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Rh because the author regards them as witty and amusing.

Goneril's steward appears, and behaves rudely to Lear, for which Kent knocks him down. The King, still not recognizing Kent, gives him money for this and takes him into his service. After this appears the fool, and thereupon begins a prolonged conversation between the fool and the King, utterly unsuited to the position and serving no purpose. Thus, for instance, the fool says, "Give me an egg and I'll give thee two crowns." The King asks, "What crowns shall they be?"—"Why," says the fool, "after I have cut the egg i' the middle, and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i' the middle, and gavest away both parts, thou borest thine ass on thy back o'er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipp'd that first finds it so."

In this manner lengthy conversations go on calling forth in the spectator or reader that wearisome uneasiness which one experiences when listening to jokes which are not witty.

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text:
Author:Louis Esson

Collections

 * Belles and Bees: Verses – poetry (1910)
 * Three Short Plays – drama (1911)
 * Red Gums and Other Verses – poetry (1912)
 * Dead Timber and Other Plays – drama (1920)
 * The Southern Cross and Other Plays – drama (1946)

Individual poems

 * "Brogan's Lane" (1906)

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Author:Louis Esson


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Rh This conversation was interrupted by the approach of Goneril. She demands of her father that he should diminish his retinue; that he should be satisfied with fifty courtiers instead of a hundred. At this suggestion, Lear gets into a strange and unnatural rage, and asks:

"Doth any here know me? This is not Lear: Does Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his discernings Are lethargied. Ha! 'tis not so. Who is it that can tell me who I am?"

And so forth.

While this goes on the fool does not cease to interpolate his humorless jokes. Goneril's husband then enters and wishes to appease Lear, but Lear curses Goneril, invoking for her either sterility or the birth of such an infant-monster as would return laughter and contempt for her motherly cares, and would thus show her all the horror and pain caused by a child's ingratitude.

These words which express a genuine feeling, might have been touching had they stood alone. But they are lost among long and high-flown

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Page:Supplement to the fourth, fifth, and sixth editions of the Encyclopaedia Britannica - with preliminary dissertations on the history of the sciences - illustrated by engravings (IA gri 33125011196181).pdf/829

 The society of Arreoys consists of hundreds or perhaps thousands of both sexes, who engage to destroy their own offspring at the moment of birth. It is chiefly composed of persons distinguished by valour and merit, and hence, one or more individuals of each family of the chiefs are of the number. It has been remarked, that all the men profess themselves warriors, and are in general stout and well made; that the greatest trust and confidence are reposed in them; and it rather appears, that the women consist of the higher ranks only. There are different gradations in this community, which are to be recognised from the mode of tattooing; the more profusely the men are tattooed, the higher is their rank in the society; the first are called Ava bly areema tutowe; 2. Areema bly; 3. Ahowhoa; 4. Harrotea; 5. Eote ole; 6. 7. Po; and youths training up are designed Mo; but the meaning of these names is not explained. By the fundamental laws of the society, the offspring must be destroyed; yet it is not known with certainty by whom or in what particular manner; the murder is always perpetrated in secret, probably by strangulation; all the attendants are excluded; for it is said, were they to witness it, they would be adjudged guilty of participation, and themselves be put to death. Sometimes the mother, animated by natural affection, tries to preserve her infant, and resists the persuasions of her husband, and his brother Arreoys, who wish to consign it to destruction. But in general the enormity of the crime does not appal the females, though they are described to be affectionate and tender. We find a dancing girl pregnant by an Arreoy, expressing herself thus to the English navigators: “Perhaps the Etooa or deity of England, might be offended with the practices of the Arreoys, but her own was not displeased with it. However, she promised, if we would come from England for her child, she might perhaps keep it alive, provided we gave her a hatchet, a shirt, and some red feathers.” That the rules of the community are very strict, may be inferred from an instance given by Captain Bligh. A chief, a member of the society, married a sister of the king of Otaheite, by whom he had eight children, and the whole were destroyed at their birth! Nor did this enormity seem to originate from any other source, as the parents afterwards adopted a nephew as their heir.

It may here be observed, that there are other practices among these people regarding infanticide, which, though we want materials for positively affirming the fact, may perhaps be connected with the institutions of the Arreoys. When an Otaheitan chief has a child by a woman of the lower orders, it is never suffered to live, and the like seems to take place reciprocally among the higher ranks of females. The King and Queen of Otaheite having ceased to cohabit, he had taken another wife, and she associated with one of her attendants of low rank. When pregnant, the missionaries endeavoured to persuade her to spare her child, which she said she would have done, had it been her husband’s, but now it would be base born, and must perish; and she resisted all entreaties to the contrary. Afterwards, having visited them, she excused herself for having put the infant to death; stating that it was the custom of the country to murder all base-born children, and hers being by a low man, she had only complied with the usual practice. Indeed, it is affirmed by the Missionaries who visited that Island in 1797, to be a common proceeding among all ranks, to strangle infants the moment they are born. “A perpetrator of this horrid act,” the narrator observes, “was among these whom curiosity attracted to visit us. She was.a good-looking woman, and esteemed by the natives a great beauty, which I suppose to be the inducement that tempted her to murder her child; for here the number of women bearing no proportion to the men, those esteemed handsome were courted with great gifts, and got so accustomed to change their husbands, to go with them from place to place, and run after the diversions of the Island, that rather than be debarred these pleasures, they stifle a parent’s feelings, and murder their tender children.” Thus many hundreds born into the world are never suffered to see the light; and so little criminality in the opinion of the natives is attached to the deed, that many women disclose the number they have put to death, without scruple. It has been calculated, that at least two-thirds of the births on the Island perish in this manner.

The Arreoys enjoy great privileges, and are everywhere united by the reciprocal ties of friendship and hospitality. When they visit different Islands, they receive presents, and are entertained with feasting and dramatic exhibitions; and all this they seem to expect rather as a matter of right than of courtesy. Their clothes are of the finest materials. They pass their time in luxurious idleness, perfuming their hair with fragrant oils, singing and playing on the flute, and passing from one amusement to another. “Wherever they go,” says Forster, “the train of sensual pleasure awaits them.” They feast on the choicest vegetables; and an abundance of dogs flesh and poultry are liberally provided by the lower classes for their entertainment. They are copiously supplied with kava, and for them are performed nocturnal sports of music and lascivious dances, to which no other spectators are admitted. Their presence seems to enliven the whole country; and among the various entertainments to which it gives birth, is one called hopowpah, of a dramatic nature, in which they themselves act a part. As soon as one Arreoy visits another, though a stranger, he immediately has his wants supplied and his wishes gratified; he is introduced to other members, who vie with each other in loading him with courtesies and presents. They are of all others the most luxurious and profuse, often consuming the whole provisions of a district. When Captain Cook lay at Huaheine, no less than 70 canoes were observed crossing over to another Island, with 700 Arreoys on board; and thus they keep great meetings at appointed times, and travel in companies from one Island to another. It has been affirmed, but perhaps without sufficient foundation, that a promiscuous inter-


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Rh speeches, which Lear keeps incessantly uttering quite inappropriately. He either invokes "blasts and fogs" upon the head of his daughter, or desires his curse to "pierce every sense about her," or else appealing to his own eyes, says that should they weep, he will pluck them out and "cast them with the waters that they lose to temper clay." And so on.

After this, Lear sends Kent, whom he still fails to recognize, to his other daughter, and notwithstanding the despair he has just manifested, he talks with the fool, and elicits his jokes. The jokes continue to be mirthless and besides creating an unpleasant feeling, similar to shame, the usual effect of unsuccessful witticisms, they are also so drawn out as to be positively dull. Thus the fool asks the King whether he can tell why one's nose stands in the middle of one's face? Lear says he can not.—

"Why, to keep one's eyes of either side 's nose, that what a man can not smell out, he may spy out." "Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?" "No." "Nor I either; but I can tell why a snail has a house."

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Brogan's Lane

There’s a crack in the city, and down that street, In couples with guns, tramp "rossers" on beat, To bash with a baton's butt. Labor in vain, For a hotter nor Hell is Brogan's Lane;
 * Brogan’s Lane, Brogan’s Lane,

Rats pinch from each other down Brogan’s Lane.

There's nary a light, and the steps shoot down straight; Drunks land on their heads when they come to their fate. 'Tis a curious study, when sobered again, How the drunk lost his balance down Brogan's Lane;
 * Brogan's Lane, Brogan's Lane,

Lost his balance and clothes down Brogan's Lane.

