rienced physicians and trained attendants. It is not the object of the institution merely to give temporary relief, but to remove the cause of sickness, and thus restore patients to perfect and permanent health.

The sanitarium management has announced that it has recently installed a Sanitarium Health-Food Plant for the manufacture of a full line of pure natural foods, such as Graham, Whole Wheat and Oatmeal Crackers; Granose, Granola and Caramel-Cereal, with Diabetic and Infant Foods, and hopes to supply the people of Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, Alaska, and, in fact, all the Northwestern territory, with perfectly fresh, crisp, and toothsome health foods. The same formulae and principles are used in their manufacture as are employed by the Battle Creek Sanitarium Health Food Company. These foods have been developed through years of hard labor and experiment.

One item which certainly is noteworthy is that the Portland Sanitarium is not a moneymaking concern. The founders are men and women of philanthropic motives, whose sole object is to uplift humanity, and to assist people to understand and obey all the laws, of health. Under no circumstances does any one connected with the institution receive one cent of dividend; all the earnings of the institution are used for internal improvements, and for helping and treating the worthy sick poor. We most heartily recommend the sanitarium to the readers of our magazine. Write them for further information if you or any of your friends are sick.

"The strongest illusion is that which we call reality."

To C. C. C.

She waits by the golden gate for me,
And beyond is the sky and the boundless sea-
The changing, abiding, deep ocean of love,
With the sky of hope as the arch above.

I come, dear one, but the way is long,
And my only scrip is the lover's song
That springs in my heart and sings of thee
As I follow the path to the open sea.

I cross the mountains; I cross the plain;
And when I come to the hills again
I know that beyond I shall see the main,
And there, by the golden gate, at last
I shall find thee waiting, the journey past;
So I come, dear heart, but the way is long,
And the world heeds not my lover's song.

And the smile oft fades from the fickle sky,
And the birds to my voice give no reply;
But I struggle on to the sea of love,
With the sky of hope as the arch above;
I struggle on to the golden gate

For the west wind whispers, "I wait, I wait."
W. W. W.

Vol. III.

F

OR near three hundred years it has

been read and studied, acted and discussed, and yet is now and forever new, is today as interesting, as irresistible in charm, as baffling and incomprehensible of meaning as when its immortal author first gave it to the Anglo-Saxon world.

Sublime in conception, masterly in execution, it is Shakespeare's mysteryplay. In it he sounds all depths of mind and emotion, compasses the downward reach of mortality, and touches fingertips with stars.

This

There have been critics (I forbear to name them here) who have worried unnecessarily over the apparent want of unity, who have grown old trying to reconcile the seeming incongruities of the play, trivial faults that cease to exist when you cease to look for them. masterpiece of the world's great master of truth and poetry must be regarded from a comprehensive point of view. If you so regard it, you will find the unities not sacrificed but made subservient to the execution of a conception that soars beyond the reach of rules. All attempts to confine it to certain limits of time, place and action are vain. Hamlet is not to be gauged by common standards.

One critic says of the Danish prince, and truly, I think: "Hamlet is a sort of universal man; in him every individual sees on some side a picture of himself; each one bears away what he comprehends, and often thinks it is all."

And again: "Everybody reads into Hamlet his own life experience and cul

No. 4.

ture." In this, maybe, lies the secret of the unfailing charm that draws and holds in close, unconscious sympathy the world of thinking, feeling, struggling humanity, a poor, blind passion-cradled world, toiling in the dark, yet ever groping slowly, surely, toward the light.

And Hamlet-is he then a type of many-sided human nature? If we could but read deeper! The written word, though it is full of meaning, and reveals far intellectual reaches to him who leans to look and listen, gives hint of other and yet unsailed soundless seas of thought— glimpses of unscaled heights in man's moral and spiritual nature. “A sort of universal man," this mystical, melancholy prince upon whose every utterance we hang breathless, who thrills us with the truth he voices, and yet who makes us feel that all we see and hear is as a stargleam through the dusk that hides a world of constellations; who leaves us unsatisfied, hungering to know what is in that pregnant mind which words, mere words, cannot convey.

