When men are prosperous, they are in love with life. Nature grows beautiful, the arts begin to flourish, there is work for painter and sculptor, the poet is born, the stage is erected--and this life with which men are in love, is represented in a thousand forms. Nature, or Fate, or Chance prepared a stage for Shakespeare, and Shakespeare prepared a stage for Nature. Famine and faith go together. In disaster and want the gaze of man is fixed upon another world. He that eats a crust has a creed. Hunger falls upon its knees, and heaven, looked for through tears, is the mirage of misery. But prosperity brings joy and wealth and leisure--and the beautiful is born. One of the effects of the worlds awakening was Shakespeare. We account for this man as we do for the highest mountain, the greatest river, the most perfect gem. We can only say: He was. "It hath been taught us from the primal state That he which is was wished until he were." IV. IN Shakespeare's time the actor was a vagabond, the dramatist a disreputable person--and yet the greatest dramas were then written. In spite of law, and social ostracism, Shakespeare reared the many-colored dome that fills and glorifies the intellectual heavens. Now the whole civilized world believes in the theatre--asks for some great dramatist--is hungry for a play worthy of the century, is anxious to give gold and fame to any one who can worthily put our age upon the stage--and yet no great play has been written since Shakespeare died. Shakespeare pursued the highway of the right. He did not seek to put his characters in a position where it was right to do wrong. He was sound and healthy to the centre. It never occurred to him to write a play in which a wife's lover should be jealous of her husband. There was in his blood the courage of his thought. He was true to himself and enjoyed the perfect freedom of the highest art. He did not write according to rules--but smaller men make rules from what he wrote. How fortunate that Shakespeare was not educated at Oxford--that the winged god within him never knelt to the professor. How fortunate that this giant was not captured, tied and tethered by the literary Liliputians of his time. He was an idealist. He did not--like most writers of our time--take refuge in the real, hiding a lack of genius behind a pretended love of truth. All realities are not poetic, or dramatic, or even worth knowing. The real sustains the same relation to the ideal that a stone does to a statue--or that paint does to a painting. Realism degrades and impoverishes. In no event can a realist be more than an imitator and copyist. According to the realist's philosophy, the wax that receives and retains an image is an artist.