Flash Ned, when he "dives on a red lock," takes care, When the crowd gazes round Flash Ned isn't there; Up some side-cut he sneaks, but he doesn't complain, He's as safe as a chapel down Brogan's Lane;
 * Brogan's Lane, Brogan's Lane,

It's a short cut to Heaven, this Brogan's Lane.

When Flossie is fresh, only toffs will she meet, But beer drags her down to a girl of the street; Till, one morn, lying out in the cold and the rain, They find her dead body in Brogan's Lane;
 * Brogan's Lane, Brogan's Lane,

She strikes the Dead Finish down Brogan's Lane.

With its opium dens, and its cribs, bones and rags, 'Tis the haunt of thieves, wastrels, poor women, and vags; They booze to bring joy, they sin to numb pain, But the "Jug" lies close handy to Brogan's Lane;
 * Brogan's Lane, Brogan's Lane,

The river and morgue follow Brogan's Lane.

title: Brogan's Lane


text: Talk:Brogan's Lane

title: Talk:Brogan's Lane


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Rh angry skeleton has stolen your Princess Helen, the golden cassowary, and the golden horse, and has locked them up in his castle. But do not fear for your bride, as the immortal skeleton has no power over her for she possesses a strong talisman. Still, she cannot get away from the castle, the only thing that can set her free is the dead female skeleton. Now you will have to find this deceased she-skeleton. I myself do not know where she is to be found, the only person who can tell you anything at all about her and where she is buried, is a certain witch who lives in a forest the other side of the World's End, but no one has yet dared to enter into this forest; no wild beast even has ever penetrated it, nor has any bird been known to fly over it, so dark and dreadful is this forest. The witch rides about through the clouds at full speed, sweeping past on her broom; with an iron pestle in her hand. From her alone you can learn how to get at the deceased she-skeleton for they are great friends. And now I will tell you where you can find a horse that will bring you straight to the dark wood and to the witch, for no ordinary horse will take you. Go from hence eastward until you come to a green meadow, in the middle of which stand two trees, and between them in the ground is an iron door with a ring. This door you must open and go down an iron staircase, which you will see there; you will then come to a subterranean hall with twelve doors on each side; behind the twelfth door on the right-hand side, is a big horse shut up by himself. When he hears your footsteps, he will run out to meet you; mount him


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Rh "Why?" "Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters and leave his horns without a case." "—Be my horses ready?" "Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason." "Because they are not eight?" "Yes, indeed: thou would'st make a good fool."

And so on.

After this lengthy scene, a gentleman enters and announces that the horses are ready. The fool says:

"She that's a maid now, and laughs at my departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter."

The second part of the first scene of the second act begins by the villain Edmund persuading his brother, when their father enters, to pretend that they are fighting with their swords. Edgar consents, altho it is utterly incomprehensible why he should do so. The father finds them fighting. Edgar flies and Edmund scratches his arm to draw blood and

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182 and ride off; he will know his way, you need tell him nothing. Now good-bye, my prince; if ever we meet again, it won't be until your wedding-day!"

And the grey wolf was off.

Following the wolf's advice for once, Prince John went eastward, and in three days came to the subterranean vault. He stopped before the twelfth door and immediately there was a sound like thunder, and a tremendous horse ran out. The prince mounted his back and patted him fondly on his neck, while the handsome animal snorted and neighed with pleasure, stood on his hind-legs for a moment and then bounded away till the earth beneath him shook and trembled. He sprang higher than the highest trees, over the broad valleys, and covered the narrow ones with his tail, and overcame every obstacle with his breast. He flew like an arrow without bending the smallest blade of grass with his feet and without raising the least dust from the ground. But after galloping like this all day he at last grew tired, which after all was perfectly natural. The perspiration poured down from him in streams, and he was surrounded as though by smoke, and with clouds of hot steam, so that Prince John was obliged to slacken his pace. Evening was already setting in as the prince rode through a very wide field, musing on the beautiful sunset. Suddenly he heard a savage cry, and on looking to see whence it came, he beheld two wer-wolves fighting on the road, biting, tearing, and rending each other with their claws.

Prince John rode up to them, and asked,—

"What are you two brothers fighting about?"


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Rh persuades his father that Edgar was working charms for the purpose of killing his father and had desired Edmund to help him, but that he, Edmund, had refused and that then Edgar flew at him and wounded his arm. Gloucester believes everything, curses Edgar and transfers all the rights of the elder and legitimate son to the illegitimate Edmund. The Duke, hearing of this, also rewards Edmund.

In the second scene, in front of Gloucester's palace, Lear's new servant, Kent, still unrecognized by Lear, without any reason, begins to abuse Oswald, Goneril's steward, calling him,—"A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave;—the son and heir of a mongrel bitch." And so on. Then drawing his sword, he demands that Oswald should fight with him, saying that he will make a "sop o' the moonshine" of him,—words which no commentators can explain. When he is stopped, he continues to give vent to the strangset abuse, saying that a tailor made Oswald, as "a stone-cutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, tho they had been but two hours o' the trade!" He further says

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Rh "Well," said one, "it happens that we possess three dens, an invisible cloak, a cap, and a club. Now, as we are only two, we do not know how we can best divide them between us. We began to dispute, but that does not seem to help us. Now you, who are a learned man, might perhaps be able to give us some good advice, and tell us how we had best divide these things and avoid fighting."

The prince thought for a moment, arid then said,—

"I will let fly an arrow, and you must both run after it; he who first gets to the place where the arrow falls shall have which two of the dens he likes best, and also the cap, cloak, and club. Do you consent?"

"Yes, yes!" they cried, and stood side by side ready to start.

Prince John shot forth an arrow, and off went the wolves after it, leaving the cloak, cap, and club behind them. The moment Prince John was left by the wer-wolves he put on the cloak and cap, and he and his horse became at once invisible and rode away, leaving the two wolves either to become friends again or go on fighting as long as they pleased.

Early on the following morning the big horse came to the dark and dreary forest where the witch lived.

The old hag was very condescending to the prince, and told him how to get at the deceased she-skeleton.

"In the middle of the mighty ocean," said she, "in the Island of Booyan, stands an old, old oak, and under this oak is an iron box buried in the


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Rh that, if only leave be given him, he will "tread this unbolted villain into mortar and daub the wall of a jakes with him."

Thus Kent, whom nobody recognizes, altho both the King and the Duke of Cornwall, as well as Gloucester who is present, ought to know him well, continues to brawl, in the character of Lear's new servant, until he is taken and put in the stocks.

The third scene takes place on a heath. Edgar, flying from the persecutions of his father, hides in a wood and tells the public what kind of lunatics exist there—beggars who go about naked, thrust wooden pricks and pins into their flesh, scream with wild voices and enforce charity, and says that he wishes to simulate such a lunatic in order to save himself from persecution. Having communicated this to the public, he retires.

The fourth scene is again before Gloucester's castle. Enter Lear and the fool. Lear sees Kent in the stocks, and, still not recognizing him, is inflamed with rage against those who dared so to insult his messenger, and calls for the Duke and Regan. The fool goes on with his jokes.

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Rh

Lear with difficulty restrains his ire. Enter the Duke and Regan. Lear complains of Goneril but Regan justifies her sister. Lear curses Goneril, and, when Regan tells him he had better return to her sister, he is indignant and says: "Ask her forgiveness?" and falls down on his knees demonstrating how indecent it would be if he were abjectly to beg food and clothing as charity from his own daughter, and he curses Goneril with the strangest curses and asks who put his servant in the stocks. Before Regan can answer, Goneril arrives. Lear becomes yet more exasperated and again curses Goneril, but when he is told that it was the Duke himself who ordered the stocks, he does not say anything, because, at this moment, Regan tells him that she can not receive him now and that he had best return to Goneril, and that in a month's time she herself will receive him, with, however, not a hundred but fifty servants. Lear again curses Goneril and does not want to go to her, continuing to hope that Regan will accept him with the whole hundred servants. But Regan says she will receive him only with twenty-five and then Lear makes up his mind to go back to

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Rh Goneril who admits fifty. But when Goneril says that even twenty-five are too many, Lear pours forth a long argument about the superfluous and the needful being relative and says that if man is not allowed more than he needs, he is not to be distinguished from a beast. Lear, or rather the actor who plays Lear's part, adds that there is no need for a lady's finery, which does not keep her warm. After this he flies into a mad fury and says that to take vengeance on his daughters he will do something dreadful but that he will not weep, and so he departs. A storm begins.

