sterility　of　my　school…life　were　more　apparent　than　real。　I　was　pursuing　certain　lines　of　moral　and　mental　development　all　the　time；　and　since　my　schoolmasters　and　my　school　fellows　combined　in　thinking　me　so　dull；　I　will　display　a　tardy　touch　of　'proper　spirit'　and　ask　whether　it　may　not　partly　have　been　because　they　were　themselves　so　commonplace。　I　think　that　if　some　drops　of　sympathy；　that　magic　dew　of　Paradise；　had　fallen　upon　my　desert；　it　might　have　blossomed　like　the　rose；　or；　at　all　events；　like　that　chimerical　flower；　the　Rose　of　Jericho。　As　it　was；　the　conventionality　around　me；　the　intellectual　drought；　gave　me　no　opportunity　of　outward　growth。　They　did　not　destroy；　but　they　cooped　up；　and　rendered　slow　and　inefficient；　that　internal　life　which　continued；　as　I　have　said；　to　live　on　unseen。　This　took　the　form　of　dreams　and　speculations；　in　the　course　of　which　I　went　through　many　tortuous　processes　of　the　mind；　the　actual　aims　of　which　were　futile；　although　the　movements　themselves　were　useful。　If　I　may　more　minutely　define　my　meaning；　I　would　say　that　in　my　schooldays；　without　possessing　thoughts；　I　yet　prepared　my　mind　for　thinking；　and　learned　how　to　think。
  The　great　subject　of　my　curiosity　at　this　time　was　words；　as　instruments　of　expression。　I　was　incessant　in　adding　to　my　vocabulary；　and　in　finding　accurate　and　individual　terms　for　things。　Here；　too；　the　exercise　preceded　the　employment；　since　I　was　busy　providing　myself　with　words　before　I　had　any　ideas　to　express　with　them。　When　I　read　Shakespeare　and　came　upon　the　passage　in　which　Prospero　tells　Caliban　that　he　had　no　thoughts　until　his　master　taught　him　words；　I　remember　starting　with　amazement　at　the　poet's　intuition；　for　such　a　Caliban　had　I　been：
  I　pitied　thee；　Took　pains　to　make　thee　speak；　taught　thee　each　hour　One　thing　or　other；　when　thou　didst　not；　savage；　Know　thine　own　meaning；　but　wouldst　gabble；　like　A　thing　most　brutish；　I　endow'd　thy　purposes　With　words　that　made　them　know。
  For　my　Prosperos　I　sought　vaguely　in　such　books　as　I　had　access　to；　and　I　was　conscious　that　as　the　inevitable　word　seized　hold　of　me；　with　it　out　of　the　darkness　into　strong　light　came　the　image　and　the　idea。
  My　Father　possessed　a　copy　of　Bailey's　Etymological　Dictionary；　a　book　published　early　in　the　eighteenth　century。　Over　this　I　would　pore　for　hours；　playing　with　the　words　in　a　fashion　which　I　can　no　longer　reconstruct；　and　delighting　in　the　savour　of　the　rich；　old…fashioned　country　phrases。　My　Father　finding　me　thus　employed；　fell　to　wondering　at　the　nature　of　my　pursuit；　and　I　could　offer　him；　indeed；　no　very　intelligible　explanation　of　it。　He　urged　me　to　give　up　such　idleness；　and　to　make　practical　use　of　language。　For　this　purpose　he　conceived　an　exercise　which　he　obliged　me　to　adopt；　although　it　was　hateful　to　me。　He　sent　me　forth；　it　might　be；　up　the　lane　to　Warbury　Hill　and　round　home　by　the　copses；　or　else　down　one　chine　to　the　sea　and　along　the　shingle　to　the　next　cutting　in　the　cliff；　and　so　back　by　way　of　the　village；　and　he　desired　me　to　put　down；　in　language　as　full　as　I　could；　all　that　I　had　seen　in　each　excursion。　As　I　have　said；　this　practice　was　detestable　and　irksome　to　me；　but；　as　I　look　back；　I　am　inclined　to　believe　it　to　have　been　the　most　salutary；　the　most　practical　piece　of　training　which　my　Father　ever　gave　me。　It　forced　me　to　observe　sharply　and　clearly；　to　form　visual　impressions；　to　retain　them　in　the　brain；　and　to　clothe　them　in　punctilious　and　accurate　language。
  It　was　in　my　fifteenth　year　that　I　became　again；　this　time　intelligently；　acquainted　with　Shakespeare。　I　got　hold　of　a　single　play；　The　Tempest；　in　a　school　edition；　prepared；　I　suppose；　for　one　of　the　university　examinations　which　were　then　being　instituted　in　the　provinces。　This　I　read　through　and　through；　not　disdaining　the　help　of　the　notes；　and　revelling　in　the　glossary。　I　studied　The　Tempest　as　I　had　hitherto　studied　no　classic　work；　and　it　filled　my　whole　being　with　music　and　romance。　This　book　was　my　own　hoarded　possession；　the　rest　of　Shakespeare's　works　were　beyond　my　hopes。　But　gradually　I　contrived　to　borrow　a　volume　here　and　a　volume　there。　I　completed　The　Merchant　of　Venice；　read　Cymbeline；　Julius　Caesar　and　Much　Ado；　most　of　the　others；　I　think；　remained　closed　to　me　for　a　long　time。　But　these　were　enough　to　steep　my　horizon　with　all　the　colours　of　sunrise。　It　was　due；　no　doubt；　to　my　bringing　up；　that　the　plays　never　appealed　to　me　as　bounded　by　the　exigencies　of　a　stage　or　played　by　actors。　The　images　they　raised　in　my　mind　were　of　real　people　moving　in　the　open　air；　and　uttering；　in　the　natural　play　of　life；　sentiments　that　were　clothed　in　the　most　lovely；　and　yet；　as　it　seemed　to　me；　the　most　obvious　and　the　most　inevitable　language。
