loo UNDER THE TREES. 



ers to strew themselves in the path of the sun. 

 There is nothing so refreshing, so reinvigorating, 

 as fresh contact with the fountain whence all visi 

 ble life flows, as a renewed sense of oneness with 

 the mighty appearance of things in which we live. 

 Now that all outlines are softened, all distinctive 

 features are lost, Nature loses its materialism, and 

 becomes to our thought the vast, silent, unbroken 

 flow of force which the later science has substituted 

 for an earlier and cruder conception. And this 

 invisible stream leads us back, as our thoughts 

 unconsciously follow it, to One whose thought it is 

 and whose mind shares with our mind something 

 of the unsearchable mystery of its purpose and 

 nature. 



Some one has said that a man is great rather by 

 reason of his unconscious thought than by reason 

 of his deliberate and self-directed thinking. Re 

 leased from meditation on definite and special 

 themes, the thought of a great man instinctively 

 returns to the mystery of life. No poet creates a 

 Hamlet unless he has brooded long and almost un 

 consciously on the deeper things that make up the 

 inner life ; such a figure, forever externalizing the 

 profounder and more obscure phases of being, is 

 born of secret and habitual contact with the deep 

 est experiences and the most fundamental prob 

 lems. The mind of a Shakespeare must often, for 

 saking the busy world of actuality, meditate in the 

 twilight which seems to release the soul of things 