Such is the second act, full of unnatural events, and yet more unnatural speeches, not flowing from the position of the characters,—and finishing with a scene between Lear and his daughters which might have been powerful if it had not been permeated with the most absurdly foolish, unnatural speeches—which, moreover, have no relation to the subject,—put into the mouth of Lear. Lear's vacillations between pride, anger, and the hope of his daughters' giving in, would be exceedingly touching if it were not spoilt by the verbose absurdities to which he gives vent, about being

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Rh ready to divorce himself from Regan's dead mother, should Regan not be glad to receive him,—or about his calling down "fen suck'd frogs" which he invokes, upon the head of his daughter, or about the heavens being obliged to patronize old people because they themselves are old.

The third act begins with thunder, lightning, a storm of some special kind such as, according to the words of the characters in the piece, had never before taken place. On the heath, a gentleman tells Kent that Lear, banished by his daughters from their homes, is running about the heath alone, tearing his hair and throwing it to the wind, and that none but the fool is with him. In return Kent tells the gentleman that the dukes have quarrelled, and that the French army has landed at Dover, and, having communicated this intelligence, he despatches the gentleman to Dover to meet Cordelia.

The second scene of the third act also takes place on the heath, but in another part of it. Lear walks about the heath and says words which are meant to express his despair: he desires that the winds should blow so hard

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Rh that they should crack their cheeks and that the rain should flood everything, that lightning should singe his white head, and the thunder flatten the world and destroy all germens "that make ungrateful man!" The fool keeps uttering still more senseless words. Enter Kent. Lear says that for some reason during this storm all criminals shall be found out and convicted. Kent, still unrecognized by Lear, endeavors to persuade him to take refuge in a hovel. At this point the fool pronounces a prophecy in no wise related to the situation and they all depart.

The third scene is again transferred to Gloucester's castle. Gloucester tells Edmund that the French King has already landed with his troops, and intends to help Lear. Learning this, Edmund decides to accuse his father of treason in order that he may get his heritage.

The fourth scene is again on the heath in front of the hovel. Kent invites Lear into the hovel, but Lear answers that he has no reason to shelter himself from the tempest, that he does not feel it, having a tempest in his mind, called forth by the ingratitude of his daughters, which extinguishes all else. This true feeling, expressed in simple words, might elicit sym

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Rh pathy, but amidst the incessant, pompous raving it escapes one and loses its significance.

The hovel into which Lear is led, turns out to be the same which Edgar has entered, disguised as a madman, i.e., naked. Edgar comes out of the hovel, and, altho all have known him, no one recognizes him,—as no one recognizes Kent,—and Edgar, Lear, and the fool begin to say senseless things which continue with interruptions for many pages. In the middle of this scene, enter Gloucester, who also does not recognize either Kent or his son Edgar, and tells them how his son Edgar wanted to kill him.

This scene is again cut short by another in Gloucester's castle, during which Edmund betrays his father and the Duke promises to avenge himself on Gloucester. Then the scene shifts back to Lear. Kent, Edgar, Gloucester, Lear, and the fool are at a farm and talking. Edgar says: " Frateretto calls me, and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness..." The fool says: "Tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman?" Lear, having lost his mind, says that the madman is a king. The fool says no, the madman is the yeoman

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text:
The Bard of Furthest Out

He longed to be a Back-Blocks Bard,
 * And fame he wished to win

He wrote at night and studied hard
 * (He read THE BULLETIN);

He sent in stuff unceasingly,
 * But couldn't get it through;

And so, at last, he came to me
 * To see what I could do.

The poet's light was in his eye,
 * He aimed to be a man;

He bought a bluey and a fly,
 * A brand new billy-can.

I showed him how to roll his swag
 * And "sling it" with the best;

I gave him my old water-bag,
 * And pointed to the west.

"Now you can take the train as far
 * As Blazes if you like—

The wealthy go by motor-car
 * (Some travellers go by bike);

They race it through without a rest,
 * And find it very tame—

But if you tramp it to the west
 * You'll get there just the same.

"(No matter if the hour is late,
 * The morning goes Out-Back),

You do not need a dog nor mate,
 * You'll find them on the track.

You must avoid such deadly rhymes
 * As 'self' and 'elf' and 'shelf'.

But were it as in other times,
 * I'd go with you myself.

"Those days are done for me, but ah!
 * On hills where you shall be,

The wattle and the waratah
 * Are good to smell and see.

But there's a scent, my heart believes,
 * That 'travellers' set higher

Than wattle—’tis the dried gum leaves
 * That light the evening fire.

"The evening fire and morning fire
 * Are one fire in the Bush.

(You'll find the points that you require
 * As towards the west you push.)

And as you pass by ancient ways,
 * Old camps, and mountain springs,

The spirits of the Roaring Days
 * Will whisper many things.

"The lonely ridge-and-gully belt—
 * The spirit of the whole—

It must be seen; it must be felt—
 * Must sink into your soul!

The summer silence—creek-oaks' sigh—
 * The windy, rainy "woosh"—

'Tis known to other men, and I—
 * The Spirit of the Bush!

"So on, and on, through dust and heat,
 * When past the spurs you be—

And you shall meet whom you shall meet,
 * And see what you shall see,

You need not claim the stranger's due,
 * They yield it everywhere,

And mateship is a thing that you
 * Must take for granted there.

"And in the land of Lord-knows-where—
 * Right up and furthest out—

You find a new Australia there
 * That we know nought about.

Live as they live, fight as they fight,
 * Succeed as they succeed,

And then come back again and write
 * For all the world to read."

I've got a note from Hungerford,
 * 'Tis written frank and fair;

The bushman's grim philosophy—
 * The bushman's grin are there.

And tramping on through rain and drought—
 * Unlooked for and unmissed—

I may have sent to furthest out
 * The Great Bush Novelist.

title: The Bard of Furthest Out


text: Talk:The Bard of Furthest Out

title: Talk:The Bard of Furthest Out


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Rh who has allowed his son to become a gentleman. Lear screams: "To have a thousand with red burning spirits. Come hissing in upon 'em,"—while Edgar shrieks that the foul fiend bites his back. At this the fool remarks that one can not believe "in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath." Then Lear imagines he is judging his daughters. "Sit thou here, most learned justicer," says he, addressing the naked Edgar; "Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she foxes." To this Edgar says: "Look where he stands and glares! Wantest thou eyes at trial, madam?" "Come o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me,—"

while the fool sings:

"Her boat hath a leak And she must not speak Why she dares not come over to thee."

Edgar goes on in his own strain. Kent suggests that Lear should lie down, but Lear continues his imaginary trial: "Bring in their evidence," he cries. "Thou robed man of justice, take thy place," he says to Edgar, "and thou" (to the fool) "his yoke-fellow of equity, bench by his side. You are o' the commission, sit you too," addressing Kent.

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Rh "Purr, the cat is gray," shouts Edgar.

"Arraign her first, 'tis Goneril," cries Lear. "I here take my oath before this honorable assembly, she kicked the poor king, her father."

"Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?" says the fool, addressing the seat.

"And here's another," cries Lear. "Stop her there! arms, arms, sword, fire! Corruption in the place! False justice, why hast thou let her 'scape?"

This raving terminates by Lear falling asleep and Gloucester persuading Kent, still without recognizing him, to carry Lear to Dover, and Kent and the fool carry off the King.

The scene is transferred to Gloucester's castle. Gloucester himself is about to be accused of treason. He is brought forward and bound. The Duke of Cornwall plucks out one of his eyes and sets his foot on it. Regan says, "One side will mock another; the other too." The Duke wishes to pluck the other out also, but some servant, for some reason, suddenly takes Gloucester's part and wounds the Duke. Regan kills the servant, who, dying, says to Gloucester that he has "one eye left to see some mischief on him."

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184 ground; in this box lies a fat hare, and in that hare sits a grey duck, and in that duck is an egg, and in that egg is the deceased she-skeleton herself. When you get as far as the egg you must take it and go straight to the immortal skeleton's castle. When you get there you will see a twelve-headed serpent lying at the castle gates keeping watch. Now you must not think of fighting with this serpent, that would be useless; you have in your possession a club which will do all that for you if you tell it when to begin. You must then put on your invisible cloak and cap and go to the immortal skeleton, and throw down the egg before him; as soon as you do that he will die. But on your way back you must not forget to take some delightful dulcimers which you will see in the garden, for if you do not take them your father, King Dymion, and his court will never wake. Now good-bye, Prince John, good luck attend you. Your good horse will find the way. If anything happens, think of me, old woman though I am, not unkindly but with good-will. God bless you!"

