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 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
battl