heroes and hero worship-第22部分

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world？　　Precisely　as　there　is　light　in　himself；　will　he　accomplish　this。

Or　indeed　we　may　say　again；　it　is　in　what　I　called　Portrait…painting；　delineating　of　men　and　things；　especially　of　men；　that　Shakspeare　is　great。　All　the　greatness　of　the　man　comes　out　decisively　here。　　It　is　unexampled；　I　think；　that　calm　creative　perspicacity　of　Shakspeare。　　The　thing　he　looks　at　reveals　not　this　or　that　face　of　it；　but　its　inmost　heart；　and　generic　secret：　　it　dissolves　itself　as　in　light　before　him；　so　that　he　discerns　the　perfect　structure　of　it。　　Creative；　we　said：　　poetic　creation；　what　is　this　too　but　_seeing_　the　thing　sufficiently？　　The　_word_　that　will　describe　the　thing；　follows　of　itself　from　such　clear　intense　sight　of　the　thing。　　And　is　not　Shakspeare's　_morality_；　his　valor；　candor；　tolerance；　truthfulness；　his　whole　victorious　strength　and　greatness；　which　can　triumph　over　such　obstructions；　visible　there　too？　　Great　as　the　world。　　No　_twisted_；　poor　convex…concave　mirror；　reflecting　all　objects　with　its　own　convexities　and　concavities；　a　perfectly　_level_　mirror；that　is　to　say　withal；　if　we　will　understand　it；　a　man　justly　related　to　all　things　and　men；　a　good　man。　　It　is　truly　a　lordly　spectacle　how　this　great　soul　takes　in　all　kinds　of　men　and　objects；　a　Falstaff；　an　Othello；　a　Juliet；　a　Coriolanus；　sets　them　all　forth　to　us　in　their　round　completeness；　loving；　just；　the　equal　brother　of　all。　　_Novum　Organum_；　and　all　the　intellect　you　will　find　in　Bacon；　is　of　a　quite　secondary　order；　earthy；　material；　poor　in　comparison　with　this。　　Among　modern　men；　one　finds；　in　strictness；　almost　nothing　of　the　same　rank。　　Goethe　alone；　since　the　days　of　Shakspeare；　reminds　me　of　it。　　Of　him　too　you　say　that　he　_saw_　the　object；　you　may　say　what　he　himself　says　of　Shakspeare：　　〃His　characters　are　like　watches　with　dial…plates　of　transparent　crystal；　they　show　you　the　hour　like　others；　and　the　inward　mechanism　also　is　all　visible。〃

The　seeing　eye！　　It　is　this　that　discloses　the　inner　harmony　of　things；　what　Nature　meant；　what　musical　idea　Nature　has　wrapped　up　in　these　often　rough　embodiments。　　Something　she　did　mean。　　To　the　seeing　eye　that　something　were　discernible。　　Are　they　base；　miserable　things？　　You　can　laugh　over　them；　you　can　weep　over　them；　you　can　in　some　way　or　other　genially　relate　yourself　to　them；you　can；　at　lowest；　hold　your　peace　about　them；　turn　away　your　own　and　others'　face　from　them；　till　the　hour　come　for　practically　exterminating　and　extinguishing　them！　　At　bottom；　it　is　the　Poet's　first　gift；　as　it　is　all　men's；　that　he　have　intellect　enough。　　He　will　be　a　Poet　if　he　have：　　a　Poet　in　word；　or　failing　that；　perhaps　still　better；　a　Poet　in　act。　　Whether　he　write　at　all；　and　if　so；　whether　in　prose　or　in　verse；　will　depend　on　accidents：　　who　knows　on　what　extremely　trivial　accidents；perhaps　on　his　having　had　a　singing…master；　on　his　being　taught　to　sing　in　his　boyhood！　　But　the　faculty　which　enables　him　to　discern　the　inner　heart　of　things；　and　the　harmony　that　dwells　there　（for　whatsoever　exists　has　a　harmony　in　the　heart　of　it；　or　it　would　not　hold　together　and　exist）；　is　not　the　result　of　habits　or　accidents；　but　the　gift　of　Nature　herself；　the　primary　outfit　for　a　Heroic　Man　in　what　sort　soever。　　To　the　Poet；　as　to　every　other；　we　say　first　of　all；　_See_。　　If　you　cannot　do　that；　it　is　of　no　use　to　keep　stringing　rhymes　together；　jingling　sensibilities　against　each　other；　and　_name_　yourself　a　Poet；　there　is　no　hope　for　you。　　If　you　can；　there　is；　in　prose　or　verse；　in　action　or　speculation；　all　manner　of　hope。　　The　crabbed　old　Schoolmaster　used　to　ask；　when　they　brought　him　a　new　pupil；　〃But　are　ye　sure　he's　_not　a　dunce_？〃　　Why；　really　one　might　ask　the　same　thing；　in　regard　to　every　man　proposed　for　whatsoever　function；　and　consider　it　as　the　one　inquiry　needful：　　Are　ye　sure　he's　not　a　dunce？　　There　is；　in　this　world；　no　other　entirely　fatal　person。