The prince then parted from the benevolent old lady, and mounting his horse he devoutly made the sign of the cross, whistled loudly, and off they went as before, leaving the dark forest in the distance, and the mighty ocean was reached in due time. When the prince had galloped up to it he looked about him, wondering how he and his horse could possibly cross over to the Island of Booyan through those deep and angry waves, when he beheld a fisherman's net, in which an unfortunate little pike was struggling. The pike on seeing the prince called out,—


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Rh The Duke says, "Lest it see more, prevent it," and he tears out Gloucester's other eye and throws it on the ground. Here Regan says that it was Edmund who betrayed his father and then Gloucester immediately understands that he has been deceived and that Edgar did not wish to kill him.

Thus ends the third act.

The fourth act is again on the heath. Edgar, still attired as a lunatic, soliloquizes in stilted terms about the instability of fortune and the advantages of a humble lot. Then there comes to him somehow into the very place on the heath where he is, his father, the blinded Gloucester, led by an old man. In that characteristic Shakespearean language,—the chief peculiarity of which is that the thoughts are bred either by the consonance or the contrasts of words,—Gloucester also speaks about the instability of fortune. He tells the old man who leads him to leave him, but the old man points out to him that he can not see his way. Gloucester says he has no way and therefore does not require eyes. And he argues about his having stumbled when he saw, and about defects often proving commodities.

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Rh "Ah! dear son Edgar," he adds, "might I but live to see thee in my touch, I'd say I had eyes again." Edgar naked, and in the character of a lunatic, hearing this, still does not disclose himself to his father. He takes the place of the aged guide and talks with his father, who does not recognize his voice, but regards him as a wandering madman. Gloucester avails himself of the opportunity to deliver himself of a witticism: "'Tis the times' plague when madmen lead the blind," and he insists on dismissing the old man, obviously not from motives which might be natural to Gloucester at that moment, but merely in order, when left alone with Edgar, to enact the later scene of the imaginary leaping from the cliff.

Notwithstanding Edgar has just seen his blinded father, and has learnt that his father repents of having banished him, he puts in utterly unnecessary interjections which Shakespeare might know, having read them in Haronet's book, but which Edgar had no means of becoming acquainted with, and above all, which it was quite unnatural for him to repeat in his present position. He says, "Five friends have been in poor Tom at once: of lust, as

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Rh "Prince John, be good enough to take me out of the net and throw me back into the ocean, for I may be useful to you in a short time!"

The prince, always ready to help, did so, and the pike turned round, thanked him, and then disappeared in the sea, while Prince John stood looking at the water thoughtfully. The big horse looked at him inquiringly, and wondered what was in his master's mind; was he thinking how to get to the Island of Booyan? or of his fair princess?

"What are you thinking of, my prince?" asked the horse at last. "If you are wondering how you are to get across, set your mind at rest; nothing is easier. Mount my back again and I will be your ship, only you must hold on tight to my mane and fear nothing!"

Prince John obeyed, and the horse bounded boldly down the steep shore into the depths of the sea, and in the twinkling of an eye, horse and rider were out of sight in the depths of darkness.

Suddenly, startled by the noise of the waves, Prince John fell from his charger's back into the water, but in another moment the big horse helped his rider up and once more began to beat the water with his hoofs and breast, while all around him the waves rose and dashed with fury. How much lighter a sailing-ship looks when the wind blows it gently along the sea! With long and quick strokes the good horse soon swam over to the Island of Booyan, where he leaped ashore, covered with foam, right in front of the oak.

Prince John had no wish to linger about so he left


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186 the big horse by the seaside to eat the grass at its leisure, and went up to the old oak and tried to shake it, but it was very firm. Again he shook, and harder than before; this time the old tree creaked. He tried once more, harder and harder, till the roots began to move in the earth; then the prince, exerting all his strength, pulled up the sturdy tree with one wrench, and down he fell on his back with it.

But he was up again in a moment looking round him; the roots lay scattered about like snakes, and where the old oak used to stand there was now a large and deep hole. In this hole Prince John found the iron box; he raised the lid and took out the hare by its ears. He had hardly torn it open when out jumped a grey duck and ran off towards the sea; but the prince quickly shot an arrow through the animal, which fell dead on the ground; but the egg, alas! rolled out straight into the sea, and fell to the bottom. Prince John sighed. Suddenly the pike appeared, and on seeing the prince in distress, dived down into the water, and after two or three minutes reappeared, and swam to the shore with the egg in its mouth and put it down at the prince's feet, saying,—

"You see now that within one hour I have been of use to you;" and with these words the pike dived back again, before the prince had time to thank it.

He took the egg, and, mounting his horse, left the Island of Booyan and crossed the mighty ocean.

The horse galloped along till he and his rider came to a very high rock, on which stood the im-


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Rh Obidient; Hobbididance, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing; who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women."

Hearing these words, Gloucester makes a present of his purse to Edgar, saying:

"That I am so wretched Makes thee the happier; heavens, deal so still, Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly. So distribution should undo excess. And each man have enough."

Having pronounced these strange words, the blind Gloucester requests Edgar to lead him to a certain cliff overhanging the sea, and they depart.

The second scene of the fourth act takes place before the Duke of Albany's palace. Goneril is not only cruel, but also depraved. She despises her husband and discloses her love to the villain Edmund, who has inherited the title of his father Gloucester. Edmund leaves, and a conversation takes place between Goneril and her husband. The Duke of Albany, the only figure with human feelings,

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 course of the sexes prevails in their society; however, they are permitted great latitude in their amours, except in times of danger, as almost all are fighting men. Sufficient inducements are therefore held out to be admitted into this mysterious community.

Any one may withdraw at pleasure from the society; and an example is given of a chief who had killed his first-born child, but preserved the second, having withdrawn in the interval. A woman who ceases to be an Arreoy, incurs a reproachful name, signifying “bearer of children.” Thus, while in most other countries the name of parent confers honour and respect; among the Arreoys of Otaheite, it is used as a term of contempt and reproach. A Chief of some repute, hearing that the King of Great Britain had a numerous offspring, he declared that “he thought himself a much greater man, because he belonged to the Arreoys.”

With respect to the origin of this society, Forster was the first to offer any conjectures. “In a country,” says he, “which has emerged so lately from barbarism as Otaheite, we cannot suppose that such a community, which is evidently injurious to the rest of the nation, would have maintained itself to the present time, were not its advantages so considerable as to require its continuance.” There are two causes, he adds, which favour the existence of the Arreoys: first, the necessity for entertaining a body of warriors, to defend their fellow-citizens from the invasions and depredations of enemies. Secondly, it was necessary by such an association to prevent the too rapid increase of the number of their chiefs. “Perhaps,” he remarks, “some intelligent Otaheitan lawgiver might foresee, that the common people would at length groan under the yoke of such petty tyrants, whose number was ever multiplying.” The ordinary practice of infanticide is ascribed by Mr Wilson, who visited the South Seas in 1801, merely to the love of pleasure and avarice, which latter passion had gained great ascendancy since the intercourse of the Islanders with Europeans; “being well aware,” says he, “that the beauty of females rearing families experiences an earlier decay, it is anxiously preserved for their visitors, by destruction of their offspring, or even by procuring abortion.” Before offering any opinion on this point, we shall notice a custom in the North West of India, somewhat analogous, which also is attended with mystery.

Amongst certain tribes called Jarejahs, which are more particularly disseminated in the peninsula of Guzarat, the whole females are devoted to death at the moment of their birth. But this is in consequence of general custom, not of any special association. The immediate death of a daughter is viewed as the inevitable consequence of its birth; and the innocent beings falling a sacrifice to this barbarous ordinance, yearly amount to many thousands. When a woman is delivered of a daughter, the event is communicated to the father by the female attendants, who desires them to do as is customary; an injunction said to be followed by the mother applying a tittle opium on the nipple of her breast, which is sucked in by the child. More usually it is strangled by herself, of drowned in a basin of milk; but women of rank, who have attendants, never perform the office themselves. However, from the mystery observed, it is, as among the Arreoys, difficult to obtain correct information. In some districts, any of the female attendants may put the infant to death; in others, a kind of domestic Priest becomes the executioner; and the infant being placed naked in a small basket, it is carried out to be interred; for which he receives a trifling fee. Among the Arreoys, those who preserve their children seem to suffer a degree of degradation, and they plead as an apology for their destruction, that it is necessary to preserve the privileges of their tribe. With the Jurejahs, the father is obeyed on signifying his desire for preservation; but if he continue silent on receiving the intelligence, the usual custom must be complied with. The mother is generally averse to the sacrifice, but her scruples to preserve her offspring are seldom attended to; should a short interval elapse, however, before the bloody deed is done, it then becomes unlawful, and the child must be spared.

