Shakespeare did not put his characters in the livery and uniform of some weakness, peculiarity or passion. He did not use names as tags or brands. He did not write under the picture, "This is a villain." His characters need no suggestive names to tell us what they are--we see them and we know them for ourselves. It may be that in the greatest utterances of the greatest characters in the supreme moments, we have the real thoughts, opinions and convictions of Shakespeare. Of all writers Shakespeare is the most impersonal.. He speaks through others, and the others seem to speak for themselves. The didactic is lost in the dramatic. He does not use the stage as a pulpit to enforce some maxim. He is as reticent as Nature. He idealizes the common and transfigures all he touches--but he does not preach. He was in-terested in men and things as they were. He did not seek: to change them--but to portray, he was _Nature's mirror_--and in that mirror Nature saw herself. When I stood amid the great trees of California that lift their spreading capitals against the clouds, looking like Nature's columns to support the sky, I thought of the poetry of Shakespeare. XI. WHAT a procession of men and women--statesmen and warriors--kings and clowns--issued from Shakespeare's brain. What women! Isabella--in whose spotless life love and reason blended into perfect truth. Juliet--within whose heart passion and purity met like white and red within the bosom of a rose. Cordelia--who chose to suffer loss, rather than show her wealth of love with those who gilded lies in hope of gain. Hermione--"tender as infancy and grace"--who bore with perfect hope and faith the cross of shame, and who at last forgave with all her heart. Desdemona--so innocent, so perfect, her love so pure, that she was incapable of suspecting that another could suspect, and who with dying words sought to hide her lover's crime--and with her last faint breath uttered a loving lie that burst into a perfumed lily between her pallid lips. Perdita--A violet dim, and sweeter than the lids of Junos eyes--"The sweetest low-born lass that ever ran on the green sward." And Helena--who said: "I know I love in vain, strive against hope-- Yet in this captious and intenable sieve I still pour in the waters of my love, And lack not to lose still, Thus, Indian-like, Religious in mine error, I adore The sun that looks upon his worshipper, But knows of him no more." Miranda--who told her love as gladly as a flower gives its bosom to the kisses of the sun. And Cordelia, whose kisses cured and whose tears restored. And stainless Imogen, who cried: "What is it to be false?" And here is the description of the perfect woman: "To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love; To keep her constancy in plight and youth-- Outliving beauty's outward with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays."