66 and created states of emotion and fancy, and embodied them in these works of art. The sonnet commencing, Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits," should have been from a wife to her absent husband; such ones as "When in disgrace,' or, "When I do count the clock," are from a lover to his mistress. The whole together appear to be a collection of pieces in that form, written at various times, and in different moods of mind. Some express a proud power, others sad resolution, tenderness, regret, hope, love, sorrow; yet all have that wonderful condensation and peculiar freedom of language which mark them as the production of the same great artist. Perhaps they were written as studies, and Shakspeare persevered in using the sonnet form as the most purely artistic and difficult of any, feeling that if he could attain the ease and habit of symmetry necessary to bring out that harmony of emotion and expression which is the perfection of poetry, while compelling his imagination to work under so great a stress of carefulness, then the requirements of ordinary verse would leave him almost free. Just as great composers of music write in strict fugued counterpoint till they acquire an almost miraculous command of harmony, and painters study the human. face and form till they master its changes under the many shades of expression and effect. For poetry is an art, and its forms require study as much as those of any other art. The poet's emotion, thought, fancy, passion, &c., pass out from him under the superintendence of his judgment, and in a strict form, of which he is perfectly conscious. A man cannot well write a sonnet without knowing what he is about. He must write in some form, and the mastery of any form is not a natural and inalienable attribute of humanity. We cannot "gush" poetry, as is evident not less from * Mr. Hudson quotes thus: Haply I think on thee; and then my state Is like the lark at break of day uprising From earth and singing hymns at heaven's gate. Our London Edition of Hazlitt's Poets has itHaply I think on thee,-and then my state Like to the lark at break of day arising (From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate, This must be the true reading. us. the teachings of common sense within, than from the lamentable failures of late years in the many attempts to do so around Good poetry requires the reason, the taste, and the intellect, as well as the heart, the fancy, and the imagination. The raptures of song and music are not those of wine. It would seem to be the idea with a superficial class of thinkers, that even admitting the necessity of a study of the form of poetry, the poet should, at the time of inspiration, be able to forget that he was using any form, and should flow on in spontaneous jets of musical eloquence; and that poetry so written would be more perfect in form than if the writer should endeavor conscientiously to conform to rule. In other words, they would have him study his rule till the moment of ap plication, and then throw it aside and go by the pure astus animi. This, it seems to us, is a very low view of the art. We are not to stndy celare artem but the ars celare artem. That is, we should not aim to throw aside the art and conceal it by not using it, but we should endeavor to command the art, with so much power that there shall be a sense of ease and strength imparted to the reader. Just at our time, when "some people" are so given to self-utterance, so ready to take upon themselves the feeling that they are great artists, when they are in truth no artists at all, it is well to insist on the prac tical part of poetry, and to say very plainly, at the expense of being styled a "conventionalist,' "purist," or or whatever the phrase may be, that poets are not those who can intoxicate themselves with the nectar of conceit, and then expose ther raptures to the world. They are those who can express raised states of the soul experiable by all mankind, in forms suitable to those states; who have the art to control themselves and beget a temperance in the very tempest and whirlwind of passion; who express not themselves but what they think, see, and hear, in that way, because they are impelled to it by a natural spiritual impulse-a feeling not primarily of desire for fame or any other consequence, but of a strong wish to excel in that de partment, and a notion that they can and will-by study, by thought, by a resolute compulsion of themselves to the task. How earnestly did the inspired ploughman labor to make himself worthy of the title | What then shall we say? even this: that "Robert Burns, Poet!" His was no such inspiration as took away his senses. His most musical, most melancholy songs were not produced by a mind made maudlin through a contemplation of its own charms. He was too delicate-minded a man to uncover himself and “think out 'loud" before his countrymen. We gather but a meagre account of his personal history from his poems. Shakspeare, no mere child of nature; no automaton of genius; no passive vehicle of inspirafirst studied patiently, meditated deeply, undertion possessed by the spirit, not possessing it; stood minutely, till knowledge, become habitual and intuitive, wedded itself to his habitual feelings, and at length gave birth to that stupendous power by which he stands alone, with no equal or second in his own class; to that power which seated him on one of the two glory-smitten summits of the poetic mountain, with Milton as his himself forth, and passes into all the forms of compeer, not rival. While the former darts human character and passion, the one Proteus of the fire and the