In India, it is said that mothers who had been long barren, offered their first born as a sacrifice to the gods, either by leaving it in the woods to be devoured by beasts of prey, or by throwing it into a river. But, in progress of time, a commutation took place, by devoting the victim to the service.of some temple, from which it might be redeemed. The ancients were profuse of human blood to gratify their Deities, and even without the particular cause just alluded to, children were especially doomed to be offered in sacrifice. In times of public calamity, an only child was deemed the most acceptable sacrifice: as being more precious to its parents, its death was supposed of greater efficacy in purchasing expiation. “And when the king of Moab saw that the battle was too hot for him, he took with him seven hundred men that drew swords, to break through even unto the king of Edom; but they could not. Then he took his eldest son, that should have reigned in his stead, and offered him for a burnt offering upon the wall.” Nothing can be more precise than this passage of Scripture, as to the fact of a parent sacrificing his eldest child, in case of a grievous extremity; and there is also another passage, though more obscurely expressed, to the came purport, where the offering is in atonement. “Wherewith shall I come before the Lord, and bow myself before the High God? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves of a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, or with ten thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my first born for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?” The barbarities which have been inflicted by mankind to allay their superstitious fears, seem to have no bounds or limitation. It is horrible to reflect, that the most painful death which the mind can figure, burning alive, has been alike the sacrifice of the moderns for erroneous religions tenets, and of the ancients to gain the favour, or to avert the wrath of their Deities. The Moloch of the Phenicians, the Kronus of the


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 than before, the Trinity of the persons in God and the unity of the essence. The Trinity of the persons: for the Father, the Word, and the Holy Ghost are called three witnesses; consequently they are distinct from each other and the Word and the Holy Ghost, mentioned as witnesses with the Father, are not merely two of his attributes, or forces, or actions, but just such persons as the Father. The unity of the essence: for if the Word or the Holy Ghost did not have the selfsame divine nature and substance with the Father, but a lower, created nature, there would be an endless distance between them and the Father, and it would not be possible to say: and these three are one.”

But unfortunately, although this passage, no matter how weak it is, may serve, if not as proof, at least as an incentive to the assertion that God is one and three, unfortunately not all agree with the theologians. It says:

“Unjust are those who wish to weaken the power of this passage, by asserting that the three celestial witnesses, the Father, the Word, and the Holy Ghost, are represented as one, not in relation to their essence, but only in relation to their unanimous testimony, just like the three terrestrial witnesses, who are mentioned in the following verse: There are three that bear witness in earth, the spirit, and the water, and the blood: and these three agree in one (1 John v. 8), form unquestionably one, not by their essence, but only in relation to the testimony. It must be remarked that (a) the apostle himself distinguishes the unity of the celestial and the unity of the terrestrial witnesses; of the latter, which are indeed different among themselves or different in their essence, he expresses himself only by saying: and these three agree in one (καὶ οἱ τρεῖς εἰς τὸ ἕν εἰσιν), that is, in one, in relation to the testimony; but of the first he says: And these three are one (καὶ οὗτοι οἱ τρεῖς ἕν εἰσιν), and not, agree in one; consequently ‘are one’ is a great deal more than what the


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Rh had died. Goneril is glad but already anticipates with fear that Regan, now a widow, will deprive her of Edmund. Here the second scene ends.

The third scene of the fourth act represents the French camp. From a conversation between Kent and a gentleman, the reader or spectator learns that the King of France is not in the camp and that Cordelia has received a letter from Kent and is greatly grieved by what she has learned about her father. The gentleman says that her face reminded one of sunshine and rain.

"Her smiles and tears Were like a better day; those happy smiles That play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, As pearls from diamonds dropp'd."

And so forth.

The gentleman says that Cordelia desires to see her father, but Kent says that Lear is ashamed of seeing this daughter whom he has treated so unkindly.

In the fourth scene, Cordelia, talking with a physician, tells him that Lear has been seen, that he is quite mad, wearing on his head a

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 Awful as it was, it isn't a puny drop in the bloody bucket.

Listen—this is from the New York Independent—not a Socialist paper. This conservative journal said in its issue of March 14, 1907:

And yet, every mine, mill, factory and railroad could be so guarded with safety appliances that accidents and loss of life would be reduced to a minimum.

But what does the Plunderbund care for human life when Dollars are in sight?

What does a workingman or a workingwoman or a child of the working class amount to, anyway, in the eyes of the masters that the working class votes to maintain in power?

What do the masters care that Disease, the dirty brood of Poverty and Filth, reaps its awful harvest every


text:
To Victor Daley

I thought that silence would be best,
 * But I a call have heard,

And, Victor, after all the rest,
 * I well might say a word:

The day and work is nearly done.
 * And ours the victory,

And we are resting, one by one,
 * In graveyards by the sea.

You made a jest on that last night,
 * I met it with a laugh:

You wondered which of us should write
 * The other’s epitaph.

We filled the glasses to the brim—
 * "The land’s own wine" you know—

And solemnly we drank to him
 * Who should be first to go.

No ribald jest; we were but two—
 * The royst'ring days were past—

And in our heart of hearts we knew,
 * That one was going fast.

We both knew who should win the race—
 * Were rest or fame the prize—

As with a quaint smile on your face
 * You looked into my eyes.

But then you talked of other nights,
 * When, gay from dusk to dawn,

You wasted hours with other lights
 * That went where you have gone.

You spoke not of the fair and "fast,"
 * But of the pure and true—

"Sweet ugly women of the past"
 * Who stood so well by you.

You talked about old struggles brave,
 * But in a saddened tone—

The swindles editors forgave
 * For laughter's sake alone.

You talked of humorous distress,
 * And bailiffs that you knew,

But with a touch of bitterness
 * I'd never seen in you.

No need for tears or quick-caught breath—
 * You sleep not in the sand—

No need for ranting song of death,
 * With the death drink in our hand.

No need for vain invective hurled
 * At "cruel destiny,"

Though you seem dead to all the world
 * You are not dead to me.

I see you walk into the room
 * We aye remember how—

And, looking back into the gloom,
 * You'll smile about it now.

'Twas Victor's entry, solemn style—
 * With verse or paragraph:

Though we so often saw your smile
 * How many heard you laugh?

They dare to write about the man
 * That they have never seen:

The blustering false Bohemian
 * That you have never been;

Some with the false note in their voice,
 * And with the false tear shed,

Who in their secret heart rejoice
 * For one more rival—dead.

They miss the poems, real and true,
 * Where your heart's blood was shed,

And rave of reckless things that you
 * Threw out for bitter bread.

They "weep" and "worship" while you "rest,"
 * They drivel and they dote—

But, Victor, we remember best
 * The things we never wrote.

The things that lie between us two,
 * The things I'll never tell.

A fool, I stripped my soul, but you—
 * You wore your mask too Well

(How strangely human all men be,
 * Though each one plays a part).

You only dropped it once for me,
 * But then I saw your heart.

A souls'-match, such as one might strike
 * With or without intent

(How strangely all men are alike—
 * With masks so different).

No need to drop the mask again,
 * On that last night, I know—

It chanced when we were sober men,
 * Some seven years age.

They slander you, fresh in the sand,
 * They slander me alive;

But, when their foul souls flee the land,
 * Our spirits shall arrive.

In slime and envy let them rave,
 * And let the worst be said:

"A drunkard at a drunkard's grave,"
 * "A brilliant drunkard dead."

Because we would not crawl to them,
 * Their bands we would not shake,

Because their greed we would condemn,
 * Their bribes we would not take:

Because unto the fair aiid true
 * Our hearts and songs we gave—

But I forgot them when I threw
 * My white flower on your grave.

So let us turn, and with a smile
 * Let these poor creatures pass

While we, the few who wait awhile,
 * Drink to an empty glass.

We’ll live as in the days gone by,
 * To no god shall we bow—

Though, Victor, there are times when I
 * Feel jealous of you now.

But I'll have done with solemn songs,
 * Save for my country’s sake;

It is not meet, for all the wrongs,
 * That any heart should break.

So many heed to weep and smile,
 * Though all the rest should frown,

That I'd take your burden up awhile
 * Where you have laid it down.

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Rh wreath of various weeds, that he is roaming about and that she has sent soldiers in search of him, adding that she desires all secret remedies to spring with her tears, and the like.

