n doors into mysteries both high and
sweet and terrible. But now I feel as if I had been near him, had been
able to love what I had only admired.

I feel somehow that it extends the kingdom of humanity to have realised
Shakespeare; and yet I am baffled. But I seem to trace in the later and
what some would call the commonplace features of the man's life, a
desire to live and be; to taste life itself, not merely to write of
what life seemed to be, and of what lay behind it. I am sure that some
such allegory was in his mind when he wrote of Prospero, who so
willingly gave up the isle full of noises, the power over the dreaming,
sexless spirits of air and wood, to go back to his tiresome dukedom,
and his petty court, and all the dull chatter and business of life. I
am sure that Shakespeare thought of his art as an Ariel--that dainty,
delicate spirit, out of the reach of love and desire, that slept in
cowslip-bells and chased the flying summer on the bat's back, and that
yet had such power to delude and bemuse the human spirit. After all,
Ariel could not come near the more divine inheritance of the human
heart, sorrow and crying, love and hate. Ariel was but a merry child,
lost in passionless delights, yearning to be free, to escape; and
Prospero felt, and Shakespeare felt, that life, with all its stains and
dreariness and disease and darkness, was something better and truer
than the fragrant dusk of the copse, and the soulless laughter of the
summer sea. Ariel could sing the heartless, exquisite song of the
sea-change that could clothe the bones and eyes of the doomed king; but
Prospero could see a fairer change in the eyes and heart of his lonely
darling.

And I am glad that even so Shakespeare could be silent, and buy and
sell, and go in and out among his fellow-townsmen, and make merry. That
is better than to sit arid and prosperous, when the brain stiffens with
stupor, and the hand has lost its cunning, and to read old
newspaper-cuttings, and long for adequate recognition. God give me and
all uneasy natures grace to know when to hold our tongues; and to take
the days that remain with patience and wonder and tenderness; not
making haste to depart, but yet not fearing the shadow out of which we
come and into which we must go; to live wisely and bravely and sweetly,
and to close our eyes in faith, with a happy sigh, like a child after a
long summer day of life and delight.--Ever yours,

T. B.

THE BLUE BOAR,
ST