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Gatherings from an Artist’s Portfolio.
By JAMES E. FREEMAN.
_One volume, 16mo._ _Cloth $1.25._
“The gifted American artist, Mr. James E. Freeman, who has for many
years been a resident of Rome, has brought together in this tasteful
little volume a number of sketches of the noted men of letters,
painters, sculptors, models, and other interesting personages whom he
has had an opportunity to study during the practice of his profession
abroad. Anecdotes and reminiscences of Thackeray, Hans Christian
Andersen, John Gibson, Vernet, Delaroche, Ivanoff, Gordon, the Princess
Borghese, Crawford, Thorwaldsen, and a crowd of equally famous
characters, are mingled with romantic and amusing passages from the
history of representatives of the upper classes of Italian society,
or of the humble ranks from which artists secure the models for their
statues and pictures.”--_New York Tribune._
“‘An Artist’s Portfolio’ is a charming book. The writer has gathered
incidents and reminiscences of some of the master writers, painters,
and sculptors, and woven them into a golden thread of story upon
which to string beautiful descriptions and delightful conversations.
He talks about Leslie, John Gibson, Thackeray, and that inimitable
writer, Father Prout (Mahony), in an irresistible manner.”--_New York
Independent._
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
Appletons’ Home Books.
HOME AMUSEMENTS.
By M. E. W. S.,
AUTHOR OF “AMENITIES OF HOME,” ETC.
“There be some sports are painful; and their labour
Delight in them sets off.”
“Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him,
When he comes back!”
I do invoke ye all.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1, 3, and 5 BOND STREET.
1881.
COPYRIGHT BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1881.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I.--PREFATORY 5
II.--THE GARRET 7
III.--PRIVATE THEATRICALS, ETC. 9
IV.--TABLEAUX VIVANTS 20
V.--BRAIN GAMES 25
VI.--FORTUNE-TELLING 37
VII.--AMUSEMENTS FOR A RAINY DAY 45
VIII.--EMBROIDERY AND OTHER DECORATIVE ARTS 50
IX.--ETCHING 64
X.--LAWN TENNIS 67
XI.--GARDEN PARTIES 77
XII.--DANCING 86
XIII.--GARDENS AND FLOWER-STANDS 93
XIV.--CAGED BIRDS AND AVIARIES 104
XV.--PICNICS 112
XVI.--PLAYING WITH FIRE. CERAMICS 117
XVII.--ARCHERY 124
XVIII.--AMUSEMENTS FOR THE MIDDLE-AGED AND THE AGED 131
XIX.--THE PARLOR 135
XX.--THE KITCHEN 140
XXI.--THE FAMILY HORSE AND OTHER PETS 144
XXII.--IN CONCLUSION 148
HOME AMUSEMENTS.
I.
PREFATORY.
Goethe, in “Wilhelm Meister,” struck the key-note of the universal
underlying dramatic instinct. The boy begins to play the drama of life
with his puppets, and afterward exploits the wild dreams of youth in
the company of the strolling players. We are, indeed, all actors. We
all know how early the strutting soldier-instinct crops out, and how
soon the little girl assumes the cares of the amateur nursery.
“I have learned from neighbor Nelly
What the girl’s doll-instinct means.”
We begin early to play at living, until Life becomes too strong for us,
and, seizing us in merciless and severe grip, returns our condescension
by making of us the puppets with which the passing tragedy or comedy is
presented. With this idea in mind we have begun our little book with
the play in the garret--the humblest attempt at histrionics--and so
going on, still endeavoring to help those more ambitious artists who,
in remote and secluded spots, may essay to amuse themselves and others
by attempting the _rôle_ of a Cushman, a Wallack, a Sothern, a Booth,
or a Gilbert.
Our subsequent task has been a more difficult one. To tell people how
to give all sorts of entertainments--in fact, to tell our intelligent
people how to do anything--is nearly as foolish a practice as to carry
coals to Newcastle, and implies that sort of conceit which Thackeray
so wittily suggests when, in his “Rebecca and Rowena,” he presents the
picture of a little imp painting the lily. It is hard to know where
to draw the line. It would be delightful to amuse--to help along with
the great business of making home happy--to tell a mother what to do
with her active young brood, and yet to avoid that dreadful bore of
mentioning to her something which she already knows a great deal better
than we do.
The Scylla of barrenness and the Charybdis of garrulity are before any
author who tries to speak upon a familiar theme. Let us hope that,
through the kindness of our readers, we may not have wrecked our little
bark on either.
II.
THE GARRET.
Happy the children who have inherited a garret! We mean the good
old country garret, wherein have been stowed away the accumulations
of many generations of careful housewives. The more worthless these
accumulations, the better for the children. An old aunt who saved all
the old bonnets, an old uncle who had a wardrobe of cast-off garments
to which he had appended the legend,
“Too poor to wear, too good to give away--”
these are the purveyors to the histrionic talents of nations yet
unborn. Old garrets are really the factories of History, Poetry, and
the Drama.