She is informed that the forces of the Dukes are approaching, but she is concerned only about her father and departs.

The fifth scene of the fourth act lies in Gloucester's castle. Regan is talking with Oswald, Goneril's steward, who is carrying a letter from Goneril to Edmund, and she announces to him that she also loves Edmund and that, being a widow, it is better for her to marry him than for Goneril to do so, and she begs him to persuade her sister of this. Further she tells him that it was very unreasonable to blind Gloucester and yet leave him alive, and therefore advises Oswald, should he meet Gloucester, to kill him, promising him a great reward if he does this.

In the sixth scene, Gloucester again appears with his still unrecognized son Edgar, who (now in the guise of a peasant) pretends to lead his father to the cliff. Gloucester is walking along on level land but Edgar persuades him that they are with difficulty ascending a

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 year, if only more Dollars can swell their Coffers? Nothing—and the masters can murder every minute of the day more than James McNamara could have killed if the Los Angeles Times building had been packed with human beings from cellar to roof the night he set off his dynamite; and, be it said to the disgrace of beings boasting of being made in the image of God, no wave of horror follows the fiendish deeds of the masters.

This thing of Hell, this murder trade, has gone on for ages and will continue just as long as we run this earth as a gambling den instead of a home for the workers.

It will go on, one continual tragedy, until all classes are merged into one class—the working class—and the earth shall be owned, operated and used for all the childernchildren [sic] of men.

So long as anarchy reigns in our industrial structure, juggling millionaires out of the lucky few and driving the millions into poverty, just so long will some jobless victim, or some blind leader of jobless victims, likely throw the deadly bomb. Just so long will some tool of the masters, sitting in power, decorate and desecrate our postoffices with enticing appeals to young men to join an army of killers whose sole purpose is to keep the masters in power.

Unless we heed the gospel of Socialism and recognize human brotherhood in all the means of producing and distributing our daily bread and unless we do this pretty soon, only God knows what will happen.

"Within a short time," says Victor Berger, "we shall have TWO NATIONS in every civilized country, and especially in America, both of native growth. One nation will be very large in number, but semi-civilized, half-fed, half-educated and degenerated from over-work and misery; the other nation will be very small in number, but over-civilized, over-fed, over-cultured and de-


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 generated from too much leisure and too much luxury. What will be the outcome? Some day there will be a volcanic eruption. The hungry millions will turn against the over-fed few. A fearful retribution will be enacted on the capitalist class as a class, and the innocent will suffer with the guilty. Such a revolution will retrograde civilization; it might throw the white race back into barbarism."

Congressman Berger speaks the truth and any man or woman who does not to-day realize that he speaks the truth is a blind interpreter of past history and present day conditions.

Do you want something infinitely more awful than happened in France?

Do you want a Wave of Horror too appalling to contemplate?

Do you want Murder absolutely unchained from its mad-house and the dogs of internecine war turned loose?

If you do not want these things, you had better get busy right away.

I want to tell you there is no time to lose.

At this very hour there are hundreds of thousands hungry, homeless and out of work.

There is a vast army who know no way to settle social wrongs save to destroy, pillage and kill.

This is the fruit the tree of Capitalism has borne.

This is the harvest gathered from a social system that creates two classes—one that does all the useful work and another that does no useful work, but takes all the proceeds.

This is the monstrous crime Humanity is guilty of when it denies any member of its race full and free opportunity to produce and own those things the body and mind require.


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Rh steep hill. Gloucester believes this. Edgar tells his father that the noise of the sea is heard; Gloucester believes this also. Edgar stops on a level place and persuades his father that he has ascended the cliff and that in front of him lies a dreadful abyss, and leaves him alone. Gloucester, addressing the gods, says that he shakes off his affliction as he can bear it no longer, and that he does not condemn them—the gods. Having said this, he leaps on the level ground and falls, imagining that he has jumped off the cliff. On this occasion, Edgar, soliloquizing, gives vent to a yet more entangled utterance:

"I know not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the theft; had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past."

He approaches Gloucester, in the character of yet a different person, and expressing astonishment at the latter not being hurt by his fall from such a dreadful height. Gloucester believes that he has fallen and prepares to die, but he feels that he is alive and begins to doubt that he has fallen from such a height. Then Edgar persuades him that he has indeed

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Rh jumped from the dreadful height and tells him that the individual who had been with him at the top was the devil, as he had eyes like two full moons and a thousand noses and wavy horns. Gloucester believes this, and is persuaded that his despair was the work of the devil, and therefore decides that he will henceforth despair no more, but will quietly await death. Hereupon enters Lear, for some reason covered with wild-flowers. He has lost his senses and says things wilder than before. He speaks about coining, about the moon, gives some one a yard—then he cries that he sees a mouse, which he wishes to entice by a piece of cheese. Then he suddenly demands the password from Edgar, and Edgar immediately answers him with the words "Sweet marjoram." Lear says, "Pass," and the blind Gloucester, who has not recognized either his son or Kent, recognizes the King's voice.

Then the King, after his disconnected utterances, suddenly begins to speak ironically about flatterers, who agreed to all he said, "Ay, and no, too, was no good divinity," but, when he got into a storm without shelter, he saw all this was not true; and then goes on to

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 You fling defiance into the face of the Almighty when you believe, assist or knowingly vote that one class shall live off the sweat of another's brow.

James McNamara blew up the Los Angeles Times building because he saw in Harrison Gray Otis an enemy of organized labor.

It was class fighting class with fang and claw.

It was the war way, the murder way.

Was it right? No. Was it wisdom? No. If the McNamaras had been Socialist students, instead of prejudiced and ignorant members of the democratic party, they would have struggled to overturn the system that creates class war, hate and poverty, and would have appealed to their blind followers with tons of Socialist literature instead of exploding sticks of dynamite.

You, who shudder with a Wave of Horror at the act of James McNamara, are doing something that is liable some day to explode with more tragedy than the wreck and slaughter of The Los Angeles Times building when you stick your devilish republican or democratic ticket into the ballot box and register your vow that a band of pirates shall rob the working class of nine-tenths of what it produces—aye, that shall condemn thousands of workers to not even have a chance to work at all and receive a niggardly one-tenth of their labor.

A Wave of Horror?

Would to God I could paint the picture of desolation your rotten old party ballot perpetuates in this land of plenty.

From the cotton fields of the South, where the sad-faced women and children toil in the fields for a chance to merely exist on this beautiful earth, and eat and sleep in hovels that their proud masters would think unfit kennels for their dogs, on to the industrial Wage-slave warrens


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Rh say that as all creation addicts itself to adultery, and Gloucester's bastard son had treated his father more kindly than his daughters had treated him (altho Lear, according to the development of the drama, could not know how Edmund had treated Gloucester), therefore, let dissoluteness prosper, the more so as, being a King, he needs soldiers. He here addresses an imaginary hypocritically virtuous lady who acts the prude, whereas

"The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't With a more riotous appetite. All women inherit the gods only to the girdle Beneath is all the fiend's"—

and, saying this, Lear screams and spits from horror. This monolog is evidently meant to be addressed by the actor to the audience, and probably produces an effect on the stage, but it is utterly uncalled for in the mouth of Lear, equally with his words: "It smells of mortality," uttered while wiping his hand, as Gloucester expresses a desire to kiss it. Then Gloucester's blindness is referred to, which gives occasion for a play of words on eyes, about blind Cupid, at which Lear says to Gloucester, "No eyes in your head, nor no

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Rh who had already previously been dissatisfied with his wife's treatment of her father, now resolutely takes Lear's side, but expresses his emotion in such words as to shake one's confidence in his feeling. He says that a bear would lick Lear's reverence, that if the heavens do not send their visible spirits to tame these vile offenses, humanity must prey on itself like monsters, etc.

Goneril does not listen to him, and then he begins to abuse her:

"See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman."

"O vain fool," says Goneril. "Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame," continues the Duke:

"Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones; howe'er thou art a fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee."

After this a messenger enters, and announces that the Duke of Cornwall, wounded by his servant whilst plucking out Gloucester's eyes,

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Rh money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light." Then Lear declaims a monolog on the unfairness of legal judgment, which is quite out of place in the mouth of the insane Lear. After this, enter a gentleman with attendants sent by Cordelia to fetch her father. Lear continues to act as a madman and runs away. The gentleman sent to fetch Lear, does not run after him, but lengthily describes to Edgar the position of the French and British armies. Oswald enters, and seeing Gloucester, and desiring to receive the reward promised by Regan, attacks him, but Edgar with his club kills Oswald, who, in dying, transmits to his murderer, Edgar, Goneril's letter to Edmund, the delivery of which would insure reward. In this letter Goneril promises to kill her husband and marry Edmund. Edgar drags out Oswald's body by the legs and then returns and leads his father away.

