Government Systems Depicted in Watership Down and the Author’s Opinion of Them

This is exclusively for those who have read Watership Down, by Richard Adams.

Of each government system depicted in Watership Down, Richard Adams favors democracy, as can be drawn from his text. Socialism and totalitarianism are also shown in the novel, each having their ultimate failures, as will be seen.
Socialism, in all, means that all are equal: all share the same property, the same food, work together in hopes of a greater good. But the advancement of actual life in a socialist government, as seen in the Warren of the Snares in Watership Down, that of the buck Cowslip, is actually very limited. Yes, each of the rabbits in the warren were happy with their lives, gorging themselves on lettuces and carrots each day, sharing stories, playing rabbit games, and the like. But their lives were not natural, something that in Adams’ opinion is necessitous to successful government development; they allowed a man to hunt elil for them, instead of fleeing or hiding; their food was grown and harvested for them, instead of being found by themselves; and all the while each knew of the impending danger – the man only wanted plump rabbits to himself consume, or perhaps stuff for hangings, or ever to take its fur; they had deviated from the natural order, and thus their government system was a failure. They lacked a leader, who would have displayed a bit of common sense; for each acting as a whole were content with their pampered life, but an elected leader, thinking for the betterment of the whole, would have to progress away from that which hindered progression – the snare; he would have kept the natural order. Thus, in Adams’ opinion, the archetypical socialist government is a joyous one, and a fair one, but not in the natural order of things, and thus, ultimately, a failure.
Efrafa is by far the most powerful of the warrens in the story. It’s got Long Patrols, organized divisions of rabbits who silflay at set times, an Owsla, of course, a council of rabbits who decide the best for each of the other rabbits in the warren, and even an Owslafa – a Council Police. All of this is headed by a rabbit called General Woundwort. While innocent to the glazed eye, this is a totalitarian government, smothered in its own power with minds perverted by it. Adams clearly does not like this system, as he displays it with the greatest amount of resentment. The rabbits who aren’t in the Owsla or council are miserable, overcrowded, starved, hidden; as if they do not exist, as if their lives are utterly nothing to all the world. The primal difficulty in this environment is the overlord himself, General Woundwort, who first lusted for power, and continued to lust for more after he had gained it. His original vision had been a warren secure from all elil, which again suggests deviation from the natural order that he has so broken, for no warren can seek absolute sanctity from natural predators. After this has been secured, however, he desires further power, more and more of it, until he becomes thoroughly engrossed with it. He feels safer in battle than fleeing, as was stated in the novel. Certainly this is not how any rabbit was meant to act? His perversion of power, and awe-inspiring vision to some, the higher in the warren, whilst being just that, bartered for this an unhappy life for the others in the warren. So while this warren had a leader, that leader was corrupt in his power, thus spoiling the rest of the warren. Adams does not like totalitarianism, from this, and is all the wiser because of it. This warren, only after adapting to become something of a democracy after the departure of Woundwort, succeeded.
The democracy of Watership Down was a success, clearly. All were happy, healthy. The warren was pleasing to the rabbits within it. It was natural. There was a single leader, chosen, more or less, from the rest – and that was Hazel. He was the archetypical “leader” character: never hasty, always one to risk his own life for the greater good, who acted for the better, was courageous, who trusted in other rabbits and animals, bringing further benefit to the warren, was himself something of a generalist, but with a sharp mind – a great tactician, who knew how to use each of his fellows to an advantage, including other animals beyond rabbits, took advice from anyone who would offer it, charging its sensibility, and more. And thus the warren prospered – because all were happy under a great leader. Now, Sandleford Warren was too a democracy, but had one principal flaw. The Threarah would not take advice from each of his rabbits, would not consider it wholly, as Fiver had predicted to him the downfall of the warren, only to be rejected. He was foolish. So, even in a democracy, favored by Adams, when the leader makes a mistake, the whole suffers; but a leader is undoubtedly a necessity. The warren was later destroyed by men.
So, conclusively, it is safe to say that when treating each distinctively in government, traits of socialism, and when balancing the power of a tyrannical government, a democracy, under strong leadership, in Richard Adams’ opinion, will surely succeed.

This is a school essay, so if you've any suggestions or find any mistakes, please e-mail Virgil (to be found on his profile page.) Many thanks.

Virgil Hasn't Died

'Tis true -- Virgil is not dead. He's grown busy with summer school, studying for exams, things of that nature. But, he promises a full post soon.

Best of wishes.

Penny and Flay

There was once a young lad named Penny,
who rather preferred not his name,
so he went to have it changed one day --
at a mystical man named Flay.

Now Flay was an odd one,
that much is certain,
red hair about his puffed about his larger head:
he was Jewish, as were his curtains.

When Penny approached the delipidated home,
the sky had broekn into storm,
the roar of thunder bellowed overhead,
followed by a streak of lightening far from the norm.

He knocked thrice with the screaming head knocker,
as the plaque requested of him,
stood back,
as the door opened to accept him in.

Flay was waiting in his waiting room,
dressed in fine linen gowns,
a scarf pulled close about his very thin neck,
and shoeless, with both of his socks pulled down.

He smiled that wicked smile,
and opened his arms,
and with a voice more sour than honeysuckle weed,
said -- 'Hullo, what are you doing here!?' quite alarmed.

Penny responded that he wished his name be changed,
to something rather more masculine,
to which Flay responded (now quite calmed down),
'Why not feel my linen?'

Penny wonder what was averting Flay,
from changing his name -- this was the day!
No longer would he be called Penny,
lost in insult.

But Flay would not alter the name,
albeit how hard Penny may have made his attempts,
unless of course, he was given his pay.

And pay he was given, in generous amounts,
much the to pleasure of the mystic,
and he sat down at his battered round wooden table,
and began applying lipstick.

'What is this?' Penny asked,
naturally taken aback,
by the awkward act of feministm eminating from this man.
'Why do you apply lipstick, at the changing of my name?'

'Only to tell a story, my dear,'
was the quick repose of Flay,
'for a story I shall tell, and a message
you should endear.'

'My name was also Penny once, as it happens to be,
but since it was altered to Flay, now, my life
has not been kindly to me.

'Odd habbits have developed,
as this application,
and I only wish for you,
to carefully consider the situation.'

Consideration Penny took,
and carefully, as well,
and decided, for the sake of decision,
that some things are better left alone.

A Brief Etude

In a state of utter desperation to post something, here is some roughly-hewn sheet music -- 'A Brief Etude' as indeed it is.

Briefly Brass

The resident blogger must confess in his pride to bring to you a song that has been procrastinated for about a year, and is, at length, completed, albeit witha rather choppy conclusion. Please enjoy:

http://www.supload.com/listen?s=S3hkGI29g37

The Hill of Holy Water

Here is a written poem about Jack and Jill. For nursery rhyme enthusists, it should seem familiar.

Jack was a prince,
but now a king,
whose father simply was unfit
to do continue ruling.

This was becuase the man was ill --
so terribly ill:
his life would be nihil,
without expediant aid.

So he told to the king Jack
(this was his son in fact)
that a cure he should seek
at the highest and meanest and purest of peaks.
Its appellate was simply 'Hill.'

There a stream would be found
from which holy water abounds,
and this alone, poured in the wound,
would prove a worthy cure for the cruel buffoon
(for so the wound was christened.)

Jack told his wife --
this was Jill,
who was the queen,
of his father, stricken ill.
He told her of his intentions to climb the Hill.

But Jill refused his offer for leave,
without her too, you must now see.
She feared for the life of her husband,
so youthful and prudent and intelligent.

With reluctance it was indeed,
that Jack did ever so much as concede,
to undertake the quest to find,
the Holy Water cleverly confined,
at the source of the stream of Hill.

And so Jack, armed with a pail and crown,
his face set in a staunt frown,
and Jill by his side,
ready to abide,
set off to climb the great Hill of olde.

They approached the base,
and looked upon the face,
of the great Hill mountain they would climb;
and within them fear was struck,
for it would take some carefully placed time.

As thier eyes rolled about the mountain
never did the peak greet them,
but Jill found a stream,
with which they would climb, even.

Up they went, to the right of the stream,
past boulders and rocks, and salamanders and things;
the air grew ever thinner,
and the atmosphere colder,
but the stream, nearing the holy water with each step,
even purer.

Some rocks hopped about,
greeting them with a shout,
whilst others snored very loudly;
one boulder did belch such a one,
that the air grew quite cloudy.

The hillside was alive, and friendly it seemed,
all but the terrain, which was rugged and mean, and would not falter.
But still Jack and Jill,
went up the hill,
to fetch their pail of water.

The peak now in sight,
the duo mustered thier might,
and hastened their step,
nearing the end of thier quest.

At the peak Jack nealt down,
looking into the purest of pure waters,
and lowered his bucket,
but his foot slipped into the stream.

The current pushed him down,
the bucket remaining,
Jill nearly fainting,
and found at the bottom,
with a crash into water,
that he was near death,
and broken was his crown.

Jill pilfered a bucketful of holy water
and nearly tumbled downthe mountainside of Hill,
in fear for her husband Jack,
whose soul might rest at the base of the rock.

She reached Jack,
after a time had past,
breathless and panting considerably,
and poured in his departing mouth,
a single serving of the holy liquid.

He awoke with a start,
life in him no longer stark,
and the two happily returned to the castle,
in which the king of old was stricken ill.

And they gave him a drink,
and saw him blink,
and all lived so happily
ever after.

The Most Extraordinariest Pup -- an Extroadinarily Brief Story

Here is a fable about a very smart doggy.

There lived once a small dog, an extraordinary dog if ever one did live. The creature, in humane terms, was brilliant. It could do things that many humans were unable to. It could play a concerto on a piano with such ease and grace one would mistake it for a Beethoven blessed with hearing once again. It could solve mathematics unlike anyone since Pythagoris had lived in ancient Greece. The hound was, if any word were better fitting, awe-inspiring.
But the dog also had an unusually large fondness of barking, howling, growling, and other motley noises that dogs are so fond of making. The dog would literally deafen one as frequently as it would astonish another. And clearly, this was a problem. Who would hear the mutt's volin solos if wearing earplugs whilst listening for all of that barking? Who would bear concentration with the blessed thing if it continued to howl whilst stylusing away at a mathematical algorithm? Eventually, the barking became such nuisance that none would bear speak the thing's name. It sim-ply wouldn't quit. People tried tying its muzzle shut, but the rope came loose; tehy tried calming the thing with herbal seditives, but that failed as well.
And so, for the sake of the populus, those unaware of the dog's penchant for deafening others, the dog was kept in isolation. There, it continued barking, howling, snarling, and grew increasingly more vicious, for this is what it's inner nature instructed it to do. When the thing was relased from isolation, its larynx had failed, and thus its voice had died, as well. But no longer would it perform concerts or display public mathematical seminars, for it was a wild beast.
And here is the moral: One can never be the best in everything he might attempt, for this only results in an equal measure of malignment against this effort. The dog's barking, of course, had not originated until it had receivedf praise for its talents, at which point it knew none other than to rejoice -- by howling, growling, et cetera. This became so much habit, that it reverted to its instincts in isolation, becoming more of a vicious wolf than any well-trained pup as it was ever.