flood; the other attracts all forms and things to himself, into the unity of his own IDEAL. All things and modes of action while SHAKSPEARE becomes all things, yet forshape themselves anew in the being of MILTON; hast thou not produced, England! my country! ever remaining himself. O what great men truly indeed hold Which Milton held in everything we are sprung Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold!'" If these be true views of the art of writing poetry, then they afford a reason for supposing that Shakspeare composed is Sonnets chiefly as exercises, artistically creating imaginary conditions within himelf, and producing them in required orms. There is no necessity for believing hem to have been personally intended; adeed, if it could be proved that they ere so, it would tend to show that Shak-Must we be free or die, who speak the tongue peare was not only himself, but compre- Which Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals ended Milton, and at the same time sang is native wood-notes wild on the blos'my ray of the social earth, and towered nong the stars like a winged messenger heaven; it would make him the artist control as well as of liberty, and force to admire the power of an imagination hich could at once bear its possessor to e gates of paradise, and gladden the llen earth with smiles. In fine, it would ake the musical element in him to preIminate and sustain the descriptive and e reasoning powers in such a way that he ould seem to address himself to others, ereas in his manifestation of himself ough the drama he appears rapt in templation and self-communion, (not ery, speaking to himself alone-borne ward in his flight, not on self-created ions, or by the fire and strength of his lody, but by the natural loftiness of his ng. Before proceeding further in the path of ught suggested by these observations, re is a passage from Coleridge which it ecessary to quote, for its own sake, as 1 as in justice to Mr. Hudson. It is t of the concluding paragraph of the cal analysis of the Venus and Adonis Lucrece, in the second volume of the graphia Literaria. There is in the latform, he says — In Mr. Hudson's chapter on Shakspeare's perceptive powers, near the end, we have the following: "Herein Shakspeare differs altogether from Milton. Milton concentrates all things into himself, and melts them down into his own individuality; Shakspeare darts himself forth into all things, and melts down his individuality into theirs. Every page of Milton's writings exhibits a full-length portrait of the author; the perfect absence of Shakspeare from his own pages, makes it difficult for us to conceive of a human being's having written them. The secret of this probably is, Milton had nearly all of Shakspeare's imagination, but perhaps not a tithe of Shakspeare's vision. The former might have created a thousand characters, and all would have been but modifications of himself; the latter did create nearly a thousand, and not an element of himself can be found in objects of his contemplation into himself, while Shakspeare transforms himself into whatever object he contemplates: the one makes us see his own image in all things, the other makes us see everything but his own image." one of them. Thus Milton transforms all the And the chapter concludes as follows:"With most authors language is as hard and stiff as granite. It comes from them shaped and colored exactly as they find it. Instead of tly, the same perfect dominion, often domi-governing it, they are governed by it; they on, over the whole world of language. shape and submit their minds to its pre-existing OL. II. NO. I. NEW SERIES. 4 forms, instead of moulding and subjecting it to the law of their minds. It is therefore the tyrant, not the servant of their thoughts. But with Shakspeare, language became as soft and limber as water at the fountain. He was its master, and in his mind it obeyed no laws, for it knew none, but his. Without shape or color of its own, it assumed under his plastic hand the precise shape and color of his thoughts. Words have obeyed some others from convenience, they obeyed him from necessity. He is turut Adam of English literature: both things and words heard and came at his call, the former to receive names, the latter to be given to them. He is enough of himself to immortalize the English tongue; he has made it as imperishable and almost as inimitable as the Greek. Well might Wordsworth say, 'We must be free,'" &c. We regret that Mr. Hudson should have used Coleridge so freely without making an acknowledgment, since it will enable "some people," who are nothing if not cavilling, to cower from his downright blows, under the imputation of plagiarism, and thereby elude the happy possibility of having nonsense fairly cudgelled out of their brains. That our author does not intend to be a plagiarist, will be evident to all candid persons who read his book; but we shall not undertake to defend him for such an extension of the ordinary privilege of quotation as he has here introduced, even though the chapter thus served up be one which all students must be presumed to have almost by heart. There are several other instances of the kind in his lectures, for which the expression in his dedication of a strong desire to add "the interest of novelty to any notions so old and true, that they are in danger of being forgotten," is not a sufficient excuse. Where opinions were so literally copied, the authorities should have been cited, as in legal decisions. But to return:-The view of Coleridge in the extract above given, arrives at the same distinction with that we were about to propose, in