310 Shakspeare a Naturalist. 



all these objects is the soul of poetry contained, and it is to 

 these the poet must look for inspiration ; for in nature is the 

 " only fund of great ideas." To such a one as this, the author 

 whom I propose to illustrate must be a favourite, as being of 

 a kindred spirit, and to him the instances I quote, and the 

 illustrations I may make will be familiar ; but there are many 

 who read this great author who are not naturalists, but feel 

 the greatest admiration of his writings from other sources ; 

 and, for these, I shall endeavour to open a new channel of 

 gratification and, it may be, lead them to investigate more 

 narrowly what they read so happily touched on. 



Shakspeare, though, I suspect, little acquainted with books, 

 and certainly not with systems, for in his day they did not 

 exist, was an excellent naturalist ; for he had studied, doubt- 

 less, where all who wish to become really and truly acquainted 

 with nature must study, in the open air, in the fields, and in 

 the woods. In the truant occupations of childhood, in bird- 

 nesting, nutting, &c., we may fancy that his knowledge was 

 attained ; and, doubtless, it is in these wanderings that many 

 of us acquire our first taste for the things of nature, and be- 

 come acquainted with the habits of the beings that cross our 

 path.* But in Shakspeare these truancies continued in man- 

 hood, and to these we owe, in particular, those many beautiful, 



[* " Shepherd. Do you ken, Mr. North, that every thocht, every feeling, 

 every image, every description, that it is possible for a poet to pour out 

 frae within the sanctuary o' his spirit, seems to be brought frae a hidden 

 store, that was gathered and girnell'd, and heaped up by himsell uncon- 

 sciously during the heavenly era o' early life ? 



" North. True, James, true. O call not the little laddie idle that is 

 strolling by some trotting burn's meander, all in aimless joy by his happy 

 self — or angling, perhaps, as if angling were the sole end of life, and all 

 the world a world of clear running waters — or bird-nesting by bank and 

 brae, and hedge-row and forest-side, with more imaginative passion than 

 ever irapelled^men of old to voyage to golden lands — or stringing blae- 

 berries on a thread, far in the bosom of woods, where sometimes to his 

 quaking heart and his startled eyes, the stems of the aged mossy trees 

 seemed to glimmer like ghosts, and then in a sudden gust of the young 

 emotion of beauty, that small wild fruitage blushed with deeper and deeper 

 purple, as if indeed and verily gathered in Paradise — or pulling up by the 

 roots, — that the sky-blue flowers might not droop their dewy clusters, 

 when gently the stalk should be replanted in the rich mould of the nook 

 of the garden, beside the murmuring hives, — the lovely Hare-bells, the 

 Blue Bells of Scotland — or tearing a rainbow branch of broom from the 

 Hesperides — or purer, softer, brighter far than any pearls ever dived for in 

 Indian seas, with fingers trembling in eagerest passion, yet half-restrained by 

 a reverential wonder of their surpassing loveliness, plucking from the 

 mossy stones primroses and violets ! And almost sick with the scent of 

 their blended balm, faint, faint, faint as an odour in a dream — and with 

 the sight of their blended beauty, the bright burnished yellow, — yes, at 

 once both bright and pale, — and the dim celestial blue, — yes, at once 

 both celestial and sullen, — unable to determine in the rapt spirit within 

 him, whether primrose or violet be the most heavenly flower of the wilder- 

 ness! "(^Blackwood's Magazine y" Noctes Ambrosianae," Nov. 1828.)] 