Into such a garret crept the lame little Walter Scott, and what
did he not bring out of it! Talk of the lumber of a garret and the
accumulations of a house, and you mention to the thoughtful the gold
and diamond mines of a future literature. A bright boy or girl will
unearth many a pearl of price from those old trunks, those dilapidated
bureau-drawers, those piles of old love-letters, those garments of the
past, that broken-down guitar, that stringless violin, that too-reedy
flute. The taste for old furniture has rather emptied the garret of
its time-honored chairs and old clocks, but there is still in its
ghost-haunted corners quite enough goblin tapestry for the fancy of the
growing child.
A country home is, of course, the most precious possession a child can
have--a country home in which his ancestors have lived for years, and
which has a large garret, a capacious cellar, and several barns. One
might wish that every child might be born in Salem or Plymouth, or near
one of those old settlements. But as that would be quite impossible,
considering the acres which we are compelled to cover as a nation,
we may as well see what can be done, in the way of Home Amusements,
with the garret as well as the parlor. The garret, in both town and
country, has been the earliest home of the legitimate drama since the
first youthful aspirant for histrionic honors strapped on the sock and
buskin. A good country barn has also been sometimes the scene not only
of the strolling but of the resident player.
III.
PRIVATE THEATRICALS; ACTING PROVERBS AND CHARADES.
Wherever the amateur actor pitches his tent or erects his stage, he
must consider wisely the extraneous space behind the acting arena
necessary for his exits and entrances, and his theatrical properties.
In an ordinary house the back parlor, with two doors opening into the
dining-room, makes an ideal theatre; for the exits can be masked, and
the space is specially useful. One door opening into a large hall is
absolutely necessary, if no better arrangement can be made. The best
stage is, of course, like that of a theatre, with areas all around and
behind it, so that the actors have a space to retire into. This is
difficult in a parlor, unless it be a very large one. The difficulty,
however, has been and will be solved by the ingenious. Drawing up the
big sofa in front of the footlights, and arranging a pair of screens
and a curtain, has often served well for a parlor play.
It is hardly necessary to say that all these arrangements for a play
depend, in the first place, on the requirements of the play itself and
its legitimate business, which may demand a table, a bureau, a piano,
a fireplace, etc. And here we would say to the youthful actor, Select
your play at first with a view to its requiring little change of scene,
and not much furniture. A young actor needs space; he is embarrassed by
too many chairs and tables. Then, again, choose a play which has so
much varied incident in it that it will, as it is said, “play itself.”
Of this branch of our subject we will treat later.
The first thing to be built is the stage. Any carpenter will lay a few
stout boards on end-pieces, which are simply squared joists, and for
very little money will take away the boards and joists afterward; or
a permanent stage can be built for a few dollars. Sometimes ingenious
boys build their own stage with old boxes; but this is apt to be
dangerous. Very few families are without an old carpet, which will
serve for a stage-covering; and, if this is lacking, green baize is
very cheap. A whole stage-fitting--curtains and all--can be made of
green cambric; but it is better to have all the stuffs of woolen, for
the danger from fire is otherwise great. Footlights may be made of tin,
with pieces of candle put in; or a row of old bottles of equal height,
with candles stuck in the mouth, make a most admirable and very cheap
set of footlights. The mother, an elder brother, or some one with
judgment, should see to all these things, or the play may be spoiled by
an accident.
The curtain is always a trouble. A light wooden frame should be made
by the carpenter; firm at the joints, and as high as the stage, to the
front part of which it should be attached. This frame forms three sides
of a square, and the curtain must be firmly nailed to the top-piece.
A stiff wire should be run along the lower edge of the curtain, and a
number of rings be attached to the back of it in squares--three rows
of four rings each, extending from top to bottom. Three cords are now
fastened to the wire, and, passing through the rings, are run over
three pulleys on the upper piece of the frame. It is well for all young
managers of garret theatres to get up one of these curtains, even if
they have to hire an upholsterer to help them. The draw-curtain never
works surely, and often hurts the _dénoûment_ of the play. In the case
of the drop-curtain which we have described, one person holds all the
ends of the cords, tied together; and, on pulling this, the curtain
goes up and down as if by magic, and rarely gets out of order, which is
a great gain.
Now as for stage properties. Almost any household, or any
self-respecting garret, will hold enough of “things.” If it does
not, let the young actors exercise their ingenuity in making up,
with tinsel-paper and other cheap material, all that they will want.
Turnips, properly treated with a jackknife, have heretofore served for
Yorick’s skull in the great play of “Hamlet.” A boy who knows how to
paint can, on a white cotton background, with a pot of common black
paint, indicate a scene. If he be so fortunate as to know a kindly
theatrical manager who will let him for once go behind the scenes, he
will find that the most splendid effects are gained by a very small
outlay.
As for the theatrical wardrobe, that is a very easy matter, if the
children have an indulgent and tasteful mother, who will help a little
and lend her old finery.
