tional by the United States Supreme Court. The second Federal law, known as the Child Labor Tax Act, passed in 1919 and placing a tax upon the net profits of establishments violating certain child labor provisions, met the same fate. Congress has now submitted to the several states a proposal which, if ratified by the required number, will become an amendment to the Constitution and will enable the Federal Government to regulate child labor. Directly the proposal involves a delegation of power to the Federal Government which the strict constructionist is reluctant to grant. Indirectly, however, it will touch the life of every boy and girl in the nation under eighteen years of age whose interests are not properly protected by state child labor laws. The strict constructionist contends that if such a proposal is ratified as an amendment to the constitution it will be a surrender of valuable rights on the part of the states; and so it will be by states which construe the exploitation of child labor by the industrial interests as a right reserved to the states. There seems to be little reason for insisting upon states' rights in a case in which such a policy would interfere with nearly every purpose enumerated in the Preamble to the Constitution. In such a case the theory of states' rights becomes a dead issue. It is to be hoped that in the present instance the strict constructionist can be induced to accept the broader views of the humanitarian and the broad constructionist to such an extent as to enable the Federal Government to cooperate with the states in safeguarding the vital interests of the young people of the land.

As Shakespeare Did Not Say

C. R. ROUNDS, BATTIN HIGH SCHOOL, ELIZABETH, N. J.

❖LL collections of quotations put Shakespeare far

in the lead among secular writers in the matter

A of popularity so far as quotable epigrams are

concerned. Usually when we resort to quotation, and back up our borrowing with the name of the author, we wish to carry the implication that he is some sort of acknowledged-if not avowed-authority in the premises. "As Shakespeare says" and we have clinched our argument, for who can stand against the magic of that name? Doubtless, if Shakespeare could hear all the causes that his name is called upon to endorse and honor, he would with surprise exclaim, "I cry you mercy, Sir! When did I ever say that?" As a matter of fact, few authors have been able to write so much, and at the same time commit themselves so little to the support of any cause, any belief, any philosophy of life, as did Shakespeare.

Let us examine a few of the most frequently quoted passages. "The quality of mercy is not strained": that surely is Shakespeare's doctrine, is it not? Well, after Portia had uttered it, and the Christian Duke had the Jew in his power, how much mercy did he show? He ordered that one half of his property be given to Antonio, the other half to be confiscated to the state, "Which humbleness may drive into a fine." The precise disposition of his funds is not made clear, except that it is definitely stipulated that "he do record a gift, of all he dies possessed," to his detested son-in-law and his faithless daughter. Not even his religion is left him. Does Shakespeare represent Portia as being sincere in her utterance of those great lines on mercy? What shall we say, of his "teaching" on this subject?

Critics and students of the theatre, when recounting the failure of some great actor with a poor vehicle, or the success of a mediocre performer with a good production, wag their heads and say with solemnity, "The play's the thing. Old Bill certainly knew what he was talking about!" They forget that when Hamlet uttered those words, he was merely saying that having failed thus far to fasten any sure evidence of guilt upon the suspected King, he would put him to the test in a carefully worded scene in the play, and this play would be "the thing" that would "catch the conscience of the King." He had no thought, and Shakespeare had no notion of voicing a thought through his character, on the relative importance of play, scenery, actors, stage settings, or anything of the kind.

Some time ago in a mid-western state, the Department of Education of the Commonwealth in its Annual Bulletin on Arbor and Bird Day celebration, used this sentiment on the

cover:

"Let me be no assistant for a state,

But keep a farm and carters.

Shakespeare."

Now of course Polonius was saying that if he was so foolish as to be wrong in his diagnosis of Hamlet's difficulty, he would be willing to be penalized by being demoted from his position as the King's counselor and subjected to the degradation of entering upon the lowly occupation of farming. This was hardly an endorsement of the back-to-the-farm movement. So with "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." We usually think of that as meaning that all you need is a little nature, and you realize your unity and kinship with all about you; but let us examine the circumstances under which those words were uttered. Ulysses is trying (Troilus and Crissida, III, iii, 144-189) to persuade Achilles to fight against the Trojans and thus gain new glory and fame. He urges upon Achilles the principle that men's memories are

short; that the world forgets past exploits and demands present feats.

"O, let not virtue seek

Remuneration for the thing it was;

For beauty, wit,

High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service,
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all

To envious and calumniating time.

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise newborn gauds. The present eye praises the present object." Shakespeare, using nature to mean human nature—a use common even through the seventeenth century—is merely anticipating the sentiment of the popular refrain:

"It isn't what you did that counts;

It's what you are today."

But note that it is Ulysses (not Shakespeare) who utters the sentiment, and we have no guarantee that he was sincere. He was using arguments that he thought would convince the sulky, applause-loving Achilles.

Indeed, one principle is fairly clear: Shakespeare makes evident no intention of giving forth any specific preachment or dictum for his readers or hearers. He was no propagandist. He had no designs on us. Maxims that are quotable and tenable as guides or hints on conduct are much more scarce in Shakespeare than is commonly supposed, and "advice," when it does come, is frequently assigned, in his plays, to the part of some minor or some unlovely character, and is very likely to be followed by a quip or a turn which discounts it and ties strings to it; or else, like Iago's admonition to Roderigo "Put money in thy purse"-it is given with ulterior and unworthy motive. For instance, the most frequently quoted single bit of "advice" is Polonius's counsel to Laertes, but think how unlovely and unworthy a character Polonius is—a poor, doddering, loquacious, fawning, two-faced hanger

on; yet these very sensible words-platitudinous, to be sure, but still sensible-are assigned to him to say. Does Shakespeare mean that advice comes mainly from men like him?

Iago gives us Shakespeare's most complete expression, at any rate his most extended one, on womanly graces, yet at the close, after his words "She was a wight, if ever such a wight were," when Desdemona asks in breathless suspense "To do what?" Iago seems to mark the whole passage with the brand of cynicism by sneering: "To suckle fools and chronicle small beer."

Does it not appear sometimes that the dramatist is even afraid that he may be taken seriously, or that some one may make the terrible error of thinking he is being preached to? Does it not appear that Shakespeare wishes to serve notice that it would embarrass him were any one to take him as a guide? May we say, with safety, of any position, any attitude toward life, "This is the one Shakespeare would have had us take," or "This is the way Shakespeare would have felt about it in our place?"

Most authors betray themselves willy-nilly. There comes a passage in their discourse, a point somewhere in the windings of their speech, an area of sensitiveness, a place where the quick is near the surface in their probings; and at this point or this area an edge comes into their words, a vehemence, a resentment, an enthusiasm, and we say: "Ah ha! now he is talking right where he lives; he is enthusiastic about that; or he is peevish about this; or, now he is really saying what's on his mind." Are there any of these passages in Shakespeare in which he lets go, in which the edge comes into his voice, or the real enthusiasm of his spirit finds expression?

In answering this question, no two people would of course wholly agree, but perhaps one may venture to suggest a few such passages. In minor matters, no doubt he had his fun taking his little flings at those who needed to be brought down, or paying compliments to the reigning sovereign or to others who met his favor. There can be little doubt, also, that in his passage in Hamlet, II, ii, relative to the rise of