“Each was constantly alert for metaphor, hyperbole, figure, trope, philosophy or poetical expression. Nothing escaped--every thought or fancy to which love could give birth was woven in. Neither went in society, and the fact that Shakespeare could not present this woman as his wife, was rather an advantage than otherwise. They had no friends but books, and thus were not distracted, diverted or dragged down by common-place connections, ignorant or vain people. To be with people was to lose their relationship to the whole. They were merely onlookers in Venice--the world knew them not. This fully accounts for the total lack of knowledge we possess of Shakespeare’s life. It has been stated that Shakespeare belonged to the club to which belonged Sir Walter Raleigh, Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, Donne, Selden and others, that met at the Mermaid Tavern, but there is no proof at all that he ever attended these meetings. How such a man lived with such a mind and still was not known, has astounded humanity; and it is not to be wondered at that many now doubt that he ever wrote at all, and very plausibly prove (or think they do), that this unlettered, untraveled and untutored man _could not_ (mark the words) have written Shakespeare. It is not to be wondered at that they cast about for the most learned man of his time, and pick out Lord Bacon, not knowing that six Lords Bacon all melted into one _could never_ (_mark my words_) equal the work of one great man and one great woman, who having put away all society but each other, cast out all frivolity, set themselves the task (if task it may be called) solely to assist that alchemist, the only one who can transmute base material into good--_Love_, undying _Love_. Love is creative. It is the one and only source of all creation!” * * * * * I had been taking the words of The Man at the rate of one hundred words a minute. Suddenly they came faster, faster. I could scarcely keep up. For the first time I saw The Man had lost his composure. I looked up. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. He arose from his seat, paused, raised his hands and exclaimed: “This woman, Harriette Bowenni; she was my mother!!” CHAPTER XVIII. SEVENTH SUNDAY.--THE SECRET OF SUCCESS. I began the conversation by a protest against attributing the success of Shakespeare so entirely to woman’s influence for “you cannot make a statue out of basswood,” I said. “Yes, you are right,” answered The Man, “but Shakespeare, you must remember, won the love of this great woman, and thus proved his capacity and ability to succeed. We succeed by means, that is by the help of, others. Now take your pencil and paper and write what I speak-- “The word success scarcely carries the same meaning to two people, and I will make no attempt now to a pedagogic definition of the word, but simply a statement of facts which will not be disputed by any thinking person.