Act I, scene 2, in the state chamber at Elisnore, where the king and queen, Laertes and the wordy Polonious, are introduced, Hamlet's entrance marks the real beginning of the play. Hamlet is the play. From the first he is distinguished by an air of majestic sadness, of unspeakable spiritual anguish. Like a mantle it envelops him, and he moves, a sombre, sentient shadow athwart the glare and splendor of that riotous, wicked court, the central figure in its hollow pageantry, but not of it.

An unnatural calm characterizes his demeanor toward the king, and there is evident a forced gentleness in his replies to the reproachful questioning of the royal couple, through which breaks the passion of despairing grief when the queen, reproving him for so persistently mourning the loss of his father, reminds him that death is common to mortals, and asks, with a touch of impatience:

"Why seems it so particular to thee?" "Seems, madame! Nay, it is; I know not seems."

But this outburst is brief. Though he has that within which indeed "passeth show," he controls his emotion, outwardly, at least, and listens with downcast. eyes and pale, immovable countenance to the long and heartless harangue of the king on the folly of indulging in this "unmanly grief, this unprevailing woe," and his hypocritical assurances of friendly interest and affection.

With a grace and a patience ineffably touching he yields to his mother's prayer, "Stay with us; go not to Wittenberg. Torn by conflicting emotions, harassed by doubts and fears and oppressed with the loss of his kingly and virtuous parent, he forgets not that this woman, though she has by her unseemly haste, in her unholy union with her brother-inlaw, debased herself and outraged his father's memory, is still his mother. To her as his mother, he accords due obedience and respect. To his finely keye sensibilities, the very presence and knowledge of the relationship must have meant torture, but she is his mother, and in all seeming gentleness he yields. And the king, incapable of understanding a nature like Hamlet's, or comprehending the true cause and meaning of the act, mistakes his princely submission for tameness of spirit, and is pleased to believe that he may also be induced to cast his "nighted colour off." For Hamlet's mourning garb and melancholy air must have been a constant reproach to him, reminders of the crime he wished to forget.

"Why it is a loving and a fair reply,
* * * * * * Madam, come;
This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet
Sits smiling to my heart."

And so he will with the queen away

to fitly evidence his delight with noise of cannon, "respeaking earthly thunder."

When Hamlet is alone, his calmness falls from him like a cloak cast back from the shoulders, and he gives speech and license to his troubled heart:

"O that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!

Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O
God!

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!"

But when Horatio and Marcelles enter with Bernardo, he recovers his composure sufficiently to greet his old friends kindly, and to refute Horatio's self-disparagement. The unaccustomed sight of the face of one whom he can trust, of one true friend in the corrupt and treacherous court of Denmark, moves him deeply. He makes no effort to conceal from Horatio the shame and humiliation

which he suffers from his mother's insult to the memory of the dead king. "Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Ere ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father! Methinks I see my father!"

And Horatio, his mind full of the apparition which he had beheld the night before, is startled into believing for the moment that Hamlet also sees that ghostly visitant. Being assured that it is only a mental vision, he leads up to the subject which engrosses his thoughts, and, at Hamlet's solicitation, gives an account of the fearful sight, witnessed in company with Bernardo and Marcelles "in the dead vast and middle of the night." And Hamlet, easily enough convinced that it is his father's spirit they have seen, announces without hesitation his instant resolve to watch with them and speak to it, "though hell itself should gape," and bid him hold his peace.

It seems not to impress him as strange or unnatural that his father's ghost should walk in arms. He surmises that "all is not well," and longs for the coming of night that he may see and question. Certain suspicions, premonitions of the truth, are forcing themselves up from the depths of his tumultuous and grief-tortured soul.

Then follows the weird scene upon the platform of the castle. The star-lit