ABSTRACT
This chapter presents an extract from November Boughs, Philadelphia, 1888. Strange as it may sound, Shakspere and George Fox, were born and bred of similar stock, in much the same surroundings and station in life—from the same England—and at a similar period. Shakspere radiated all of art’s, all literature’s splendor—a splendor so dazzling that he himself is almost lost in it. George Fox stands for something too—a thought—the thought that wakes in silent hours—perhaps the deepest, most eternal thought latent in the human soul. This is the thought of God, merged in the thoughts of moral right and the immortality of identity.