A brigand’s costume (and brigands are very convenient theatrical
friends) is easily arranged. Procure a black felt hat, fastened up
with a shoe-buckle; a bow and a long feather; a jacket, on which Fanny
will sew some brass buttons; one of mamma’s or sister’s gay scarfs,
tied round the waist several times; an old pair of pantaloons, cut off
at the knee, and long stockings, tied up with scarlet ribbons; a pair
of pumps, with another pair of buckles, and any old pair of pistols,
dirks, or even carving-knives, stuck in the belt, and you have, at very
small expense, a fierce brigand of the Abruzzi.
Girls’ dresses are still easier of attainment. But the great trouble in
the dressing of girls for their characters is the frequent inattention
to the time and style of the character. A young lady who plays the part
of Marie Antoinette must remember the enormous hoops which were a part
of the costume of the unlucky queen. She must not be content to merely
powder her hair. She must remember time, place, circumstance, and dress
herself accurately, if she wishes to produce a proper dress. A lady
once wore in the part of Helen of Troy, for private theatricals in New
York, a pair of high-heeled French slippers, with the classic _peplum_.
A gentleman of archæological tastes declared that he could not stay in
a house where such crimes were committed against historical accuracy!
She should have worn the classic sandal, of course--not modern black
slippers.
The “make-up” of a character requires study and observation. In
the painting and shading of faces, adaptation of wigs, application
of mustaches and whiskers, there is much to be done. A box of
water-colors, a little chalk, camel’s-hair pencils, a saucer of rouge,
a burnt cork, and some India ink, all are useful. If these can not be
got, one burnt cork, aided by a little flour, will do it all. Mustaches
can be made by borrowing mamma’s old discarded artificial curls,
cutting them off to a proper length, and gumming them on the upper lip.
The hair of a good old Newfoundland dog has served this purpose. A very
pretty little mustache can be painted with India ink. However, if near
a barber or a hair-dresser--or, still better, a costumer--it is well to
get ready-made mustaches, which come of all colors, already gummed. If
the make-up of an old man is required, study a picture of an old face,
and trace on your own face with a camel’s-hair pencil and India ink the
wrinkles, the lines of an aged countenance. Make a wig of white cotton
if you can not hire one of gray hair.
If a comic face is needed, stand before a glass and grin, _watch the
lines_ which the grin leaves, and trace them up with a reddish-brown
water-color. Put on rouge particularly about the nose and eyes. A
frown, a smile, a sneer, a simper, or a sad expression, can always be
painted by this process. The gayest face can be made sad by dropping a
line or two from the corners of the mouth and of the eyes.
For a ferocious brigand, cork the eyebrows heavily, and bring them
together over the eyes. If you wish to produce emaciation or leanness,
cork under the eyes, and in the hollow of the cheek (or make a hollow),
and under the lower lip. To make up a pretty girl, even out of a young
man’s face, requires only some rouge and chalk and a blonde wig. There
should be also a powdering about the eyebrows, ears, and roots of the
hair. There should be a heavy coat of powder on the nose, and after
the rouge is put on, a shower of powder over that. All will wash off
without hurting the complexion. For a drunkard or a villain, purple
spots are painted on chin, cheek, forehead, and nose.
The theatrical wardrobe, to be complete, should have several different
wigs, and as these can not be made well except by an artist in hair, we
recommend the actors to lay out all their spare cash on these adjuncts.
Having dressed for the part, the acting comes much more easily. No one
knows the effect of dress better than the real actor, who calls it “the
skin of the part.”
The lines to be spoken should be committed most thoroughly to memory.
Without this no play can be a success. Each performer should write out
his own part, with the “cues,” or the words which come directly before
his own speeches, and commit the whole to memory. When the performer
hears the words of the cue, the words of his own part come to his lips
immediately.
The exits and entrances, and what is known as “stage business,” are
always difficult to beginners. The necessity of closets, etc., in
a small stage, places to retire to, and the like, can be managed,
however, by screens, and these are so useful in all private theatricals
that one should be made, six feet high by three feet wide, hinged, and
covered with wall-paper, before any plays are attempted.
We are describing the very cheapest and most unsophisticated private
theatricals--such as those which school-boys and girls could get up in
the country, or in a city basement or garret, with very little money
or help from their parents. And these are the ones which give the most
pleasure. Expensive and adroitly-conducted theatricals, in a city where
experts can be hired to do these things, have no lasting charm. It is,
as in all other things, _the amount of ourselves_ which we put into
anything which makes us enjoy private theatricals. And in a city, grown
people have the privilege of the best theatricals, beside which all
amateur efforts are lamentably tame. But a party of fresh young people,
full of the ichor of youth, can with the slightest help produce the
most delightful effects with very simple means.
Young girls are too apt, in playing private theatricals, to sacrifice
character to prettiness. Now this is a fatal mistake. To dress a
part with finikin fineness, which is to be a representation of quite
different sorts of qualities, is poor art. Let them rather imitate Miss
Cushman’s rags in Meg Merrilies, or Bastian Le Page’s homely peasant
simplicity in Joan of Arc. Remember, the drama is the mirror of nature,
and should produce its strong outlines and its deep shadows. It is in
this realism that men surpass women. The college theatricals, in which
all parts are played by men, are by far the best.
