Now in Shakespeare’s dramas—­I do not say all of them, for some were but his apprentice-work, but in most of them—­the several parts, both characters and incidents, are knit together in this organic way, so as to be all truly members one of another.  Each needs all the others, each helps all the others, each is made what it is by the presence of all the others.  Nothing stands alone, nothing exists merely for itself.  The persons not only have each their several development, but also, besides this, and running into this, a development in common.  In short, their whole transpiration proceeds by the laws and from the blood of mutual membership.  And as each lives and moves and has his being, so each is to be understood and interpreted, with reference, explicit or implicit, to all the others.  And there is not only this coherence of the characters represented, one with another, but also of them all with the events and circumstances of the representation.  It is this coefficient action of all the parts to a common end, this mutual participation of each in all, and of all in each, that constitutes the thing truly and properly a work of art.

So then a drama may be fitly spoken of as an organic structure.  And such it must be, to answer the conditions of Art.  Here we have a thing made up of divers parts or elements, with a course or circulation of mutual reference and affinity pervading them all, and binding them together, so as to give to the whole the character of a multitudinous unit; just as in the illustration, before used, of a large tree made up of innumerable little trees.  And it seems plain enough that, the larger the number and variety of parts embraced in the work, or the more diversified it is in matter and movement, the greater the strength of faculty required for keeping every thing within the terms of Art; while, provided this be done, the grander is the impression produced, and the higher is the standing of the work as an intellectual achievement of man.

This, then, as before observed, is just the highest and hardest part of dramatic creation:  in the whole domain of literary workmanship there is no one thing so rarely attained, none that so few have been found capable of attaining, as this.  And yet in this Shakespeare was absolutely—­I speak advisedly—­without any teacher whatever; not to say, what probably might be said without any hazard, that it is a thing which no man or number of men could impart.  The Classic Drama, had he been ever so well acquainted with it, could not have helped him here at all, and would most likely have been a stumbling-block to him.  And, in my view of the matter, the most distinguishing feature of the Poet’s genius lies in this power of broad and varied combination; in the deep intuitive perception which thus enabled him to put a multitude of things together, so that they should exactly fit and finish one another.  In some of his works, as Titus Andronicus, The Comedy of Errors, and the three