is not so easily cured.  For of all the things that enter into human thought, I suppose morality is the one wherein we are naturally least tolerant of special-pleading; and any thing savouring of this is apt to awaken our jealousy at once; probably from a sort of instinct, that, the better the cause, the less need there is, and the more danger there is too, of acting as its attorney or advocate.  And the temptation to “lie for God” is one to which professed moral teachers are so exposed, that their lessons seldom have much effect:  I even suspect that, in many cases, if not in most, their moralizing is of so obtrusive a kind, that it rather repels than wins the confidence of the pupils.

Then too moral demonstrativeness is never the habit either of the best poets or of the best men.  True virtue indeed is a very modest and retiring quality; and we naturally feel that they who have most of it have “none to speak of.”  Or, to take the same thing on another side, virtue is a law of action, and not a distinct object of pursuit:  those about us may know what object we are pursuing, but the mind with which we pursue it is a secret to them; they are not obliged to know it; and when we undertake to force that knowledge upon them, then it is that they just will not receive it.  They will sometimes learn it from our life, never from our lips.  Thus a man’s moral rectitude has its proper seat inside of him, and is then most conspicuous when it stays out of sight, and when, whatever he does and wherever he goes, he carries it with him as a thing of course, and without saying or even thinking any thing about it.  It may be that our moral instincts are made to work in this way, because any ambition of conscience, any pride or ostentation of virtue, any air of moral vanity or conceit, any wearing of rectitude on the outside, as if put on for effect, or “to be seen of men,” if it be not essentially fictitious and false, is certainly in the most direct course of becoming so.  And how much need there still is of those eloquently silent lessons in virtue which are fitted to inspire the thing without any boasting of the name,—­all this may well be judged when we consider how apt men are to build their hopes on that which, as Burke says, “takes the man from his house, and sets him on a stage,—­which makes him up an artificial creature, with painted, theatric sentiments, fit to be seen by the glare of candlelight.”

These positions indicate, I believe, pretty clearly the right course for poetry to pursue in order to keep the just law of moral proportion in Art.  Ethical didacticism is quite out of place in workmanship of this kind.  To go about moralizing as of set purpose, or to be specially dealing in formal precepts of duty, is not the poet’s business.  I repeat, that moral demonstrativeness and poetry do not go well together.  A poet’s conscience of virtue is better kept to himself, save as the sense and spirit thereof silently insinuate themselves into