In selecting a play, amateurs should try and find one, as we have
said, which “plays itself.” They should not attempt those delicate and
very difficult plays which only great artists can make amusing. They
should select the play which is full of action and situation, like “The
Follies of a Night,” or “Everybody’s Friend.” The most commonplace
actors fail to spoil such plays as these; and there are for younger
performers hundreds of good plays, farces, and musical burlesques
to be found at every book-store. “Naval Engagements,” “A Cure for
the Fidgets,” “The Two Buzzards,” “Betsey Baker,” “Box and Cox,” “A
Regular Fix,” “Incompatibility of Temper,” “Ici l’on parle Français,”
“To oblige Benson,” are among the many which really help the amateur,
instead of crushing him.
But no one who is not a first-rate actor should attempt “Two can play
at that Game,” “A Morning Call,” “A Happy Pair,” or any of those
beautiful French trifles which look so easy, and in the hands of good
actors are so charming, for they depend upon the most delicate shades
of acting to make them even passable.
For those players of a larger growth, who attempt the very interesting
business of amateur theatricals on a more ambitious plane, we can
illustrate our meaning as to plays which “play themselves” by two
instances:
“Ici l’on parle Français” gives the two amusing situations of a man
who is trying to speak French with the aid of a phrase-book, and the
counterpoise of a Frenchman who is trying to speak English in the same
fragmentary manner. Their mutual mistakes keep the house in a roar; and
almost any clever pair of young men can assume these two characters to
great advantage. They each have an eccentric character mapped out for
them, and very little shading is necessary.
Again, for a very much more poetical and entirely different range of
part, but yet one which “plays itself,” we would suggest “Pygmalion
and Galatea,” Gilbert’s beautiful and poetical play. Here we have the
great novelty of a young lady disguised as a marble statue. She can be
“made up” with white powder and white merino drapery to look very like
a marble statue, and a powerful white lime-light should be thrown on
her from above. There is a tableau within a play to begin with, and
something novel and interesting. The marble statue, however, at the
very start becomes endowed with life, steps down from her pedestal,
walks forward to the footlights, talks, and receives the homage of a
lover. Now, almost any pretty and intelligent maiden can make this part
very interesting. She needs nothing but grace and a good memory to do
this Galatea well. The part plays itself.
The same young actress could not do Lady Teazle--that delightful and
intricate bit of acting, so dependent upon stage tradition and stage
training that old theatre-goers say that in fifty years only five
actresses have done it well. Still less could she approach the heroine
in the “Morning Call” or the young wife in “Caste.” These parts demand
the long, severe stage training of an accomplished artist. The Galatea
is assisted by the novelty of the position, by the fact that every
young maid is a marble statue, in one sense, until Love makes her a
woman, so that each person may give a strikingly individual portrait;
and, above all, it is a play which is a new creation, and therefore
capable of a new interpretation.
We do not advise amateurs to undertake Shakespeare, unless it be
“Katherine and Petruchio,” which is so gay and scolding that it
_almost_ plays itself.
The very beautiful comedies of Robertson seem very easy when one sees
Mr. Wallack’s company play them; but they are very difficult for
amateurs. They depend upon the most delicate shading, the highest art,
and the neatest finish.
The sterling old comedies--all excepting “The Rivals”--are almost
impossible, even those which are full of incident and full of costume.
Their quick movement seems to evade the player; and what is so terrible
to the listener as to endure even a second’s suspension in the “give
and take” of a comedy? “The Rivals,” strange to say, is a very good
play for amateurs.
Boucicault’s farces and society plays run very well on the amateur
stage. Lady Gay Spanker is not a difficult part. Bulwer’s “Lady of
Lyons” should never be attempted by amateurs. It becomes mawkishly
sentimental in their hands. But Charles Reade’s “Still Waters run Deep”
is excellent for amateurs; and “Money” runs off rather more easily than
one would suppose.
Amateurs are very fond of “A Wonderful Woman,” but we can not see
much in it. “The Wonder” is very picturesque. It is one of the plays
which plays itself; and the Spanish costumes are beautiful. The
famous comedies, “My Awful Dad,” “Woodcock’s Little Game,” and “The
Liar,” should be studied very thoroughly by observation and by book
before being attempted by amateurs. The “Little Game” has two very
hard parts to fill, Mrs. Colonel Carver and Woodcock; still it has
been done moderately well. For a parlor comedy, “The Happy Pair” is
a great favorite; and “Box and Cox” can be done by anybody, and is
always funny. Music helps along wonderfully, as witness the immortal
“Pinafore,” which has been played by amateurs to admiration for
hundreds of admiring audiences.
A stage manager is indispensable. In getting up ambitious plays in
a city, which the courageous amateur sometimes attempts, an actor
from the theatre is generally hired to “coach” the neophytes. In the
country, some intelligent friend should do this, and he can properly
be arbitrary. It is a case for an absolute monarchy. The stage
manager must hear his company read the play over first, and tell John
faithfully if he is better fitted for the part of the lackey rather
than that of the lover. He must disabuse Seraphina of the belief that
she either looks or can play the _ingenu_, and relegate her to the part
of the housekeeper. We all have our natural and acquired capabilities
for various parts, and can do no other.
