Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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]

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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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Oh, Gwandad, you has to guess what Morag has. He laughed and pointed to a little girl standing in front of them. Guess! cried the wee boy impatiently. Mm, an apple? No, laughed Morag. Some crumpets? Wrong . It ' s a — the small boy tried to be helpful. Keep quiet! ordered his sister. It begins with C. The chubby boy whispered into his grandfather ' s ear. Would it be — er — a cup? Oh, Rob, you told! Glaring at her little brother, she brought forth a green glass cup, broken in two. Smiling at her grandfather, she said, See? Mmm, where did you find this? In a drawer of an old chest in the attic. One bit ' s mine, piped up Rob. There are words on it. What do they say? Morag pointed to the rim of the cup, It ' s Latin, muttered her grandfather. Why do you look so strange? What ' s the matter? questioned Morag. Go, go . The old man motioned toward their nurse who had just entered the room and their loud protests faded as they disappeared down the hall. The old man looked off into the distance as if he were thinking of something long ago and far away. -X- It was a rainy night and the Lightning coach had been due at the Thistle and Sword , Kilsyth, Sterling, for over an hour. Inside the small inn a fire burned cheerfully in the large open fireplace, sending a warm orange glow over the room. Through an open door could be seen a fat bald-headed man, dressed in brown homespun breeches, and a well-worn green velvet waistcoat; he was busying himself at a table, laid for two. He came out into the main room and looked around. Margot! Margot! he called. A buxom girl in her late ' teens opened the door. Her frilled cap hung limply around her warm full face. Tell Coll tae bring oop twa bottles o ' wine. They ' re in the left hand corner of the cellar , he added as his daughter let the door swing back. Deary me! he shook his head and wiped his bald spot with a hand- kerchief. Are they no ' here yet? queried Margot from the door. I ' m havin ' an awfu ' hard time keeping the dinner hot . Ye ' ll just hae ' tae do the best ye can , answered her father as he opened the front door and peered into the wet blackness, but he shut it quickly for the damp air rushed in. Tut, ah hop naething ' s wrong . Hoots! Ah hear the beat o ' horses ' hooves. He rushed to the door, and threw it open. Hey there, ho! Coll, the horses! and a boy hurried out from a side door as the coach drew up before the door and two weary travellers stvimbled into the inn. Well, well, ye ' re here at last. Welcome to the ' Thistle and Sword ' , Mr. Napier. The host bowed and rubbed his hands. [21]