gerous…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　elucidations　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；　n