HARTLEY. 66 Just because that human life, contains in it enough of the tragic and sublime, of the humorous and the beautiful; enough of pathos and sweet plaintiveness, to occupy the whole intellect and imagination, even of a Shakspeare. Had he been a smaller poet, he would have been more apt to exercise his poetic skill in the imitation of nature, which, as Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton truly remarks, can be considered an artistic end only in the very lowest degree of poetry, viz., the descriptive." To all great poets, Nature is a fair handmaiden and auxiliary. She ministers to them, and they acknowledge her services with royal generosity; but her position, though not menial, is subordinate. She will never form the chief burden of their song. I believe that Shakspeare had as profound a knowledge of nature as any poet who ever quaffed nectar. I believe it is most true that for him "A livelier emerald twinkled in the grass, but this knowledge, and this love-the one ever ready at his call, the other a part of his being-were subservient to higher aims, to a larger wisdom, and to still deeper emotions. Shakspeare accepted all that is beautiful in external nature, as a portion of his heritage as a man; but he was too wise to treat Nature as his goddess, and to become, like some of our modern poets, a superstitious votary at her shrine. His passion for nature effervesced in his earlier works, and grew gradually calmer, but not less sincere, as his genius attained its maturity. And the same principle holds good with common mortals. I know, from my own experience, that I do not rave about nature half so much as I did ten years ago, when I was just stretching into manhood, and one-and-twenty seemed like a far-off hill on the horizon. STANLEY. Yes; the difference between what nature proves to the boy, and to the man, may be compared, I fancy, to the first intoxicating, breathless passion for a fair girl, whom we love without asking ourselves why, and the calm, reliant, satisfying affection, which year by year grows in the heart of a husband, for the wife whom he has wisely chosen. TALBOT. What say you to that illustration, HARTLEY? It is one which you can appreciate. HARTLEY. This only, that it betokens a growing knowledge on the part of STANLEY, which will ere long ripen into fruit. If he has made such a wise choice himself, may he find by blessed experience the truth of his comparison ! STANLEY. For the wish I thank you, but not for the prophecy, which would have come with more grace from a gipsy oracle, than from a sensible, sponsible Englishman who is not descended from Bickerstaff, and does not bear the name of Moore. But explain, if you can, how it comes to pass, supposing your argument a true one, that our impression of Shakspeare-the world's impression I might say as the poet who best describes external nature, is sustained so slightly by the general character of his writings. HARTLEY. Have I not explained the reason already? The impression of which you speak is not fallacious; for the region through which Shakspeare moves is fresh with healthful breezes, and gladdened by bright sunshine, and pleasant rural sounds, and happy homely faces, Often and often when he does not mention the country, or mentions it incidentally, you feel that you are surrounded by its influences; and in the midst of broad humour, or high imagination, or stirring eloquence, you rejoice to find that the air of heaven is fanning your cheeks, and that the poet never detains you long in gloomy towns, or under ceiled roofs. Better far does it please him to carry you off to dwell with Rosalind "on the skirts of the forest;" but when you are there, Shakspeare does not care to pull the scene to pieces for you, scarcely even to give you a sketch of it. He has higher work in hand than any which falls to the share of the descriptive poet, or of the ordinary painter of landscapes, and so when, through an image caught from nature, he has embodied an immortal fancy, or a pregnant thought, he is content to leave the rest to the imagination. STANLEY. Do you remember one of Goethe's sayings about Shakspeare, that he offers us golden apples in silver dishes. "We get the silver dishes," he continues, "by studying his works; but unfortunately we have nothing better than potatoes to put into them." I suppose that the more a man reads Shakspeare, the more surprised he is to find, how much there is which eludes his grasp, or which stimulates to deeper inquiry. Shakspeare's poetry is full of mind, and thus it satisfies the understanding of men whose intellects are but feebly stirred by the splendour of his imagination, and the deliciousness of his fancy. The solidity of his thought is every whit as obvious as that "fine madness" which Drayton says should possess a poet's brain. HARTLEY. Methinks, that in nothing is Shakspeare's wonderful power more strikingly evinced than in his female portraits, each so distinct, so clearly drawn, so delicately featured, and almost all of them in their purity, depth of soul, and tenderness of feeling, their modesty and refinement, answering to one's ideal type of English womanhood. Verily, the ladies of the island are more indebted to Shakspeare than to all other poets together. TALBOT. And yet you remember, that Collins-himself a fine poet-had the stupidity to affirm that Shakspeare was too strong-minded to depict the charms, and virtues of womankind. Thus he writes :: "Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came The next in order, as the next in name. With pleased attention 'midst his scenes we find This piece of criticism is scarcely to be surpassed by Waller's criticism on Milton, Voltaire's on "Hamlet," Dryden's on Denham, Molyneux's on Blackmore's Epics, or that of the wits of Paris, on the "Athalie" of Racine. STANLEY. Or by Sir Walter Scott's own assertion, in corroboration of that of Collins, that "Beaumont and Fletcher surpassed Shakspeare, in drawing female characters." TALBOT. Is it possible that even Scott has so wofully betrayed his critical incapacity? Scott had such a bright, healthy, manly way of looking both at books and men, that I hardly like to think he could err, even as a critic. STANLEY. The critical faculty is sometimes but very slightly developed in men of great genius. Sir Walter Scott read the poets by the light of his own imagination, and judged of books not on general principles, but according to the effect they exercised on himself. You will find the panegyric on Beaumont and Fletcher, to which I have referred in the "Life of John Dryden," page 2, and on page 4, Scott makes another statement still more extraordinary, viz:-that Drayton, though less known than Spenser, "possessed, perhaps, equal powers of poetry." Now good Michael has certainly written a vast quantity of He is like an American river, and thinks nothing of travelling a thousand miles. His prodigality is marvellous, his invention great, his mental energy untiring; but he has no creative imagination, not many flashes of fancy, although now and then, as in the "Nymphidia," he gladdens us in that way, little feeling, and no pathos. To compare such a poet with Spenser, is hardly more appropriate than a comparison between Milton and Sir Richard Blackmore. verse. TALBOT. You might allow Drayton some pathos, as well as fancy. One of his sonnets combines both in an exquisite degree. Let me read it to you. It describes an oft-repeated episode in the immortal story of love : "Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part; |