  It　was　while　I　was　thus　under　the　full　spell　of　the　Shakespearean　necromancy　that　a　significant　event　occurred。　My　Father　took　me　up　to　London　for　the　first　time　since　my　infancy。　Our　visit　was　one　of　a　few　days　only；　and　its　purpose　was　that　we　might　take　part　in　some　enormous　Evangelical　conference。　We　stayed　in　a　dark　hotel　off　the　Strand；　where　I　found　the　noise　by　day　and　night　very　afflicting。　When　we　were　not　at　the　conference；　I　spent　long　hours；　among　crumbs　and　bluebottle　flies；　in　the　coffee…room　of　this　hotel；　my　Father　being　busy　at　the　British　Museum　and　the　Royal　Society。　The　conference　was　held　in　an　immense　hall；　somewhere　in　the　north　of　London。　I　remember　my　short…sighted　sense　of　the　terrible　vastness　of　the　crowd；　with　rings　on　rings　of　dim　white　faces　fading　in　the　fog。　My　Father；　as　a　privileged　visitor；　was　obliged　with　seats　on　the　platform；　and　we　were　in　the　heart　of　the　first　really　large　assemblage　of　persons　that　I　had　ever　seen。
  The　interminable　ritual　of　prayers；　hymns　and　addresses　left　no　impression　on　my　memory；　but　my　attention　was　suddenly　stung　into　life　by　a　remark。　An　elderly　man；　fat　and　greasy；　with　a　voice　like　a　bassoon；　and　an　imperturbable　assurance；　was　denouncing　the　spread　of　infidelity；　and　the　lukewarmness　of　professing　Christians；　who　refrained　from　battling　with　the　wickedness　at　their　doors。　They　were　like　the　Laodiceans；　whom　the　angel　of　the　Apocalypse　spewed　out　of　his　mouth。　For　instance；　who；　the　orator　asked；　is　now　rising　to　check　the　outburst　of　idolatry　in　our　midst？　'At　this　very　moment；'　he　went　on；　'there　is　proceeding；　unreproved；　a　blasphemous　celebration　of　the　birth　of　Shakespeare；　a　lost　soul　now　suffering　for　his　sins　in　hell！'　My　sensation　was　that　of　one　who　has　suddenly　been　struck　on　the　head；　stars　and　sparks　beat　around　me。　If　some　person　I　loved　had　been　grossly　insulted　in　my　presence；　I　could　not　have　felt　more　powerless　in　anguish。　No　one　in　that　vast　audience　raised　a　word　of　protest；　and　my　spirits　fell　to　their　nadir。　This；　be　it　remarked；　was　the　earliest　intimation　that　had　reached　me　of　the　tercentenary　of　the　Birth　at　Stratford；　and　I　had　not　the　least　idea　what　could　have　provoked　the　outburst　of　outraged　godliness。
  But　Shakespeare　was　certainly　in　the　air。　When　we　returned　to　the　hotel　that　noon；　my　Father　of　his　own　accord　reverted　to　the　subject。　I　held　my　breath；　prepared　to　endure　fresh　torment。　What　he　said；　however；　surprised　and　relieved　me。　'Brother　So　and　So；'　he　remarked；　'was　not；　in　my　judgement；　justified　in　saying　what　he　did。　The　uncovenanted　mercies　of　God　are　not　revealed　to　us。　Before　so　rashly　speaking　of　Shakespeare　as　〃a　lost　soul　in　hell〃；　he　should　have　remembered　how　little　we　know　of　the　poet's　history。　The　light　of　salvation　was　widely　disseminated　in　the　land　during　the　reign　of　Queen　Elizabeth；　and　we　cannot　know　that　Shakespeare　did　not　accept　the　atonement　of　Christ　in　simple　faith　before　he　came　to　die。'　The　concession　will　today　seem　meagre　to　gay　and　worldly　spirits；　but　words　cannot　express　how　comfortable　it　was　to　me。　I　gazed　at　my　Father　with　loving　eyes　across　the　cheese　and　celery；　and　if　the　waiter　had　not　been　present　I　believe　I　might　have　hugged　him　in　my　arms。
  This　anecdote　may　serve　to　illustrate　the　attitude　of　my　conscience；　at　this　time；　with　regard　to　theology。　I　was　not　consciously　in　any　revolt　against　the　strict　faith　in　which　I　had　been　brought　up；　but　I　could　not　fail　to　be　aware　of　the　fact　that　literature　tempted　me　to　stray　up　innumerable　paths　which　meandered　in　directions　at　right　angles　to　that　direct　strait　way　which　leadeth　to　salvation。　I　fancied；　if　I　may　pursue　the　image；　that　I　was　still　safe　up　these　pleasant　lanes　if　I　did　not　stray　far　enough　to　lose　sight　of　the　main　road。　If；　for　instance；　it　had　been　quite　certain　that　Shakespeare　had　been　irrecoverably　damnable　and　damned；　it　would　scarcely　have　been　possible　for　me　to　have　justified　myself　in　going　on　reading　Cymbeline。　One　who　broke　bread　with　the　Saints　every　Sunday　morning；　who　'took　a　class'　at　Sunday　school；　who　made；　as　my　Father　loved　to　remind　me；　a　public　weekly　confession　of　his　willingness　to　bear　the　Cross　of　Christ；　such　an　one　could　hardly；　however　bewildering　and　torturing　the　thought；　continue　to　admire　a　lost　soul。　But　that　happy　possibility　of　an　ultimate　repentance；　how　it　eased　me！　I　could　always　console　myself　with　the　belief　that　when　Shakespeare　w