There seems, strictly speaking, to be only two classes of souls—­the creative and the receptive.  Now, these creators seem to me to have a beauty and a worth about them entirely independent of their moral character.  That ethereal power which shows itself in Greek sculpture and Gothic architecture, in Rubens, Shakspeare, and Mozart, has a quality to me inexpressibly admirable and lovable.  We may say, it is true, that there is no moral excellence in it; but none the less do we admire it.  God has made us so that we cannot help loving it; our souls go forth to it with an infinite longing, nor can that longing be condemned.  That mystic quality that exists in these souls is a glimpse and intimation of what exists in Him in full perfection.  If we remember this we shall not lose ourselves in admiration of worldly genius, but be led by it to a better understanding of what He is, of whom all the glories of poetry and art are but symbols and shadows.

LETTER XI.

DEAR H.:—­

From Stratford we drove to Warwick, (or “Warrick,” as they call it here.) This town stands on a rocky hill on the banks of the Avon, and is quite a considerable place, for it returns two members to Parliament, and has upwards of ten thousand inhabitants; and also has some famous manufactories of wool combing and spinning.  But what we came to see was the castle.  We drove up to the Warwick Arms, which is the principal hotel in the place; and, finding that we were within the hours appointed for exhibition, we went immediately.

With my head in a kind of historical mist, full of images of York and Lancaster, and Red and White Roses, and Warwick the king maker, I looked up to the towers and battlements of the old castle.  We went in through a passage way cut in solid rock, about twenty feet deep, and I should think fifty long.  These walls were entirely covered with ivy, hanging down like green streamers; gentle and peaceable pennons these are, waving and whispering that the old war times are gone.

At the end of this passage there is a drawbridge over what was formerly the moat, but which is now grassed and planted with shrubbery.  Up over our heads we saw the great iron teeth of the portcullis.  A rusty old giant it seemed up there, like Pope and Pagan in Pilgrim’s Progress, finding no scope for himself in these peaceable times.

When we came fairly into the court yard of the castle, a scene of magnificent beauty opened before us.  I cannot describe it minutely.  The principal features are the battlements, towers, and turrets of the old feudal castle, encompassed by grounds on which has been expended all that princely art of landscape gardening for which England is famous—­leafy thickets, magnificent trees, openings, and vistas of verdure, and wide sweeps of grass, short, thick, and vividly green, as the velvet moss we sometimes see growing on rocks in New England.  Grass is an art and a science in England—­it is an institution.  The pains that are taken in sowing, tending, cutting, clipping, rolling, and otherwise nursing and coaxing it, being seconded by the misty breath and often falling tears of the climate, produce results which must be seen to be appreciated.