For；　in　fact；　I　say　the　degree　of　vision　that　dwells　in　a　man　is　a　correct　measure　of　the　man。　　If　called　to　define　Shakspeare's　faculty；　I　should　say　superiority　of　Intellect；　and　think　I　had　included　all　under　that。　　What　indeed　are　faculties？　　We　talk　of　faculties　as　if　they　were　distinct；　things　separable；　as　if　a　man　had　intellect；　imagination；　fancy；　&c。；　as　he　has　hands；　feet　and　arms。　　That　is　a　capital　error。　　Then　again；　we　hear　of　a　man's　〃intellectual　nature；〃　and　of　his　〃moral　nature；〃　as　if　these　again　were　divisible；　and　existed　apart。　　Necessities　of　language　do　perhaps　prescribe　such　forms　of　utterance；　we　must　speak；　I　am　aware；　in　that　way；　if　we　are　to　speak　at　all。　　But　words　ought　not　to　harden　into　things　for　us。　　It　seems　to　me；　our　apprehension　of　this　matter　is；　for　most　part；　radically　falsified　thereby。　　We　ought　to　know　withal；　and　to　keep　forever　in　mind；　that　these　divisions　are　at　bottom　but　_names_；　that　man's　spiritual　nature；　the　vital　Force　which　dwells　in　him；　is　essentially　one　and　indivisible；　that　what　we　call　imagination；　fancy；　understanding；　and　so　forth；　are　but　different　figures　of　the　same　Power　of　Insight；　all　indissolubly　connected　with　each　other；　physiognomically　related；　that　if　we　knew　one　of　them；　we　might　know　all　of　them。　　Morality　itself；　what　we　call　the　moral　quality　of　a　man；　what　is　this　but　another　_side_　of　the　one　vital　Force　whereby　he　is　and　works？　　All　that　a　man　does　is　physiognomical　of　him。　　You　may　see　how　a　man　would　fight；　by　the　way　in　which　he　sings；　his　courage；　or　want　of　courage；　is　visible　in　the　word　he　utters；　in　the　opinion　he　has　formed；　no　less　than　in　the　stroke　he　strikes。　　He　is　_one_；　and　preaches　the　same　Self　abroad　in　all　these　ways。

Without　hands　a　man　might　have　feet；　and　could　still　walk：　　but；　consider　it；without　morality；　intellect　were　impossible　for　him；　a　thoroughly　immoral　_man_　could　not　know　anything　at　all！　　To　know　a　thing；　what　we　can　call　knowing；　a　man　must　first　_love_　the　thing；　sympathize　with　it：　　that　is；　be　_virtuously_　related　to　it。　　If　he　have　not　the　justice　to　put　down　his　own　selfishness　at　every　turn；　the　courage　to　stand　by　the　dangerous…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　floo