The seventh scene of the fourth act takes place in a tent in the French camp. Lear is asleep on a bed. Enter Cordelia and Kent, still in disguise. Lear is awakened by the music, and, seeing Cordelia, does not believe

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Rh she is a living being, thinks she is an apparition, does not believe that he himself is alive. Cordelia assures him that she is his daughter, and begs him to bless her. He falls on his knees before her, begs her pardon, acknowledges that he is as old and foolish, says he is ready to take poison, which he thinks she has probably prepared for him, as he is persuaded she must hate him. ("For your sisters," he says, "have done me wrong: you have some cause, they have not.") Then he gradually comes to his senses and ceases to rave. His daughter suggests that he should take a walk. He consents and says: "You must bear with me. Pray you now forget and forgive: I am old and foolish." They depart. The gentleman and Kent, remaining on the scene, hold a conversation which explains to the spectator that Edmund is at the head of the troops and that a battle must soon begin between Lear's defenders and his enemies. So the fourth act closes.

In this fourth act, the scene between Lear and his daughter might have been touching if it had not been preceded in the course of the earlier acts by the tediously drawn out, monot

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Rh onous ravings of Lear, and if, moreover, this expression of his feelings constituted the last scene. But the scene is not the last.

In the fifth act, the former coldly pompous, artificial ravings of Lear go on again, destroying the impression which the previous scene might have produced.

The first scene of the fifth act at first represents Edmund and Regan; the latter is jealous of her sister and makes an offer. Then come Goneril, her husband, and some soldiers. The Duke of Albany, altho pitying Lear, regards it as his duty to fight with the French who have invaded his country, and so he prepares for battle.

Then Edgar enters, still disguised, and hands to the Duke of Albany the letter he had received from Goneril's dying steward, and tells him if he gains the victory to sound the trumpet, saying that he can produce a champion who will confirm the contents of the letter.

In the second scene, Edgar enters leading his father Gloucester, seats him by a tree, and goes away himself. The noise of battle is heard, Edgar runs back and says that the battle is lost and Lear and Cordelia are pris

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Rh oners. Gloucester again falls into despair. Edgar, still without disclosing himself to his father, counsels endurance, and Gloucester immediately agrees with him.

The third scene opens with a triumphal progress of the victor Edmund. Lear and Cordelia are prisoners. Lear, altho no longer insane, continues to utter the same senseless, inappropriate words, as, for example, that in prison he will sing with Cordelia, she will ask his blessing, and he will kneel down (this process of kneeling down is repeated three times) and will ask her forgiveness. And he further says that, while they are living in prison, they will wear out "packs and sects of great ones"; that he and Cordelia are sacrifices upon which the gods will throw incense, and that he that parts them "shall bring a brand from heaven and fire them like foxes; that he will not weep, and that the plague shall sooner devour his eyes, flesh and fell, than they shall make them weep."

Edmund orders Lear and his daughter to be led away to prison, and, having called the officer to do this, says he requires another duty and asks him whether he'll do it? The

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Rh captain says he can not draw a cart nor eat dried oats, but if it be men's work he can do it. Enter the Duke of Albany, Goneril, and Regan. The Duke of Albany wishes to champion Lear, but Edmund does not allow it. The daughters take part in the dialog and begin to abuse each other, being jealous of Edmund. Here everything becomes so confused that it is difficult to follow the action. The Duke of Albany wishes to arrest Edmund, and tells Regan that Edmund has long ago entered into guilty relations with his wife, and that, therefore, Regan must give up her claims on Edmund, and if she wishes to marry, should marry him, the Duke of Albany.

Having said this, the Duke of Albany calls Edmund, orders the trumpet to be sounded, saying that, if no one appears, he will fight him himself.

Here Regan, whom Goneril has evidently poisoned, falls deadly sick. Trumpets are sounded and Edgar enters with a vizor concealing his face, and, without giving his name, challenges Edmund. Edgar abuses Edmund; Edmund throws all the abuses back on Edgar's head. They fight and Edmund falls. Goneril

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Rh is in despair. The Duke of Albany shows Goneril her letter. Goneril departs.

The dying Edmund discovers that his opponent was his brother. Edgar raises his vizor and pronounces a moral lesson to the effect that, having begotten his illegitimate son Edmund, the father has paid for it with his eyesight. After this Edgar tells the Duke of Albany his adventures and how he has only just now, before entering on the recent combat, disclosed everything to his father, and the father could not bear it and died from emotion. Edmund is not yet dead, and wants to know all that has taken place.

Then Edgar relates that, while he was sitting over his father's body, a man came and closely embraced him, and, shouting as loudly as if he wished to burst heaven, threw himself on the body of Edgar's father, and told the most piteous tale about Lear and himself, and that while relating this the strings of life began to crack, but at this moment the trumpet sounded twice and Edgar left him "tranced"—and this was Kent.

Edgar has hardly finished this narrative when a gentleman rushes in with a bloody

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Rh knife, shouting "Help!" In answer to the question, "Who is killed?" the gentleman says that Goneril has been killed, having poisoned her sister, she has confessed it.

Enters Kent, and at this moment the corpses of Goneril and Regan are brought in. Edmund here says that the sisters evidently loved him, as one has poisoned the other for his sake, and then slain herself. At the same time he confesses that he had given orders to kill Lear and to hang Cordelia in prison, and pretend that she had taken her own life; but now he wishes to prevent these deeds, and having said this he dies, and is carried away.

After this enters Lear with the dead Cordelia in his arms, altho he is more than eighty years old and ill. Again begins Lear's awful ravings, at which one feels ashamed as at unsuccessful jokes. Lear demands that all should howl, and, alternately, believes that Cordelia is dead and that she is alive.

"Had I your tongues and eyes," he says "I'd use them so that heaven's vault should crack."

Then he says that he killed the slave who hanged Cordelia. Next he says that his eyes

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Rh see badly, but at the same time he recognizes Kent whom all along he had not recognized.

The Duke of Albany says that he will resign during the life of Lear and that he will reward Edgar and Kent and all who have been faithful to him. At this moment the news is brought that Edmund is dead, and Lear, continuing his ravings, begs that they will undo one of his buttons—the same request which he had made when roaming about the heath. He expresses his thanks for this, tells everyone to look at something, and thereupon dies.

In conclusion, the Duke of Albany, having survived the others, says:

"The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long."

All depart to the music of a dead march. Thus ends the fifth act and the drama.

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 Still, we had too much of these "absent friends," however comprehensive a body they may have been. Skittles overdid the business. We all think highly of our friends when they are absent,—more highly, as a rule, than we do of them when they are not absent. But we do not want to be always worrying about them. At a Christmas party, or a complimentary dinner to somebody, or at a shareholders' meeting, where you naturally feel good and sad, they are in place, but Skittles dragged them in at the most inappropriate seasons. Never shall I forget his proposing their health once at a wedding. It had been a jolly wedding. Everything had gone off splendidly, and everybody was in the best of spirits. The breakfast was over, and quite all the necessary toasts had been drunk. It was getting near the time for the bride and bridegroom to depart, and we were just thinking about collecting the rice and boots with which to finally bless them, when Skittles rose in his place, with a funereal expression on his countenance and a glass of wine in his hand.

I guessed what was coming in a moment. I tried to kick him under the table. I do not mean, of course, that I tried to kick him there altogether; though I am not at all sure whether, under the circumstances, I should not have been justified in going even to that length. What I mean is, that the attempt to kick him took place under the table.

It failed, however. True, I did kick somebody; but it evidently could not have been Skittles, for he remained


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Rh "The Tempest," "Cymbeline," "Troilus and Cressida."

But such free-minded individuals, not inoculated with Shakespeare-worship, are no longer to be found in our Christian society. Every man of our society and time, from the first period of his conscious life, has been inoculated with the idea that Shakespeare is a genius, a poet, and a dramatist, and that all his writings are the height of perfection. Yet, however hopeless it may seem, I will endeavor to demonstrate in the selected drama—"King Lear"—all those faults equally characteristic also of all the other tragedies and comedies of Shakespeare, on account of which he not only is not representing a model of dramatic art, but does not satisfy the most elementary demands of art recognized by all.