Then, after reading the part, comes the rehearsal; and this is the
crucial test. The players must study, rehearse, rehearse, study,
and not be discouraged if they grow worse rather than better. There
is always a part lagging, and the dress rehearsal is invariably a
discouraging thing. But that is a most excellent and advantageous
discouragement if it inspire the actors to new efforts. Nothing can
spoil a private theatrical attempt like conceit and self-satisfaction.
The art is as difficult a one as playing on the violin; and, although
an amateur may learn to play pretty well, the distance between him and
a professional is as great as that between an amateur violinist and
Vieuxtemps. The amateur must remember this fact.
“Acting proverbs” is an ingenious way of suggesting an idea by its
component parts rather than stating it outright. The parts are not
written, but merely talked over, and are often done by clever young
people on the spur of the moment. It is well, however, to consult
beforehand as to the argument of the play. The books are full of little
plays written upon such proverbs as “All is not Gold that Glitters,”
“Honor among Thieves,” “All is Fair in Love and War,” etc. But we
advise young people to take up less well-known proverbs, and to write
their own plays. They might learn one or two as a sort of exercise, but
the fresh outcrop of their own originality will be much better. The
same may be said with the acting of charades.
A dramatic charade is a very ingenious thing, and a very neat little
play in four acts can be made from the word AB-DI-CATE. A B, of course,
presents a school scene. And at a watering place, if some witty man
or woman will represent the schoolmaster or schoolmistress, all the
pupils can be the grown men and women who are well known. The entrance
of a fashionable mamma, her instantaneous effect on the severity of the
teacher, the taking off the fool’s-cap from the head of Master Tommy,
who has been in disgrace--all will cause laughter and an opportunity
for local jokes. This is Act I. Di can be represented by the _dyeing_
process of a barber who has to please many customers; or “The _die_ is
cast”; or an apposite allusion to Walter Scott’s “_Die_ Vernon”; or
some comico-tragico scene of “I can but _die_.” This is Act II. Cate,
to “_cater_,” “_Kate_”--for bad spelling is permitted--all these are
in order. This is Act III. The last act can be the splendid pageant of
a Turkish _Abdication_, in which a sultan abdicates in favor of his
son. All the camel’s-hair shawls, brilliant turbans, and jewelry of the
house and neighborhood can here be introduced with effect.
Charades in which negroes, Irish or German people, or anybody with a
dialect, enter in and form a part, are very amusing if the boys of the
family have a genius for mimicry. Amateur minstrels are very funny. The
getting up of a party of white men as black men is, however, attended
with expense. The gift of singing a comic song is highly appreciated in
the family circle of amateur dramatists, and a little piece with songs
is very sure to be acceptable.
If every member of the party will do what he can, without any
false shame, or any egotistical desire to outdo the others, if the
ready-witted will do what they can to help the slow-going, and if the
older members of the family will help along, these amusements will
cheer many a winter’s evening, many a long rainy week, and will improve
all who are connected with them; for memory and elocution, good manners
and a graceful bearing, are all included in the playing of charades,
proverbs, and the little dramas.
IV.
TABLEAUX VIVANTS.
We now come to one of the most artistic of all Home Amusements--the
_Tableau vivant_.
Lady Hamilton amused the people of her age, all over Europe, by playing
in a parlor very striking living pictures. All she asked was a corner
of the room, a heavy curtain behind her, and a few shawls and turbans.
Being a beautiful and graceful woman, with the dramatic instinct, she
gave imitations of celebrated statues and pictures, and was no doubt
aided by some very ingenious painting, which she knew how to apply to
her own fair face. The art she discovered is certainly worth trying in
the present age as an amusement.
The preparations for good tableaux should be somewhat elaborate. A
vista should be built and lined with dark-colored cloth; lights should
fall from the top, sides, and front, so as to avoid shadows. The
groups should be striking, the colors clear, and the attitudes simple.
Sometimes there are such wonderful and unpremeditated effects from
these living pictures that artists hold up their hands in despair; more
often they are ruined by shadows; the lights are not well arranged,
and the whole effect lacks elevation and meaning. It is difficult to
arrange a crowded tableau, but it can be done.
The principle of a picture--a pyramidal form--should be observed
closely in tableau. To secure this desirable object the persons in the
background must stand on elevations. Boxes covered with dark cloth,
so as to be unnoticeable, are the best of all devices, and the effect
of any object held up in the hand, as a scepter, a bird, a distaff,
or a wreath, must be carefully noted, as it may throw a shadow on the
picture in the background. There never was, or could be, a tableau
which did not have some weak spot, and these shadows are the faults
which most easily beguile; but they can be avoided.
A group of Puritans make into many very striking pictures. The costume
is beautiful and becoming; red cloth can be laid on the table or floor
to set off the grays; and the many picturesque incidents in our early
history form very pleasing subjects. It is a beautiful dress for women
and a dignified one for men--that gray dress and high ruff, that
broad hat, and plain, long gown. A group of young people might take a
winter’s amusement out of reading up the Puritan annals, and giving at
the Academy or in their own homes a series of Puritan tableaux.
