength and purity of his moral instincts by telling lies and committing crimes.

The constituent, then, of genius, is spontaneous sympathy and harmony with the natural order of things, as original innocence was with the moral order of things. It is from this very harmony, indeed, that genius derives its power over us; its works are but commentaries on the law written on the human mind; and it is purely their reflection of that law that makes them immortal. Therefore it is that genius reconciles, in its own operations, perfect obedience with perfect freedom. Ordinary minds, it is true, have to resign their freedom in order to attain it; they have to accept the law as an obligation imposed from without; have to begin by submitting to external constraints, and pass gradually into freedom through a long course of instruction and discipline, whereby the outward laws of thought recover their original inward efficiency. Genius, on the other hand, is originally and essentially free, but only in virtue of an innate, self-regulating power, which precludes the office of external rules; so that it goes right from within, and therefore does not have to be set right, or kept right from without.

The mind, then, that has to go out of itself to codes of criticism for guidance; that has to learn the law from without before obeying it, and in order to obey it; and that attains to rectitude of thought by a constrained