Dramatic art, according to the laws established by those very critics who extol Shakespeare, demands that the persons represented in the play should be, in consequence of actions proper to their characters, and owing to a natural course of events, placed in positions requiring them to struggle with the surrounding world to which they find themselves in oppo

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text: The Chinese Recorder and Missionary Journal/Volume 37/Number 12/Psalmody in Foochow


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Rh sition, and in this struggle should display their inherent qualities.

In "King Lear" the persons represented are indeed placed externally in opposition to the outward world, and they struggle with it. But their strife does not flow from the natural course of events nor from their own characters, but is quite arbitrarily established by the author, and therefore can not produce on the reader the illusion which represents the essential condition of art.

Lear has no necessity or motive for his abdication; also, having lived all his life with his daughters, has no reason to believe the words of the two elders and not the truthful statement of the youngest; yet upon this is built the whole tragedy of his position.

Similarly unnatural is the subordinate action: the relation of Gloucester to his sons. The positions of Gloucester and Edgar flow from the circumstance that Gloucester, just like Lear, immediately believes the coarsest untruth and does not even endeavor to inquire of his injured son whether what he is accused of be true, but at once curses and banishes him. The fact that Lear's relations with his daugh

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 unmoved. In all probability it was the bride, who was sitting next to him. I did not try again; and he started, uninterfered with, on his favourite theme.

"Friends," he commenced, his voice trembling with emotion, while a tear glistened in his eye, "before we part—some of us, perhaps, never to meet again on earth—before this guileless young couple, who have this day taken upon themselves the manifold trials and troubles of married life, quit the peaceful fold, as it were, to face the bitter griefs and disappointments of this weary life, there is one toast, hitherto undrunk, that I would wish to propose."

Here he wiped away the before-mentioned tear, and the people looked solemn, and endeavoured to crack nuts without making a noise.

"Friends," he went on, growing more and more impressive and dejected in his tones, "there are few of us here who have not at some time or other known what it is to lose, through death or travel, a dear beloved one—maybe two or three."

At this point, he stifled a sob; and the bridegroom's aunt, at the bottom of the table, whose eldest son had lately left the country at the expense of his relations, upon the clear understanding that he would never again return, began to cry quietly into the ice-pudding.

"The fair young maiden at my side," continued Skittles, clearing his throat, and laying his hand tenderly on the bride's shoulder, "as you are all aware,


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Rh ters are the same as those of Gloucester to his sons makes one feel yet more strongly that in both cases the relations are quite arbitrary, and do not flow from the characters nor the natural course of events. Equally unnatural, and obviously invented, is the fact that all through the tragedy Lear does not recognize his old courtier, Kent, and therefore the relations between Lear and Kent fail to excite the sympathy of the reader or spectator. The same, in a yet greater degree, holds true of the position of Edgar, who, unrecognized by any one, leads his blind father and persuades him that he has leapt off a cliff, when in reality Gloucester jumps on level ground.

These positions, into which the characters are placed quite arbitrarily, are so unnatural that the reader or spectator is unable not only to sympathize with their sufferings but even to be interested in what he reads or sees. This in the first place.

Secondly, in this, as in the other dramas of Shakespeare, all the characters live, think, speak, and act quite unconformably with the given time and place. The action of "King Lear" takes place 800 years B.C., and yet the

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Rh characters are placed in conditions possible only in the Middle Ages: participating in the drama are kings, dukes, armies, and illegitimate children, and gentlemen, courtiers, doctors, farmers, officers, soldiers, and knights with vizors, etc. It is possible that such anachronisms (with which Shakespeare's dramas abound) did not injure the possibility of illusion in the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth, but in our time it is no longer possible to follow with interest the development of events which one knows could not take place in the conditions which the author describes in detail. The artificiality of the positions, not flowing from the natural course of events, or from the nature of the characters, and their want of conformity with time and space, is further increased by those coarse embellishments which are continually added by Shakespeare and intended to appear particularly touching. The extraordinary storm during which King Lear roams about the heath, or the grass which for some reason he puts on his head—like Ophelia in "Hamlet"—or Edgar's attire, or the fool's speeches, or the appearance of the helmeted horseman, Edgar—

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Rh all these effects not only fail to enhance the impression, but produce an opposite effect. "Man sieht die Absicht und man wird verstimmt," as Goethe says. It often happens that even during these obviously intentional efforts after effect, as, for instance, the dragging out by the legs of half a dozen corpses, with which all Shakespeare's tragedies terminate, instead of feeling fear and pity, one is tempted rather to laugh.

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 was, a few years ago, bereft of her mother. Ladies and gentlemen, what can be more sad than the death of a mother?"

This, of course, had the effect of starting the bride off sobbing. The bridegroom, meaning well, but, naturally, under the circumstances, nervous and excited, sought to console her by murmuring that he felt sure it had all happened for the best, and that no one who had ever known the old lady would for a moment wish her back again; upon which he was indignantly informed by his newly-made wife that if he was so very pleased at her mother's death, it was a pity he had not told her so before, and she would never have married him—and he sank into thoughtful silence.

On my looking up, which I had hitherto carefully abstained from doing, my eyes unfortunately encountered those of a brother journalist who was sitting at the other side of the table, and we both burst out laughing, thereupon gaining a reputation for callousness that I do not suppose either of us has outlived to this day.

Skittles, the only human being at that once festive board that did not appear to be wishing he were anywhere else, droned on, with evident satisfaction:

"Friends," he said, "shall that dear mother be forgotten at this joyous gathering? Shall the lost mother, father, brother, sister, child, friend of any of us be forgotten? No, ladies and gentlemen! Let us, amid our merriment, still think of those lost, wandering souls: let us, amid the wine-cup and the blithesome jest, remember—'Absent Friends.

The toast was drunk to the accompaniment of suppressed sobs and low moans, and the wedding guests left the table to bathe their faces and calm their thoughts.


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NDER the National Defense Act of 1920, which establishes a Plan for Defense, the land forces of the Nation are collectively termed “The Army of the United States.” The successive Lines for Defense are as follows: Inasmuch as the two components of the First Line aggregate only about three hundred thousand men, while in a modern war we would need to mobilize two millions immediately on declaration of war, it is apparent that the Second Line is our main dependence for defense. The First Line must hold the enemy at the sea coast or on the frontier and win time for the mobilizing and training of the Second Line, and means must be found and employed to shorten this period to a minimum. The weakness of the First Line demands this.

The Organized Reserves are trained volunteers. They are the volunteers of old, only they wisely prefer to do their volunteering in advance of any emergency, so that they can benefit by receiving training and thus measurably fit themselves for their jobs. A football or other athletic team that is not well trained has a sorry chance to win; and an army that is not trained has no chance whatever against an equally strong army that is trained.

Home-owned knowledge of hygiene and of simple remedies doesn’t create illness, or induce surgical operations, but improves the general health and saves doctor bills; and a little common sense preparation against national dangers doesn’t make our people “militaristic,” or create war. As shown in the preceding chapter, war is the result of somebody’s unrighteousness.


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Rh We trained and commissioned about 200,000 officers in the World War. Twelve thousand are in the Regular Army. Some thousands are in the National Guard of the forty-eight States. Some seventy thousand have enrolled and accepted commissions in the Organized Reserves. The remaining hundred thousand includes those who died or were killed or incapacitated, and men who are now in civil life, without military affiliation.

The officers for the Reserve are obtained by examining and recommissioning officers of the World War who apply; and by the examination and appointment of applicants from among the enlisted men of that war and of men from civil life who meet the requirements. A source for obtaining trained officers lies in the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, the name collectively given to the students of educational institutions who acquire military training during their courses, under Regular Army officers regularly detailed as instructors. Another source lies in the graduates of the courses of training prescribed for civilians who take the required courses in the Civilian Military Training Camps, of which there is one established for a month each summer in each of the nine corps areas into which the whole of the United States is divided.

While the organization of the Reserves is actual and real so far as completed, it is contemplated to enroll and assign to units of this force only the full complement of officers and a percentage of the more essential non-commissioned officers. To fill up the ranks seems unnecessary, for the officers and the noncommissioned officers require the most training and are therefore more difficult to secure on the outbreak of war. With officers ready assigned and more or less completely trained, these can be immediately ordered to a designated mobilization camp and can there receive, equip, and train the men enlisted or drafted to complete the full complement of their units.

The force called for on paper for both lines is six field armies, the majority of which will be of the organized reserves. All of the divisions, brigades, regiments, battalions, companies, etc.; staff organizations; supply and transport, etc., are provided for, including the Corps and Army troops and G. H. Q. Reserves. Officers are everywhere assigned to appropri-