with reverence, as the works of nature are studied.  There are few instances of a sustained style of this kind; perhaps every man has spoken words, but the speaker is then careless of the record.  Such a style removes us out of personal relations with its author; we do not take his words on our lips, but his sense into our hearts.  It is the stream of inspiration, which bubbles out, now here, now there, now in this man, now in that.  It matters not through what ice-crystals it is seen, now a fountain, now the ocean stream running under ground.  It is in Shakespeare, Alpheus, in Burns, Arethuse; but ever the same.  The other is self-possessed and wise.  It is reverent of genius, and greedy of inspiration.  It is conscious in the highest and the least degree.  It consists with the most perfect command of the faculties.  It dwells in a repose as of the desert, and objects are as distinct in it as oases or palms in the horizon of sand.  The train of thought moves with subdued and measured step, like a caravan.  But the pen is only an instrument in its hand, and not instinct with life, like a longer arm.  It leaves a thin varnish or glaze over all its work.  The works of Goethe furnish remarkable instances of the latter.

There is no just and serene criticism as yet.  Nothing is considered simply as it lies in the lap of eternal beauty, but our thoughts, as well as our bodies, must be dressed after the latest fashions.  Our taste is too delicate and particular.  It says nay to the poet’s work, but never yea to his hope.  It invites him to adorn his deformities, and not to cast them off by expansion, as the tree its bark.  We are a people who live in a bright light, in houses of pearl and porcelain, and drink only light wines, whose teeth are easily set on edge by the least natural sour.  If we had been consulted, the backbone of the earth would have been made, not of granite, but of Bristol spar.  A modern author would have died in infancy in a ruder age.  But the poet is something more than a scald, “a smoother and polisher of language”; he is a Cincinnatus in literature, and occupies no west end of the world.  Like the sun, he will indifferently select his rhymes, and with a liberal taste weave into his verse the planet and the stubble.

In these old books the stucco has long since crumbled away, and we read what was sculptured in the granite.  They are rude and massive in their proportions, rather than smooth and delicate in their finish.  The workers in stone polish only their chimney ornaments, but their pyramids are roughly done.  There is a soberness in a rough aspect, as of unhewn granite, which addresses a depth in us, but a polished surface hits only the ball of the eye.  The true finish is the work of time, and the use to which a thing is put.  The elements are still polishing the pyramids.  Art may varnish and gild, but it can do no more.  A work of genius is rough-hewn from the first, because it anticipates the lapse of time, and has an ingrained polish, which still appears when fragments are broken off, an essential quality of its substance.  Its beauty is at the same time its strength, and it breaks with a lustre.