A tableau can be given in parlors separated by folding-doors; but they
are not by any means as good as those for which a stage, vista and
footlights, flies and side-lights, are arranged. If there is a large
unused room, where these properties can stand, the result is very much
better. There should be a gauze curtain or one of black tarlatan, which
should have no seams in it, and this curtain should hang in front of
the stage all the time. The drop-curtain must be outside of this. The
gauze curtain serves as a sort of varnish to the picture, and adds to
the illusion.
Although the pure white light of candles, gas, kerosene, or lime-light
is the best for tableaux, very pretty effects are produced by the
introduction of colored lights, such as can be produced by the use
of nitrate of strontia, chlorate of potash, sulphuret of antimony,
sulphur, oxymuriate of potassa, metallic arsenic, and pulverized
charcoal. Muriate of copper makes a bluish-green fire, and many other
colors can be obtained by a little study of chemistry. Here are some
simple recipes:
To make a _red fire_.--Five ounces nitrate of strontia, dry, one and
a half ounces finely-powdered sulphur. Take five drachms chlorate
of potash and four drachms sulphuret of antimony and powder them
separately in a mortar; then mix them on paper, and, having mixed the
other ingredients, previously powdered, add these last, and rub the
whole together on paper. In use, mix a little spirits of wine with the
powder, and burn in a flat iron plate or pan.
A _green fire_ may be made by powdering finely and mixing well thirteen
parts flour of sulphur, five parts oxymuriate of potassa, two parts
metallic arsenic, three parts pulverized charcoal, seventy-seven
parts nitrate of baryta; dry it carefully, powder, and mix the whole
thoroughly. A polished reflector fitted on one side of the pan in which
this is burned will concentrate the light and cast a brilliant green
luster on the figures. A bluish-green fire may be produced by burning
muriate of copper finely powdered and mixed with spirits of wine. These
fires smell unpleasantly in the drawing-room; and equally good effects
may almost always be produced by colored globes, if the light is not
needed too quickly.
Sulphate of copper, when dissolved in water, will give a beautiful
_blue_ color. The common red cabbage gives three colors. Slice the
cabbage and pour boiling water on it; when cold, add a small quantity
of alum, and you have _purple_. Potash dissolved in the water will
give a brilliant _green_. A few drops of muriatic acid will turn the
cabbage-water into a _crimson_.
Then, again, if a ghostly look be required, mix common salt with
spirits of wine in a metal cup and set it upon a wire frame over a
spirit-lamp. When the cup becomes heated, and the spirits of wine
ignite, the other lights in the room should be extinguished, and that
of the spirit-lamp shaded in some way. The result will be that the
whole group will become like the witches in Macbeth,
“That look not like the inhabitants of the earth,
But yet are of it.”
This burning of common salt produces a very weird effect. It seems
that salt has some other properties than the conservative, preserving,
hospitable kind of quality which legend and the daily needs of mankind
have ascribed to it.
A very fine and artistic set of tableaux can be gotten up by reference
to such a great work as “Boydell’s Shakespeare,” if it happens to
be at hand. Also a study of fine engravings, such as one finds in
the “National Academy.” If these books are not attainable, almost
any pictorial magazine will furnish subjects. Or, if imagination is
consulted, construct a series out of Waverley, or from the but too
well known scenes of the French Revolution, or from George Eliot’s
delightful “Romola”--a book full of remarkable pictures, with the
additional charm of the old Florentine dress. Sometimes a very
impressive poem is given in tableaux, like Tennyson’s “Princess,” or,
the “Dream of Fair Women.” Then there are many artistic but rather
horrible surprises, as “The Head of John the Baptist,” which can be
“cut off” admirably by an intervening table, and so on; but nothing is
so good as a study of the fine groups of the best painters.
Venetian scenes, from Titian’s and Tintoretto’s pictures, can be
admirably represented in tableaux. The Italian wealth of color is
always impressive; and as engravings of these pictures are attainable,
it is well to represent them. Roman scenes are very effective, and
especially as Alma Tadema arranges them for us, with his fine feeling
for the antique.
The humor of Hogarth, aided as it is by the picturesque dress of his
day, can be represented in a tableau. But without some such aids
humor is generally lost in a tableau. There is not time for it. Some
of Darley’s groups, as, for instance, the illustrations of “Rip Van
Winkle,” are admirable, and would seem to contradict this statement,
for they are full of fun; but then--they are wonderfully well dressed.
That early Revolutionary dress, borrowed in part from the days of Queen
Anne, is very picturesque.
If there is some one in the group whose fine sense of the proprieties
of art can be trusted, the allegorical can be attempted. But the danger
is that the allegorical in art is generally ridiculous. Faith, Hope,
and Charity, Mercy and Peace, are better anywhere than in pictures.
The grotesque is always lost in a tableau, where there seems to be a
sort of æsthetic demand for the heroic, the refined, and the delicate.
