II.

KING LEAR.

'Here Love the slain with Love the slayer lies;
Deep drowned are both in the same sunless pool.
Up from its depths that mirror thundering skies
Bubbles the wan mirth of the mirthless Fool.'

W. W.

[This play was probably written about the year 1604, and belongs to Shakspere's Third Period. The story is adopted from Holinshed, but with great changes; in the original story the enemies of Lear are conquered, and the old king is restored to his throne.]

THE

HE play of King Lear has been compared to a Gothic cathedral, with gloomy crypts and ascending spires, with mysterious depths of roof and pillared aisles in dim perspective, with glowing pictures of martyred saints and monstrous gargoyles of frightful demons. This play is, indeed, a strange, vast, wonderful creation, difficult for the mind to grasp in its complete uniqueness, bewildering our imagination by its infinite variety of aspect and intricacy of detail. King Lear is one of the greatest creations of human intellect, surpassing, in primitive strength and strenuous vitality, the finest works of art which have ever been built in stone, carved in marble, or painted on canvas. Here Shakspere explores human nature, strips it bare of its accidents, exposes its innermost workings, reveals the secret things of wickedness and the exhaustless resources of goodness.

I. THE TRIAL OF LOVE.

COMPARING the whole play to a Gothic cathedral, we may say that it receives its consecration from the shrine of one beautiful saint. Whenever we recall these tumultuous scenes of guilt and madness, there always rises the calm vision of Cordelia, the genius of truth and love, whose cruel banishment begins the story, and whose sacrificial death completes and crowns the tragedy. At the opening of the play, Lear is an old man of eighty years, with deep affection, powerful intellect and strong self-will. As far as we can gather, he has been a worthy monarch; certainly he has won to himself the love and loyalty of the best and purest who surround his throne. There must have been fine qualities in this king who secured not only the devotion of his daughter Cordelia, but also the stoical loyalty of Kent and the unquestioning faithfulness of the Fool. But many years of absolute power have worked their influence into his character. Always passionate, wayward and domineering, in his old age he becomes jealous, exacting and capricious. Out of this deterioration of character the currents of tragic events arise. He has no son on whom his kingship can devolve, and he wishes to see the country settled under a new government before his death. So he devises a scheme by which his three daughters and their husbands shall divide the kingdom. In his overbearing egoism, Lear gloats over the thought of how he will be praised for his unbounded generosity; and he looks forward to spending his last days as an honoured guest in his daughters' homes, environed by their filial care and love. Without the burdens of office he will still hold the title, dignity and reverence of a king. This partition of his kingdom is not the symptom of a better spirit of renunciation, but rather an exaggeration of supreme self-will. He glories in his own

power to bestow such immense benefits; he flatters himself with the thought of the exuberant gratitude which must crown him for such acts of grace. This political scheme is finally drawn out; but its enactment must be accompanied by fussy, formal verbosity, which shall feed the insatiable egoism of the headstrong king. He makes his three daughters appear before him at court, and tells all that he intends to do. And then, in a sudden freak of capricious temper, he tries to bribe them to confess how much they love their father; and he gives them a hint that the size of their possessions will be measured by the bigness of their words.

These are his words :

Tell me, my daughters,—

Since now we will divest us, both of rule,

Interest of territory, cares of state,—

Which of you shall we say doth love us most ?

That we our largest bounty may extend

Where nature doth with merit challenge.

At the moment, this may, perhaps, have been done more in jest than in earnest, to enliven a solemn act of diplomacy by a sort of household conference. But, no doubt, the real secret of it all was the old man's jealousy, his greediness of praise, his delight to have his ears tickled by outward protestations of loyalty. With his two eldest daughters he succeeds: he gets exactly what he asks. In words of fulsome flattery, Goneril and Regan protest their entire devotion to the king. And they have their reward;' both of them are given their dowers of shares in the kingdom, to remain an inheritance to their children after them.

Meanwhile, the youngest daughter stands in grieved astonishment, looks and listens. Before Cordelia speaks

a word, Shakspere lets us hear her think. Twice we are let into her secret feelings, before an open word escapes her lips; as though the poet would say to us, at the very beginning: This dear maiden thinks and feels more than she can ever express in words; her brave heart is stored with emotions, which wait for deeds to unfold their hidden strength. Shakspere lets us hear her think before she speaks, in order that we may not too harshly judge the abruptness of her answer to her father's demand. As Goneral pours out her shallow protestations, Cordelia shrinks in instinctive repulsion, and thinks to herself :—

What shall Cordelia do? love and be silent.

And when Regan tries to overtop her sister's pile of flatteries, she thinks again :—

Then poor Cordelia!

And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love's

More richer than my tongue.

This vain, headstrong man is delighted with the success of his device; but the best, he thinks, is yet to come. His favourite daughter has yet to speak, and he thinks her soft and gentle words will be more welcome than the verbose rhetoric of her sisters. Later on in the play he says of Cordelia :

Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.

But he little knows the purity of Cordelia's heart, or he would never have profaned it by offering a vulgar bribe. The King of France and the Duke of Burgundy are both at court suing for her hand; and turning to her with a smile, he asks :

Now, our joy,

Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interess'd; what can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

And he listens to catch the sweetest sounds to which he can attend, the utterance of his dearest daughter's love. He asks her what she can say to draw from him the largest gift, and she answers :—

Nothing, my lord.

Instantly the father starts in amazement, and a thrill of wonder passes through the court. That single word from the gentle maiden's lips in a moment precipitates a freakish jest into deadly earnest.

Nothing!

cries the astonished king.

Nothing,

firmly replies Cordelia. The father's brow is clouded; he clutches the arms of his throne to repress his growing passion; he leans forward, and gasps out:—

Nothing will come of nothing; speak again.

Poor Cordelia is grieved to disobey her dear father, or seem indifferent to his love; but the thing demanded is impossible; she simply CANNOT violate the most sacred sanctions of her nature. She has been struck dumb by the loathsome sycophancy of her sisters; and she feels as though she would choke if she dared to speak words of love in an atmosphere poisoned by bribery, flattery and deceit.

I