Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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ON A SCHOOL EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE THE school-editions of literary masterpieces are curiosities which we take for granted these days, but a few hundred years from now they may well be collectors ' items. Our descendants will handle the yellow pages of our school-edition Shakespeares with considerably more reverence than did their great-great-great-grandparents. My own third-hand copy of Macbeth will be an especially good example of this species of a not so rare animal. Mulling over its pages, I have often thought that, particularly in war-time, it is an almost criminal waste of paper to include the text of the play itself in editions of this sort. It was Shakespeare who originally wrote the play, I know, but the editor of the school-edition, assisted by the literary critics of four centuries and three countries, has rewritten and clarified it so well, that it is high time Shakespeare gave up, and bowed himself gracefully out of the whole affair. My edition of Macbeth , and I take it as being the average edition, is composed as follows: — A Foreword; An Appreciation of Shakespeare; paragraphs on the Historical Drama and Macbeth ; lengthy and complete sketches of the main characters; a chronological table; Source of the Plot; Notes — thirty-two pages full; an Appendix; Questions for Junior Students; Questions for Senior Students; General Questions; Examination Papers; Essay Subjects; and Passages for Memorization. As an afterthought, the text of the play is inserted, in case anyone should be interested, and the whole conglomeration is labelled Macbeth . At some future date people will have forgotten which is by Shakespeare, and which is not, and instead of Macbeth , the Notes and Questions for Senior Students will be dramatized on the stage. There is an additional feature, however, to school-editions, and this one cannot be claimed by any editor. It is a mark that is put upon a book only after it has been pored over and thumbed through thoroughly; it gives to a book half its value, and is a good standard by which to judge its worth or worthlessness. This is the time-honoured doodling. The first doodler was the monk in his cell, and out of his doodling grew an art. I doubt if there is much art in present-day doodling, but there is a great deal of self-expression. My edition of Macbeth has passed through the hands of two people who have left upon it their characters. I have never met either of them, but I am intimately acquainted with both. The first possessor was a dominating sort of person. She writes in a firm, round hand and interprets Macbeth in a way which might startle even him. Once this person got hold of an idea, I don ' t think she would ever let go, even in the face of all the outraged literary dictators who have flourished since the world began. She doodles copiously and very much off the point. It is evident that she was not the least impressed with either the poetry of Shakespeare, or the tragedy of Macbeth. Under Macbeth ' s well-known soliloquy on sleep, she has drawn the face of a sleeping man, whose snores, expressed by the letter Z , flow out of his mouth and form a complete frame around the passage. She has further shown her indiff ' erence to poor Macbeth ' s misfortunes, by adorning every picture of him with an inky coiffure, taste- fully arranged in a pompadour, which looks odd, not to say out of place, in conjunction with his bushy beard. [19]

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CHURCH BFXLS Like a theme of some tiauntitif;; melody, That fades only to liave its memories Linger and repeat themselves over and over In that little corner of a wearied mind, Singing its hopes and reviving the spirit. Lifting the head of one howed for life Under the weight and cares of the world; So to the soul is the ringing of church hells Over the hill, on a clear wintry night. Elizabeth Brow, Form VI, Ross House. PREFECTS (with apologies to Lewis Carroll) Aren ' t you happy, dear Prefect? the young girl said, For we are sublimely gay; We run in the corridor, talk on the stairs. Why don ' t you join us in play? In my youth , the old Prefect replied to the girl, I was just as unruly as you. But now that I ' m old and be-girdled as well, What do you think I can do? You are wise , said the girl with the greatest of awe, And also imposing to see. But why do you ruin yourself in pursuit Of children who shout in their glee? In my youth , said the sage with a frightful grimace, I tried the very same thing. But when you ' re a Prefect and very ' high-hat ' . To the wind all those follies you fling . Do you think it is easy , the young girl said, To rise to such a great height? I ' d lief be a Prefect when I reach the Sixth. What hope if I follow your light? In my youth , said the wise one, with serious face, I invariably aimed at the top. If you ' re good in the Sixth, an example to all. There ' s no telling where you will stop. Denys Clakke, Form VT, Fairley House. [lai

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The second owner of my Macbetli is completely different. She writes in a slanting spidery hand and is very neat. Her remarks on the text are very good, and quite in accord with the voluminous instructions which enf ulf the play on either side. Her doodles show that she has appreciated the drama, and particularly that she feels keenly the terrible tragedy of Macbeth himself. She has attempted to erase Macbeth ' s hair-do ' s, but, not being successful, she has counter-balanced the effect by giving him hollow cheeks, thick eyebrows, and wild staring eyes. She has shown understanding of Lady Macbeth ' s masculine character by giving her a beard; she has also done drawings of desolate heaths, blasted trees, and ruined castles. I would not part with my old school-copy of Macbeth for all the silk-bound, India paper, engraved editions in the world, and when I die, I shall bequeath it to the Museum of Curiosities and Fine Arts. , rr- rr t. tt Joan Thackray, form Vl, Ross House. THE CASTLE It stood alone, dejected, tall and dark; For many years it had remained that way; The walls that stood so far above the trees Had eyes that watched the time pass day by day. Before, within the ramparts, bugle calls Awakened sleeping Normans to the dawn. The clash of steel against the flagstones rung. The cry of hunters, and the sound of horn. Here the knights had rested for their duels. And dukes had feasted in the banquet hall. And antlers hung above the guarded doors; But as comes night, so ancient homes downfall. No more are splendid banquets held within. No drawbridge rises and no knights pass by; The days of Norman conquest are long past But still the castle stretches to the sky. Christine Maitland, Form IIIb, Cumming House. THE ENCHANTED CUP PROLOGUE GWAINDAI), Gwandad! a small curly-!ieaded boy gently shook his grandfather, who was sitting shim|)ed over on a settle by the fire. Hull, oh, he grunted and straightened up, lifting the little boy on his knee as he did so. [20]