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share in all outward life, and yet within to have selfreverence, self-knowledge, and self-control. And finally, we learn to develop ourselves as a religious duty. For only when we do it religiously can it be done without diseased self-consciousness. For then, conceiving our life and our work as given to us by God, to live and to do, conceiving our self-development as a duty we owe to God who wishes us to be perfect that we may fulfil not only his idea of us, but his idea of the work we have to do for our brother men; then we, labouring not for ourselves, but for Him and for mankind, are lifted wholly out of the realm of self-consciousness. That is to make selfdevelopment religious, and the wonderful and unique absence of self-consciousness in Shakspere has always made me feel that there was this abiding sense of God at the root of his life.

Through all that I have said, I am now led to the third lesson to be drawn from his life: "that God is the Educator of men.'

In a great man's life, in one especially who was so human as Shakspere, we ought to possess a broad sketch of the large lines of the interests and changes of human life. And such is the case. His youth was full and gay; he loved with the impetuosity of youth, and he married young. When he left Stratford, pushed by the natural ardour of genius, and knowing nothing of the seriousness of life, the first thing that the varied humanity of London awoke in him was satire of its social follies, the Comedy of its Errors, and the Loss of Love's labour. Then he passed from this phase, and the stories of Italy, and perhaps his own life led him to write of the passion of love in its youthful warmth, and its swift tragedy in Romeo; and when that was over, of love as the Dream of a Midsummer Night. And then he left the dream behind, and a more manly passion filled his heart. The new and splendid greatness of England, fresh bathed in victory, touched him deeply, and, like the Prophet he was, he threw the strong patriotism of all Englishmen into the historical plays. And now, having attained manhood, and a larger view of the breadth of life, he poured forth all the Comedies that play with Love as the mischief maker of the world, and yet, also of Love, as that by which, when it is true, men become wise. He came to see that the perfect life of love is in a married life of gracious peace, mingled with such friendships as that of Antonio for Bassanio.

Then came a further change as his manhood grew towards its afternoon. The solemn aspect of the world now succeeds the joyful one. His comedies touch on tragedy, and he writes of the disillusion of life. Measure for Measure is all one gets in this world; and he changed the title of his earliest comedy-Love's Labour Won-into the graver and half satiric phrase, All's Well that End's Well. Then the shadow deepened into storm. He loved and was betrayed by love and by friendship; his dearest and noblest friends were exiled, sent to the Tower, or beheaded; and amid the ruins of his house of life, he sat stunned for a time, and all the world and all its worth seemed like a dream. And in this shadowy land he wrote Hamlet. But he soon awoke from his dreaming, and then found himself in the depths of the darkness of humanity. He saw the terrible woes of the world face to face, the fate and horror made by the unbridled passions of men, the madness of the people; and in Lear, Othello, Macbeth, and the rest of the great tragedies he told what he felt. Like Dante, he went down to visit hell, but when we think him lost to joy, lo! who is this that issues forth like Dante, out of the brown air, again to see the stars? Where is the the worn and shipwrecked man? Here at Stratford, in the quiet country, and with peace like that of the country in his heart. The storm is gone by, and it is with him the calm sunset of life. He walks again through the meadows and tells his Winter's tale of love

and reconcilement, of Marina saved from the storm and from crime, of Imogen refinding love that had been lost, of the Tempest that passed into peace, of Ariel set at liberty, of Prosper laying down his magic arts that he may rest, and asking that he may be relieved by prayer from evil ending, prayer

Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself and frees from faults. That is the end. Such as it is, it is a general sketch of human life. Youth, passion, interests of manhood, disillusion, storm, peace, and death. And it is almost impossible to think of it without feeling that this is not made by the man or by his circumstances alone. We at least, who believe in God, have a sense of an education being in such a life, of a mighty and loving Father who trained his creature through the discipline of early joy, through the discipline of human interests, through the discipline of sorrow, through the discipline of peace; and then said-Come, home to me. Yes, home to God; for, face to face with a life like this, face to face with this almost infinite activity and with its incalculable results, we rejoice in the assurance of immortality. We learn from the story of that wondrous life, the education of men by God for an immortal work.

And now, thinking of the latter part of his life, we win a further lesson for our own lives. Sad and terrible woes like Shakspere's come upon us often in the afternoon of life. How do we meet them; what result have they upon our character? Sometimes wonderful fame, the applause of the world, such as fell to his lot, is ours. How does it, in after life, affect us? We may live, like him, in the very midst of a full and intense society, in the heart of a worldly life. What are we then, when we are old? Sometimes our love is ruined, our friendship betrayed, as were his. What is then the temper of our mind towards mankind; do we rescue life from this shipwreck? The brightness of life passes away; disillusion throws its gray veil over the beauty of the past, our ideals die; and God sends thunder and hail, and the tempest to devastate our life. When we have suffered disillusion, when the storm has gone by, what is our strength; is it wrought into manly tenderness and forgiving calm? Out of these things Shakspere came forth all gold. Fame did not spoil his heart. The world did not make him unable to enjoy the stillness of the Stratford woods, nor the rustic society of the little town. The betrayal of love and friendship only wrought in him forgiveness, a gentler love of men and women, a wiser and calmer view of life. The ghastly woes of men, the tempest of their passions made him think, not of despair, but of all-healing, all-subduing love. Disillusion had been his, but he shook its chill off his heart, and looked once more on a new world, and made it brighter by the brightness of his own heart.

He loved still, and he believed in love and wrote of love; and most wonderful and most beautiful of all, in his later years, Romance, the old romance of youth, chastened and softened by experience, but even more beautiful for that, was born again, and he saw Perdita and Miranda love, in the island, and among the sheep farms; and the faery-land of the Tempest, and the magic beauty that fills the unfinished tale of Pericles and Thaisa and Marina.

It is a great lesson to us all. So may it be with us, so may we conquer life, and win out of it, by the power of God, the peace that Shakspere won.

Then came silence on his life; the silence of three years; years, if one may judge from the Epilogue of the Tempest, which he gave to peace and prayer. For all through his work, the note of unobtrusive religion and of honour paid to the spiritual love of God, faintly but clearly sounds.

And now in the still evening, it may be on the anniversary of his burial, we bid our thoughts of Shakspere's life on earth farewell; and in the church

where he worshipped and where he chose his resting place, we think of him in God. There he abides who did so much for the world; there, in God, his work continues, eternal in God's eternal life. His presence is with Him who gave him inspiration. But with us also his presence is. I wonder how many have seemed, as evening fell, to see his figure pass through the street, and by the river, and enter the church, so vivid is he with us still. But whether we seem to see him here or

not, he abides, a presence and power in the hearts of men, eternal in the eternity of art. And his art brings us back also to God, the great artist, until, thus lifted from creature to Creator, and finding all our thoughts of Shakspere end in God-we cry, rejoicing and content, with the Apostle. "Every good gift and every perfect gift cometh from above, from the Father of Lights with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."