We shall have gained much of the freedom of soul which is the necessary condition of reading poetry, if we make a New Year’s resolution not to be frightened away from the real mysteries of Shakespeare by the false mysteries of his editors and critics.[2] Shakespeare speaks our language, but the scholars speak a language which they invented, as if they intended to hold their authority by wrapping themselves in impenetrable obscurities which common folk would not try to master. Let us not be deceived. “The Tempest” was not written for university professors. Let us open it with the same confident curiosity that we should bring to “Robinson Crusoe” or “Ivanhoe.” And after you have read “The Tempest,” what do you remember to have found difficult? Is it not clearer than daylight, that enchanted island where Prospero, the exiled duke, has lived twelve years with his daughter Miranda? Is it not a simple and sweet romance that Prince Ferdinand should be wrecked on the island and should fall in love with Miranda and that she should fall in love with him, the first man she has seen except her father? Is it not clear that Prospero, a student of magic, has gained control of the spirits of the island and has his blithe servant, Ariel, and his brutal servant, Caliban? Did you find any difficulty in understanding that when the wicked brother, who cheated Prospero of his dukedom, is cast ashore upon the island, Prospero pardons him and gets his dukedom back? What is obscure in this wonder tale? “Cinderella” and “The Sleeping Beauty” are made of the same stuff, and we hear them at our mothers’ knees before we are able to read at all. But there is more in “The Tempest” than a childish fairy tale. Yes, much more, but that more is insinuated into the story, it is embroidered upon it, it comes to us without effort of ours, for the poet is a Prospero and teaches us, as Prospero taught Miranda, by art and nature and not by laborious counsel. You will feel as you follow the fairy story that the spirit of nature has stolen over you unawares, that Caliban represents the evil in the natural world and Ariel the good, and that both are obedient to the bidding of man’s intelligence. So much philosophy will come to you of itself; it is not a dull lesson to knit your brows over; you need seek no lecturer to expound it to you. A song of Ariel will linger in your ear. All that is required of you is that your senses be wide awake and that your fancy be free from bookish anxiety and ready to be played upon. The miracle will be wrought for you. You need only sit, like Ferdinand, and watch the masque which the wizard evokes--“a most majestic vision, and harmoniously charming.” There will remain with you some speech, grave with philosophy and luminous with imagery, such as this: