re 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 candour will supply.

If I say, therefore, that Shakespeare is the greatest of Intellects, I
have said all concerning him. But there is more in Shakespeare'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. Shakespeare'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
Shakespeare, 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 award 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 _un_consciously, 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
Shakespeare 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 wi