pression of impending tragedy. In Scene IV, Act II, of Julius Caesar she says, to her servant boy Lucius: Lucius: Portia: Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, I hear none, madam. Prithee, listen well: I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, Lucius: Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. This was shortly before Caesar arrived at the capitol. The fray soon afterward became a reality. Portia knows nothing whatever of the conspirators' plans; yet she intuitively gets exactly the general situation even to the part that "Brutus hath a suit that Caesar will not grant." In the same scene she says: I must go in. Ay me! how weak a thing CONCLUSION In all the occultism in the Shakespeare plays one fact stands out clear and unquestionable; it is always presented as the truth. The dreams, visions and prophecies are never the fantastic products of disordered brains, but always they forecast the future faithfully. It is nowhere intimated that all dreams are of that kind, but that there is a type of dream with that possibility is repeatedly set forth. In every particular case all the varied occultism is treated with dignity and sincerity. One thing that seems to have puzzled the critics of these matchless plays is their consistency. Not crediting the invisible world as a fact in nature they have marveled that the dramatist unites the visible and the invisible in so complete and consistent a whole. One puzzled writer exclaims, "by making what is absolutely unnatural thoroughly natural and consistent he has accomplished the impossible!" Such consistency can be expressed only by one who deals with the truth. If a clever witness in court has, for personal reasons, concocted a story that is false, the most ordinary lawyer will be able to expose his untruthfulness, point out his contradictions and break down his testimony; but if the stupidest of witnesses is telling the truth, and basing his narrative on facts, all the cross-questioning, directed by the highest skill, can never shake his testimony. Consistency is merely loyalty to the truth, and when the critics say that by making what is absolutely unnatural thoroughly natural and consistent the great author has accomplished the impossible, they have given the highest possible testimony in support of the hypothesis that he was not dealing with imagination at all but (with a great region of nature that is unknown to physical senses. This is a simple and most reasonable explanation of the thing that puzzles them. Hazlett contents himself by calling it genius and says that "there can be little doubt that Shakespeare was the most universal genius that ever lived"; and again he remarks that he had "the same insight into the world of imagination that he had into the world of reality." But it is no explanation of a mystery to say that genius produced it. It is an explanation to show that it ceases to be a mystery when viewed in the light of the scientific facts and philosophical principles that es tablish the existence of a superphysical world Linhabited by various orders of beings. The fact that in this most dignified literature, which is almost universally admitted to show profound wisdom and a marvelous comprehension of human nature, we have corroboration of the researches of both psychical and physical scientists is assuredly one that may not be lightly dismissed. It is amusing to see how different people are struck with the poet's exact technical knowledge on subjects with which they happen to be familiar and how they try to account for it, ignoring the fact that he is quite as much at home with all the other subjects. Lord Mulgrave, who is mentioned as a distinguished naval officer, says that the first scene in The Tempest "is a very striking instance of Shakespeare's knowledge in a professional science, the most difficult to obtain without the help of experience. He must have acquired it by conversation with some of the most skillful seamen of that time.” If the poet-dramatist acquired his marvelous fund of information by consulting experts on each subject it would puzzle the critics more to understand how he had time for anything else than to satisfactorily account for his genius. But if we accept the most probable explanation -that he was an occultist to whom cause and effect in the two worlds lay open-the solution of all the puzzles in his literary work becomes simple. Those who cannot see that the occultism which permeates such of the Shakespeare plays as it naturally belongs to, is there because it is as legitimate a part of them as trees and grass are part of a landscape, have, so far as I know, offered no other explanation than that "the great dramatist was making a concession to the superstition of his times." Such an explanation is wholly inadequate for a number of reasons. In the first place if it were merely a concession to the ignorant there would be no reason for it being the notable thing it is in some of the plays. It would be incidental, not vital. We would expect it to be in the form of allusions here and there, as a politician throws out to his audience complimentary and pleasing remarks that have no bearing on his arguments and no part in his purpose. But why should there be a "concession" at all? Why was it necessary? Why was it more necessary in the Shakespeare plays than in any others of that age? Why didn't Jonson and other successful dramatists of the same age |