A double action may be presented with very good effect; as in some
of those fancies of Retzsch and Ary Scheffer, where an angel bends
over a sleeping child, or a group, unknown to the actors in front,
is representing another picture behind. But the best effects are the
simplest. One should not attempt too much. The old example, called
“The Dull Lecture,” painted by Gilbert Stuart Newton, where a prosy
old philosopher is reading aloud to a pretty girl who is fast asleep,
is a case in point. That has been a favorite tableau for forty years,
nor are its charms yet done away with. Tableaux from Dickens have only
a moderate success, excepting, perhaps, the rather overdone “Christmas
Carol.” The dress is wanting in color and character.
Tableaux in which animals are introduced are sometimes very effective,
if stuffed bears and lions and tigers can be hired from a museum. A
fine tableau was once composed, from a French print, of the Queen
of Sheba’s visit to Solomon; but the camel on which that lofty lady
arrived was a piece of scene-painting done by a very clever artist, and
it would be difficult to improvise one.
V.
BRAIN GAMES.
We now come to the winter evening, and the pencil and paper.
It is a delightful feature of our modern civilization that books are
very cheap, and that the poets are read by everybody. That would be
a very barren house where one did not find Scott, Byron, Goldsmith,
Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, Bret Harte, and Jean Ingelow. Very few
boys and girls can reach the age of sixteen without having committed to
memory some immortal poem of one of these most popular poets.
Therefore there would be no embarrassment if we asked the members of
any evening circle to write down three or four lines in the measure of
“Evangeline,” “Lady Clara Vere de Vere,” “The Corsair,” “The Traveler,”
“Marmion,” or “Hervé Riel,” “The Heathen Chinee,” or the pretty “Bird
Song” of Jean Ingelow. Not a parody only, however, but a parody
involving a certain idea or word.
In the great year of Coggia’s comet this game was thus played, and a
young man was requested to speak of the comet in the style of “Mother
Goose.” The result was as follows:
“Sing a song of Coggia--
Comet in the sky!
Wonder if he’ll trouble us,
Whip up you or I!
When his tail is over,
Then begin to crow;
Four-and-twenty doctors,
Tell us all you know!”
Another of the circle was directed to treat of the Wood Fire in the
measure of Tennyson’s “May Queen.” The result was the following:
“If you’re snapping, snap out wisely, snap out wisely, burning wood!
You would not snap so wildly if your drying had been good.
Nor had I, sitting near you with the hearth-brush in my hand,
Have found no peace in sitting, for fear of burning brand.”
This was declared to be too easy a game for such a wild and superfluous
supply of brains, and, therefore, the word _Poker_ was pronounced
to be an essential element of every future poem. Poor Browning and
Longfellow, Bret Harte and Walter Scott, were mercilessly spitted on
that poker. Much foolscap was spoiled, but much fun gained. Here is one
of the poker successes:
“AFTER BYRON, WITH A POKER; ALSO AFTER DRINKING FLIP.
“Here, too, the Poker stands in brass! and fills
The air around with safety! We inhale
The ambrosial aspect which its heat instills
(Part of its immortality) to Flip
(That beer which is half drawn), within the cup
We breathe, and its deep secrets dip.
Who Flip can make--who cares where he may fail!
Before its wide success let Heliogabalus turn pale.
“We drink, and turn away--we care not where!
Fuzzled, and drunk with porter, till the head
Reels with its fullness. There, for ever there,
Stand thou in triumph, Poker, strong and red!
We are thy captives, and thine ardor share.
Away! there need no words, no terms precise,
To say in loving accents, Flip-cup, thou art nice!”
To this class of Home Amusements belongs also the famous game of
“Twenty Questions,” which was played so much at one time by the
Cambridge professors that they declared that any subject should be
reached in ten questions. The proper formula for this very intellectual
game is this: Two parties are formed, the questioners and the
answerers, the first having the privilege, after the word has been
chosen, to inquire--
“Is your subject animal, vegetable, or mineral?”
“What is its size?”
“To what age does it belong?”
“Is it historical or natural?”
“Is it ancient or modern?”
“Is it a manufactured article?” etc.
The number of subjects which are _none_ of these, or which _are all
three_, or which can not be defined in some way, is of course small.
Thus, a Blush, a Smile, a Tear, an Echo, an Avalanche, a Drought, are
all indescribable by the exact definitions of the above questions. But
the questioner soon arrives at this negative, and begins a new series.
Perhaps one of the most puzzling of subjects is a “mummy.” It fulfills
certain conditions, but not others; and the final question, “What is
its use?” and the answer, “It is used for fuel,” though true--for the
Arabs cook their dinners by them--does not at all cover the ground
of the supposed use of a mummy. The shield of Achilles, the Hole in
the Wall through which Pyramus and Thisbe kissed, have been asked and
guessed! A Bat baffled even the most ingenious twenty questioners,
while the Parlor into which the Spider invited the Fly was guessed.
It is a very intellectual and very amusing game, and those who play it
should be as honest as possible in their answers. If puns and wordy
equivoque are allowed, the game ceases to be legitimate.
