ed,
natural intelligence. Later in the play the high resolve of intellect is
betrayed again, indirectly by women; but more by the sexual emotions
which distort the vision till even the falsest, loosest woman appears
beautiful and "celestial," and worth the sacrifice of intellect. The end
of the play is not so much an end as a clearing of the road of life.

It often happens that the setting down of a doubt in careful words
resolves it. This play seems to free Shakespeare's mind from doubts as
to the right use and preparation of intellect. He presents with extreme
care the different types of literary intellect: the man who shuts
himself up to study, the man who sparkles in society, the man whom books
have made stupid and the man whom style has made mad.

The play is full of the problem of what to do with the mind. Shall it be
filled with study, or spent in society, or burnt in a passion, or
tortured by strivings for style, or left as it is? Intellect is a
problem to itself. Something of the problem seems (it would be wrong to
be more certain) to have made this play not quite impersonal, as good
art should be.

The problems are settled wisely, though not without a feeling of
sacrifice. The beauty and the worth of learning are baits by which many
intellects are lured from wisdom. The knowledge that life is the book to
study, life at its liveliest, in the wits of women

"Keen
Above the sense of sense,"

and that style is a poor thing beside the "honest plain words" which
pierce, only comes with a sense of loss. Youth desires all the powers. A
man with great gifts desires all the mental gifts. Youth with nothing
but great gifts is never sure that the gifts will be sufficient. When
this play was written, the stage was supplied with plays by men of
trained intellects, who set more store upon the training than upon the
intellect itself. The society of well-taught men, who know and quote and
criticise, always makes the untaught uncertain and ill at ease.
Shakespeare seems to have risen from the writing of this play, certain
that poetry is not given to the trained mind, nor to the untrained mind,
but to the quick and noble nature, earnest with the passion which stands
the touchstone of death. "Subtlety," so Cromwell wrote, "may deceive
you, integrity never will." The mind is her own armour. She will not
fail for the want of a little learning or a little grace.

In the sub-plot, among much low come