considering Shakspeare as one rapt in contemplation and speaking entirely to himself, while Milton is full of an earnest purpose, and addresses the world. It is very presumptuous to speculate on a subject which has been made so clear by one of the most profound critics that ever wrote, yet as our view may help some readers to the better understanding of his, we shall not withhold it. Our theory then is, that the true solu tion of the Shakspeare problem is to be found in the character of Hamlet. We can best account for his ability to make himself "the one Proteus of the fire and the flood," by considering him to be in himself an unideal Hamlet-one whom every thing made to think, and who was so ful of reflection, so all-grasping in perception. and so lofty and pure in heart, that be and never be moulded by the world in a desperate earnest creature, could neve attain to a set of opinions, but remained ob serving like a boy, even after he had grown through and settled most of the great ques tions of government and morals that agitate the world in general. In short, he was man who lived in meditation, and whe whenever his mind was at repose, was n cogitating of darling purposes, nor feed | ing himself with vanity, but rather o pied with thick-coming ideas, and brood ing pleasurably over innumerable unutt able thoughts. He was one who, Hamlet, hid himself from himself so o pletely that he was never assured of b own character, and only knew himself one of those melancholy spirits with wh the devil is "very potent.' They had defined thinking in his time, and ge into the roots of it, but that a man lead a reflective life without knowing indeed perchance his very prince has to answer for in this respect than has " been suspected; he is so noble age man that all scholars naturally take in imitating him, and hence he may contributed to encourage that lofty re which is congenial to pure contemp and which is always an attribute of most intellectual characters in our E poetry and fiction. Pure spiritual greatness is never it age or time readily yielded its proper The world asks for those rough and instruments, learning and intellectual ** ing. It will not believe, on his 1 ported authority, that one man se feels more than another; the old c to the young, "We know and you de but the wise cannot (if they have! by them) take that liberty with the f The growth of Shakspeare's genius have forced him continually into a and more learned class than that in his youth had been passed. To s his position, he must have made up in quickness what he lacked in training, and hence have literally "lived upon his wits," in every sense of the word. This placed him in unusual relations with his associates. They loved him: they thought he had "an excellent fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressions ;" but they did not think of teaching him to look upon his wit as a virtue, and so to admire it and turn it wrong side out. Thus he went on, thinking and thinking, after his own fashion, in a universe of his own, where there was as much variety as in the universe around, so much indeed that it was enough for him to observe and repicture it, without attempting to reconcile contradictions, or to discover and propagate universal laws. He had business to attend to, money to earn, jovial company to keep, and he could not afford time to be a philosopher, except in that sense in which every great artist is one. If we could open his heart and dissect him, the great purposes of his life would be found, ve apprehend, very plain, simple and business-like. As for his writing, he probibly thought well of it; but if he could De called up and questioned, it is like he yould tell us truly that it cost him, with all is affluence, a world of labor, and that nohing stood in his way so much as his "vilainous melancholy." He probably valued imself upon his study, upon what he had equired and done, and upon his friends nd patrons. In the society he enjoyed, here was little danger of a man's reaching hat state of unhealthy conceit which it as been the fashion with "some people" > affirm of him. A man who was in the abit of often drinking too much sack with en Jonson, was not likely to become a elf-idolator. It was this very position, which isolated im while it kept him active, which comelled him to write in the midst of a busy orld, that no doubt contributed, with ther circumstances, to preserve healthful > rare and sensitive a soul. His very early tarriage was also fortunate for him and us. eing eight years older than he, it is proble Anne Hathaway was in some sort is teacher; his going up to London natrally enough separated them. Thrown one into the city at the age of twentyfree, a sensitive boy, full of intellect and imagination, the experience of five years of married life with a wife so much his senior must have been a most happy circumstance for him; the theatre was not then the pure place it is now. But all these circumstances which gathered around to preserve him, left him still more and more to his natural custom of reflection. He was alone; the learning he acquired he got himself, and he shows us how fond he must have been of study. His soul was proud and lofty, far within-unseen by himself. He felt a princely gentleman; and it was a constant habit with him to consider seriously or for pleasure the characters of other men and the doings of life. He studied his art with infinite power of selfcompulsion; he meant to be a great poet, and knew when he was one. But in the secret life of his spirit, he dwelt apart, far above his art, far above all passions, (for he could not have feigned them so well