Among games requiring memory and attention we may mention “Cross
Purposes,” “The Horned Ambassador,” “I love my Love with an A,”
“The Game of the Ring” (arithmetical), “The Deaf Man,” “The Goose’s
History.” “Story Play” consists in putting a chosen word into a
narrative so cleverly that it will not be readily guessed, although
several people tell different stories with the chosen word several
times repeated. The best way to play this is to have some odd word
which is _not_ the word--like _Banana_--and use it several times;
yet one’s own consciousness of the right word will often betray the
story-teller. “The Dutch Conceit,” “My Lady’s Toilet,” “What is my
Thought like?” “Scheherazade’s Ransom” are very pretty, and may be
found in many Manuals of Games. This last deserves a description.
Three of the company sustain the parts of the Sultan, the Vizier, and
the Princess Scheherazade. The Sultan takes his seat at the end of the
room, and the Vizier then leads the Princess before him, with her hands
bound behind her. The Vizier then makes a burlesque proclamation that
the Princess, having exhausted all her stories, is about to be punished
unless a sufficient ransom be offered. All the rest of the company
then advance in turn and propose enigmas, which must be solved by the
Sultan or Vizier; sing the first verse of a song, to which the Vizier
must answer with the second verse; or recite any well-known piece
of poetry in alternate lines with the Vizier. Forfeits must be paid
either by the company when successfully encountered by the Sultan or
Vizier, or by the Vizier when unable to respond to his opponents; and
the game goes on till the forfeits amount to any specified number on
either side. Should the company be victorious and obtain the greatest
number of forfeits, the Princess is released, and the Vizier has to
execute all the penalties that may be imposed upon him. If otherwise,
the Princess is led to execution. For this purpose she is blindfolded,
and seated on a low stool. The penalties for the forfeits, which should
be previously prepared, are written on slips of paper and put in a
basket, which she holds in her hands tied behind her. The owners of the
forfeits advance and draw each a slip of paper. As each person comes
forward, the Princess guesses who it is, and, if right, the person must
pay an additional forfeit, the penalty for which is to be exacted by
the Princess herself. When all the penalties have been distributed, the
hands and eyes of the Princess are released, and she then superintends
the execution of the various punishments that have been allotted to the
company.
Another very good game is to send one of the company out, and as he
comes in again to address him as the supposed character of Napoleon,
a Russian emperor, Gustavus Adolphus, or some well-known character in
history or fiction. For instance, a young lady leaves the room, and as
she enters some one says:
“Charming and noble heroine, most generous and most faithful! we are
glad to see you. How well you look, after all that has happened to you!
Burned alive? Yes, I should say so; and all that you suffered before!
How did you like wearing armor? and what do you think of ungrateful
kings? How was it at home before you left----? Did you really see those
visions? and how did St. ---- look? And, now that you are come back,
will you ever be so generous and noble as to fight for _any_ cause
except yourself?”
Of course, the young lady knows that she is Joan of Arc. But it is not
necessary that character should be so plainly indicated, however, as in
this example.
“The Echo” is another very pretty game. It is played by reciting some
little story, which Echo is supposed to interrupt whenever the narrator
pronounces certain words which recur frequently in his narrative. These
words relate to the profession or trade of him who is the subject of
the story. If, for example, the story is about a soldier, the words
which would recur the most frequently would naturally be “Uniform,”
“Gaiters,” “Chapeau bras,” “Musket,” “Plume,” “Pouch,” “Sword,”
“Saber,” “Gun,” “Knapsack,” “Belt,” “Sash,” “Cap,” “Powder-flask,”
“Accouterments,” and so on. Each one of the company, with the exception
of the person who tells the story, takes the name of Soldier,
Powder-flask, etc., except the name “Accouterments.” When the speaker
pronounces one of these words, he who has taken it for his name ought,
if the word has been said only once, to pronounce it twice; if it has
been said twice, to pronounce it once. When the word “Accouterments” is
uttered, the players--all except the soldier--ought to repeat again the
word “Accouterments” either once or twice.
These games are amusing, as showing how defective a thing is memory,
and how apt, when under fire, to desert us. It is also very queer to
mark the difference of character exhibited by the players. The most
unexpected revelations are made.
Another very funny game is “Confession by a Die,” played with cards and
dice. It would look at first like a parody on “Mother Church,” but it
is not so guilty. A person takes some blank cards, and, counting the
company, writes down a sin for each. The unlucky sinner when called
upon must not only confess, but, by throwing the dice also, confess as
many sins as they indicate, and do penance for them all. These can,
with a witty leader, be made very funny.
“The Secretary” is another good game. The persons sit at a table with
square pieces of paper, and pencils, and each one writes his own
name, handing the paper, carefully folded down, to the Secretary,
who distributes them, saying “Character!” Then each one writes out
an imaginary character, hands it again to the Secretary, who says
“Future!” The papers are again distributed, and the writers forecast
the future. Of course, the Secretary throws in all sorts of other
questions, and, when the game is through, the papers are read. They
form a curious and heterogeneous piece of reading. Sometimes such
curious bits of character-reading crop out that one suspects and dreads
complicity. But, if it is honestly played, the game is amusing.