IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 153 



absorbed were we in the noble life of the place, 

 in the inspiring society about us. There came a 

 morning, however, when, as I looked out into the 

 shadows of the deep woods, I recalled a wonder 

 ful line of Dante s^ that must have come to the 

 poet as he passed through some silent and somber 

 woodland path. Suddenly I remembered that 

 months had passed since we had opened a book ; 

 we whose most inspiring hours had once been 

 those in which we read together from some familiar 

 page. For an instant I felt something akin to re 

 morse ; it seemed as if I had been disloyal to 

 friends who had never failed me in any time of 

 need. But as I meditated on this strange for- 

 getfulness of mine, I saw that in Arden books 

 have no place and serve no purpose. Why should 

 one read a translation when the original work lies 

 open and legible before him ? Why should one 

 watch the reflections in the shadowy surface of 

 the lake when the heavens shine above him ? 

 Why should one linger before the picturesque 

 landscape which art has imperfectly transferred to 

 canvas when the scene, with all its elusive play 

 of light and shade, lies outspread before him? 

 I became conscious that in Arden one lives ha 

 bitually in the world which books are always striv 

 ing to portray and interpret ; that one sees with 

 his own eyes all that the eyes of the keenest ob 

 server have ever seen ; that one feels in his own 

 soul all the greatest soul has ever felt. That 



