ighest and finest
qualities of human judgment seem to be in commission among the nation,
or the race. It is by such a process, that whenever a true hero appears
among mankind, the recognition of his character, by the general sense of
humanity, is instant and certain: the belief of the chief priests and
rulers of mind follows later, or comes not at all. The perceptions of a
public are as subtly-sighted as its passions are blind. It sees, and
feels, and knows the excellence, which it can neither understand, nor
explain, nor vindicate. These involuntary opinions of people at large
explain themselves, and are vindicated by events, and form at last the
constants of human understanding. A character of the first order of
greatness, such as seems to pass out of the limits and courses of
ordinary life, often lies above the ken of intellectual judgment; but
its merits and its infirmities never escape the sleepless perspicacity
of the common sentiment, which no novelty of form can surprise, and no
mixture of qualities can perplex. The mind--the logical
faculty--comprehends a subject, when it can trace in it the same
elements, or relations, which it is familiar with elsewhere; if it finds
but a faint analogy of form or substance, its decision is embarrassed.
But this other instinct seems to become subtler, and more rapid, and
more absolute in conviction, at the line where reason begins to falter.

Take the case of Shakspeare. His surpassing greatness was never
acknowledged by the learned, until the nation had ascertained and
settled it as a foregone and questionless conclusion. Even now, to the
most sagacious mind of this time, the real ground and evidence of its
own assurance of Shakspeare's supremacy, is the universal, deep,
immovable conviction of it in the public feeling. There have been many
acute essays upon his minor characteristics; but intellectual criticism
has never grappled with Shaksperian ART in its entireness and grandeur,
and probably it never will. We know not now wherein his greatness
consists. We cannot demonstrate it. There is less indistinctness in the
merit of less eminent authors. Those things which are not doubts to our
consciousness, are yet mysteries to our mind. And if this is true of
literary art, which is so much within the sphere of reflection, it may
be expected to find more striking illustration in great practical and
public moral characters.

[Illustration: THE NATIONAL MONUMENT AT WASHINGTON.]