had he not been master of them,) far above the opinions of men, in "clear dream and solemn vision," like one over whom "his immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by." He was one who debated with himself whether this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire, were so indeed, or only a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors; whether man were the paragon of animals, busy was his mind with such inquiries and or only the quintessence of dust; and so with "All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame," that, beyond the common cares of life, he dwelt in this abstract region-not a proud man, but one of a most lofty nature—a royal muser. So entirely natural and spontaneous was this reflectiveness, and so absorbing, that it took in all objects, thoughts, and emotions, not more without than within, even to the very life of the soul, or the primary consciousness; rendering him a complete mirror of all that came within his ken, himself included. How very elevated must have been his actual soul who could concentrate the multitudinous image through the lens of art, and send it upon the world in burning rays of poetry! It was as if he superintended himself and all the world from heavenly throne; not indifferently, but in sympathy, like a God. in respect of his quick sail. But in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article; and his infusion of such dearth and rareness, as, to make true diction of him, h trace him, his umbrage, nothing more." semblable is his mirror; and, who else woul What innate imaginative power it must require to exist at such a sublime elevation, we ordinary mortals can form no proper idea. Consider a moment that every man is objective to himself, and wishes to think And we might say the same of all of well of himself. Conceited persons may Shakspeare's characters. It is not the carry it high, to be sure, but there is a mind's first wish to have them “divided," secret misgiving with them, and time gene-inventorily;" whenever they are spoken rally causes it to grow. Most peope who mix with the world, have somewhere within a pretty fair estimate of themselves, though often it is probably not agreeable to contemplate it, and they find it not desirable to be true to it. But great artists are certainly not afraid to look at themselves in their hours of labor. When Shakspeare was at work upon a play, it is evident he was living in a very high region-far removed from our common life, and where, to speak philosophically, he imaged himself to his consciousness, as a BEING almost purely composed of consciousness-controlling faculties; that is, using the nomenclature of Coleridge, his secondary imagination, which is "an echo of the primary, co-existing with the conscious will," was so strong that it nearly identified itself with the primary, which is "the repetition in the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the infinite I AM." One step further would have made him a creature of inspiration. Milton gained this region also, but not by the same path. He was upborne, not by a rapt contemplation, but by the fervor of emotion. He rose on the wings of music, the sense of power giving birth to greater power, and bearing the passionate old man so out of himself that he too became godlike, in that the primary "I am" was almost lost in its echo, the state assumed under the guidance of the conscious will. Shakspeare was a mortal raised to the skies; within the soul of Milton an angel had been drawn down. Mr. Hudson must answer for this discussion. In general such definement is not very interesting or profitable. It were best to let Shakspeare remain Shakspeare-nothing other. For our own part, Hamlet's mock definition of Laertes would be all-sufficient for the father of them both: "To divide him inventorily, would dizzy the arithmetic of memory; and yet but raw neither, of, we prefer that they should be sinply referred to as persons perfectly wel known. We do not enjoy a walk in the fields any the more for having the name of each particular flower pointed out to us. A besides, let one consider how difficult it is to give an estimate of characters which affect us as individuals; even in real life we are obliged to keep very much in the ge other is a "gentleman," another, “Lord erals; such an one is a good soul," Saxby, man of six foot ten," (his portrait in the prints of foxhunts,) or "conversat Brown,-four-bottle man at the Treasur Board, with whom the father of my fri Gay was probably acquainted." "Cous Feenix gives individuals, such as they ar as vividly as though he went into th biographies. He sees the salient pa and flashes the man upon us with a w So it should be in the most elaborate a ysis. Mr. Hudson has little of this pow and hence, along with much in these tures that shows true and delicate ins-there is a great expense of wit, wh though honestly exercised, is not colle." in burning foci, but leaves the impres of a world of good things, pleasant in reading, and altogether wholesome, wanting in the attractive and adhe quality which would make them fas themselves upon the mind. Still, wit class of readers who are comparati unpracticed, both in the study of Sh speare and in thinking, they must be of nite service. They have an awakening ence, which, if encouraged, may lead readers to the joy of peace in believ while they quench sentimentalism, foster the habit of that free-thinking wa is based on Christianity, knowledge common sense. But without a wit as active as Mr. E son's, we should fall short with him not excel with him in going into a mic examination of his views of particu |