And yet, with all thy theoretic platitudes, what a depth of practical
sense in thee, great England! A depth of sense, of justice, and
courage; in which, under all emergencies and world-bewilderments, and
under this most complex of emergencies we now live in, there is still
hope, there is still assurance!

The English are a dumb people. They can do great acts, but not
describe them. Like the old Romans, and some few others, _their_ Epic
Poem is written on the Earth's surface: England her Mark! It is
complained that they have no artists: one Shakspeare indeed; but for
Raphael only a Reynolds; for Mozart nothing but a Mr. Bishop: not a
picture, not a song. And yet they did produce one Shakspeare: consider
how the element of Shakspearean melody does lie imprisoned in their
nature; reduced to unfold itself in mere Cotton-mills, Constitutional
Governments, and suchlike;--all the more interesting when it does
become visible, as even in such unexpected shapes it succeeds in
doing! Goethe spoke of the Horse, how impressive, almost affecting it
was that an animal of such qualities should stand obstructed so; its
speech nothing but an inarticulate neighing, its handiness mere
_hoof_iness, the fingers all constricted, tied together, the
finger-nails coagulated into a mere hoof, shod with iron. The more
significant, thinks he, are those eye-flashings of the generous noble
quadruped; those prancings, curvings of the neck clothed with thunder.

A Dog of Knowledge has free utterance; but the Warhorse is almost
mute, very far from free! It is even so. Truly, your freest utterances
are not by any means always the best: they are the worst rather; the
feeblest, trivialest; their meaning prompt, but small, ephemeral.
Commend me to the silent English, to the silent Romans. Nay the
silent Russians, too, I believe to be worth something: are they
not even now drilling, under much obloquy, an immense semi-barbarous
half-world from Finland to Kamtschatka, into rule, subordination,
civilisation,--really in an old Roman fashion; speaking no word about
it; quietly hearing all manner of vituperative Able Editors speak!
While your ever-talking, ever-gesticulating French, for example, what
are they at this moment drilling?--Nay of all animals, the freest of
utterance, I should judge, is the genus _Simia_: go into the Indian
woods, say all Travellers, and look what a brisk, adroit, unresting
Ape-population it is!

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