the shelter he scorns for his own bare head; who learns to feel and to pray for the miserable and houseless poor, to discern the falseness of flattery and the brutality of authority, and to pierce below the differences of rank and raiment to the common humanity beneath; whose sight is so purged by scalding tears that it sees at last how power and place and all things in the world are vanity except love; who tastes in his last hours the extremes both of love’s rapture and of its agony, but could never, if he lived on or lived again, care a jot for aught beside—­there is no figure, surely, in the world of poetry at once so grand, so pathetic, and so beautiful as his.  Well, but Lear owes the whole of this to those sufferings which made us doubt whether life were not simply evil, and men like the flies which wanton boys torture for their sport.  Should we not be at least as near the truth if we called this poem The Redemption of King Lear, and declared that the business of ‘the gods’ with him was neither to torment him, nor to teach him a ‘noble anger,’ but to lead him to attain through apparently hopeless failure the very end and aim of life?  One can believe that Shakespeare had been tempted at times to feel misanthropy and despair, but it is quite impossible that he can have been mastered by such feelings at the time when he produced this conception.

To dwell on the stages of this process of purification (the word is Professor Dowden’s) is impossible here; and there are scenes, such as that of the meeting of Lear and Cordelia, which it seems almost a profanity to touch.[159] But I will refer to two scenes which may remind us more in detail of some of the points just mentioned.  The third and fourth scenes of Act III. present one of those contrasts which speak as eloquently even as Shakespeare’s words, and which were made possible in his theatre by the absence of scenery and the consequent absence of intervals between the scenes.  First, in a scene of twenty-three lines, mostly in prose, Gloster is shown, telling his son Edmund how Goneril and Regan have forbidden him on pain of death to succour the houseless King; how a secret letter has reached him, announcing the arrival of a French force; and how, whatever the consequences may be, he is determined to relieve his old master.  Edmund, left alone, soliloquises in words which seem to freeze one’s blood: 

     This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke
     Instantly know; and of that letter too: 
     This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me
     That which my father loses; no less than all: 
     The younger rises when the old doth fall.

He goes out; and the next moment, as the fourth scene opens, we find ourselves in the icy storm with Lear, Kent and the Fool, and yet in the inmost shrine of love.  I am not speaking of the devotion of the others to Lear, but of Lear himself.  He had consented, merely for the Fool’s sake, to seek shelter in the hovel: