which vitiate the quality of the brain, and it is our duty to profit by
its results. The principal of them is morbid action in the brain itself,
producing, more or less directly, disorder and weakness. But its
deteriorating influence does not cease with the individual. In a large
proportion of cases it is transmitted to the offspring; and though it
may not appear in precisely the same form, yet the tokens of its
existence are too obvious to be overlooked.--Another agency scarcely
less efficient is that of _neuropathies_, to use the medical
term,--meaning the various forms of disorder which have their origin in
the brain, and comprising not only epilepsy, hysteria, chorea, and other
convulsive affections, but that habit of body and mind which makes a
person _nervous_. While they may abridge the mental efficiency of the
patient comparatively little or not at all, they may exert this effect,
and often do, in the highest degree, on his offspring. The amount of
insanity in the world attributable to insanity in the progenitors, and
therefore called, _par éminence_, hereditary, is scarcely greater than
that which originates in this manner, and of which the essential
condition is no less hereditary.--Another agency, acting on a large
scale in some localities, is exerted by those diseases which are
attributed to some disorder of the lymphatic system, as scrofula and
rickets. Though not entirely unknown to the affluent classes, yet it is
chiefly in the dwellings of the poor that these diseases find their
victims. Cold, moisture, bad air, deficient nourishment,--too frequent
accompaniments of poverty,--are peculiarly favorable to their
production. The physical depravation thus induced is frequently
transmitted to the brain in the next generation, and appears in the
shape of mental disorder.--Again, it is now well known that the
qualities of the race are depreciated by the intermarrying of relatives.
The disastrous influence of such unions is exerted on the nervous system
more than any other, and is a prolific source of deaf-mutism, blindness,
idiocy, and insanity. Not, certainly, in all cases do we see these
results, for the legitimate consequences of this violation of an organic
law are often avoided by the help of more controlling influences, but
they are frequent enough to remove any doubt as to their true cause. And
the chances of exemption are greatly lessened where the marriage of
consanguinity is repeated in the next generation. The manner in which
the evil is effected may be conjectured with some approach to
correctness, but to speculate upon it here would lead us astray from our
present purpose. The amount of the evil may be thought to be
comparatively small, but they who have a professional acquaintance with
the subject would hardly undertake to measure the dimensions of all the
physical and mental suffering which it involves. In one State, at least,
in the Union, it has seemed formidable enough to require an act of the
legislature forbidding the marriage of cousins.--The last we shall
mention, among the agencies concerned in vitiating the quality of the
brain, is that of excessive or long-continued intemperance; and for many
years it has been a most fruitful source of mental deterioration: not,
however, in the way which is generally imagined; for, though it may add
some effect to a popular harangue to attribute a very large proportion
of the existing cases of insanity directly to intemperance, yet, as a
matter of fact, very few, probably, can be fairly traced to this cause
solely. And yet, at the present time, it is unquestionably responsible
for a very large share of the mental infirmities which afflict the race.
The germ of the evil requires a second, perhaps a third, generation to
bring it to maturity. And then it may appear in the form of mania, or
idiocy, or intemperance. As a cause of idiocy, its potency has been
placed beyond a doubt. Dr. S.G. Howe, whose thorough investigations
entitle his conclusions to great weight, says, that, "directly or
indirectly, alcohol is productive of a great proportion of the idiocy
which now burdens the Commonwealth." There is this curious feature of
its deteriorating influence, that the primary effect is not always
persistent, but may be removed by removing the cause. In the Report of
the Hospital at Columbus, Ohio, for 1861, the physician, Dr. Hills, says
of one of his patients, that his father, in the first part of his
married life, was strictly temperate, "and had four children, all yet
remaining healthy and sound. From reverses of fortune, he became
discouraged and intemperate for some years, having in this period four
children, two of whom we had now received into the asylum; a third one
was idiotic, and the fourth epileptic. He then reformed in habits, had
three more children, all now grown to maturity, and to this period
remaining sound and healthy." Another similar case follows. An
intemperate parent had four children, two of whom became insane, one was
an idiot, and the fourth died young, in "fits." Four children born
previous to the period of intemperance, and two after the parent's
reformation, are all sound and healthy. Often, it is well known,
intemperance in the child is the hereditary sequel of intemperance in
the parent. The irresistible craving, without the preliminary gradual
indulgence, and in spite of judicious education, generally distinguishes
it from intemperance resulting from other causes.
All these agencies have this trait in common, that their damaging effect
is often felt by the offspring as well as the parent, and, in most
cases, in a far higher degree. The common doctrine of hereditary disease
implies the actual transmission of a specific form of disease fully
developed,--or, at least, of a tendency to it that may or may not be
developed. The range within which it operates is supposed to be the
narrow limits covered by a single specific affection. Daily experience,
however, shows that the deviation from the primitive type is limited
only by some conditions of structure. Any pathological result may be
expected, not incompatible with the structure of the organ. And thus it
is that the cerebral affection which fell upon the parent is represented
in one child by insanity, in another by idiocy, in another by epilepsy,
in another by gross eccentricity, in another by moral perversities, in
another by ill-balanced intellect,--each and all implying a brain more
or less vitiated by the parental infirmity. There is nothing strange in
all this diversity of result. In the healthy state, organic action
proceeds with wonderful regularity and uniformity; but when controlled
by the pathological element, all this is changed, although the change
has its limits. This diversity in the results of hereditary transmission
is as strictly according to law as the similarity of features exhibited
by parent and child. No presumption against the fact can be derived from
this quarter, and therefore, if well-authenticated, it must be admitted.
Many a man, however, who admits the general fact, refuses to make the
application where it has not been usually made. When mania occurs in two
or three successive generations, nobody overlooks the hereditary
element; but when the mania of the parent is followed by great
inequalities of character, or strange impulses to criminal acts, then
the effects of disease are straightway ignored, and we think only of
moral liberty and free-will. It may be difficult, sometimes, to make the
proper distinction between the effects of hereditary physical vitiation
and those of bad education and strong temptations; but the difficulty is
of the kind which stands in the way of all successful inquiry, to be
overcome by patient and profound study.
Some light may be thrown on this deviation from the original type by
considering the forces that are concerned in the hereditary act. The
statement that like produces like is the expression of an obvious law.
But we must bear in mind that the law is only so far observed as is
necessary to maintain the characters of the species. Within that range
there is every possible variety, and for a very obvious reason. Every
individual represents immediately two others, and, indirectly, an
indefinite number. This is done by uniting in himself qualities and
features drawn from each parent, without any obvious principle or law of
selection and combination. One parent may be, apparently, more fully
represented than the other; the defects of the parent may be
transmitted, rather than the excellences; the tendencies to health and
strength may be outnumbered and overborne by the tendencies to disease.
No individual, of course, can receive, entirely and completely, the
features and attributes of both parents, for that would be a sort of
practical absurdity; but in the process of selecting and combining,
Nature exhibits the same inexhaustible variety that appears in all her
operations. Even in the offspring of the same parents, however numerous,
uniformity in this respect is seldom so obvious as diversity. This
cerebral deterioration is subject to the same laws of descent as other
traits, with a few exceptions without much bearing on the present
question. We might as reasonably expect to see the nose or the eyes, the
figure or the motions of either parent transmitted with the exactest
likeness to all the offspring, as to suppose that an hereditary disease
must necessarily be transmitted fully formed, with all the incidents and
conditions which it possessed in the parent. And yet, in the case of
mental disease, the current philosophy can recognize the evidence of
transmission in no shape less demonstrative than delusion or raving.
Contrary to all analogy, and contrary to all fact, it supposes that the
hereditary affection must appear in the offspring in precisely the same
degree of intensity which it had in the parent. If the son is stricken
down with raving mania, like his father before him, then the relation of
cause and effect is obvious enough; but if, on the contrary, the former
exhibits only extraordinary outbreaks of passion, remarkable
inequalities of spirit and disposition, irrelevant and inappropriate
conduct, strange and unaccountable impulses, nothing of this kind is
charged practically to the parental infirmity.
The cerebral defect once established, the modes in which it may be
manifested in subsequent generations present no uniformity whatever.
Insanity in a parent may be followed by any possible form of mental
irregularity in the descendant,--insanity, idiocy, epilepsy,
drunkenness, criminal impulses, eccentricity. And so, too, eccentricity,
even of the least prominent kind, may be followed by grosser
eccentricity, or even overt insanity, in the descendant. The cerebral
defect is not necessarily manifested in an uninterrupted series of
generations, for it often skips over one, and appears with redoubled
energy in the next; and thus, in looking for proof of hereditary disease
or defect, we are not to stop at the next preceding generation. We are
too little acquainted with the laws of hereditary transmission to
explain these things. We know this, however, that, side by side with
that law which decrees the transmission of defects as well as
excellences, there exists another law which restrains deviations from
the normal type, which extinguishes the errant traits, and reestablishes
the primitive characters of the organism. The combined and alternate
action of these two laws may produce some of the inscrutable phenomena
of hereditary transmission.
The transmission of the cerebral defect is often manifested in a manner
exceedingly embarrassing to all who hold to the prevalent notions
respecting sanity and insanity. It is sometimes confined to a very
circumscribed range, beyond which the mind presents no material
impairment. The sound and the unsound coexist, not in a state of fusion,
but side by side, each independent of the other, and both derived from a
common source. And the fact is no more anomalous than that often
witnessed, of some striking feature of one parent associated in the
child with one equally striking of the other. It is not the case exactly
of partial insanity, or any mental defect, super-induced upon a mind
otherwise sound,--for such defect is, in some degree, an accident, and
may disappear; but here is a congenital conjunction of sanity and
insanity, which no medical or moral appliances will ever remove. These
persons may get on very well in their allotted part, and even achieve
distinction, while the insane element is often cropping out in the shape
of extravagances or irregularities in thought or action, which,
according to the stand-point they are viewed from, are regarded either
as gross eccentricity, or undisciplined powers, or downright insanity.
For every manifestation of this kind they may show no lack of plausible
reasons, calculated to mislead the superficial observer; but still the
fact remains, that these traits, which are never witnessed in persons of
well-balanced minds, are a part of their habitual character. When people
of this description possess a high order of intellectual endowments, the
unhealthy element seems to impart force and piquancy to their mental
manifestations, and thus increase the embarrassment touching the true
character of their mental constitution. When the defect appears in the
reflective powers, it is often regarded as insanity, though not more
correctly than if it were confined to the emotions and feelings. The man
who goes through life creditably performing his part, but feeling, all
the while, that everybody with whom he has any relations is endeavoring
to oppose and annoy him, strays as clearly from the track of a healthy
mind as if he believed in imaginary plots and conspiracies against his
property or person. In neither case is he completely overcome by the
force of the strange impression, but passes along, to all appearance,
much like other men. Insane, in the popular acceptation, he certainly is
not; but it is equally certain that his mind is not in a healthy
condition. Lord Byron was one of this class, and the fact gives us a
clew to the anomalies of his character. His mother was subject to
violent outbreaks of passion, not unlike those often witnessed in the
insane. On the paternal side his case was scarcely better. The loose
principles, the wild and reckless conduct of his father procured for him
the nickname of "_Mad Jack Byron_"; and his grand-uncle, who killed his
neighbor in a duel, exhibited traits not very characteristic of a
healthy mind. With such antecedents, it is not strange that he was
subject to wild impulses, violent passions, baseless prejudices,
uncompromising selfishness, irregular mental activity. The morbid
element in his nervous system was also witnessed in the form of
epilepsy, from which he suffered, more or less, during his whole life.
The "vile melancholy" which Dr. Johnson inherited from his father, and
which, to use his own expression, "made him mad all his life, at least
not sober," never perverted nor hampered the exercise of his
intellectual powers. He heard the voice of his distant mother calling
"Sam"; he was bound to touch every post he passed in the streets; he
astonished people by his extraordinary singularities, and much of his
time was spent in the depths of mental distress; yet the march of his
intellect, steady, uniform, and measured, gave no token of confusion or
weakness.
In common life, among an order of men unknown beyond the circle of their
neighborhood, this sort of mental dualism witnessed with remarkable
frequency, though generally regarded as anomalous and unaccountable,
rather than the result of an organic law. In some, the morbid element,
without affecting the keenness of the intellect, is more active,
intruding itself on all occasions, characterizing the ways and manners,
the demeanor and deportment. Under the influence of peculiarly adverse
circumstances, they are liable to lose occasionally the unsteady balance
between the antagonistic forces of their mental nature, to conduct as if
unquestionably insane, and to be treated accordingly. Of such the remark
is always made by the world, which sees no nice distinctions, "If he is
insane now, he was always insane." According as the one or the other
phasis of their mind is exclusively regarded, they are accounted by some
as always crazy, by others as uncommonly shrewd and capable. The
hereditary origin of this mental defect in some form of nervous
affection will always be discovered, where the means of information are
afforded.
In some persons the morbid element appears in the shape of insensibility
to nice moral distinctions. Their perception of them at all seems to be
the result of imitation rather than instinct. With them, circumstances
determine everything as to the moral complexion of their career in life.
Whether they leave behind them a reputation for flagrant selfishness,
meanness, and dishonesty, or for a commendable prudence and judicious
regard for self,--whether they always keep within the precincts of a
decent respectability, or run into disreputable courses,--depends mostly
on chance and fortune. This intimate association of the saint and the
sinner in the same individual, common as it is, is a stumbling-block to
moralists and legislators. The abnormal element is entirely overlooked,
or rather is confounded with that kind of moral depravity which comes
from vicious training And, certainly, the distinction is not always very
easily made; for, though sufficient light on this point may often be
derived from the antecedents of the individual, yet it is impossible,
occasionally, to remove the obscurity in which it is involved. However
this may be, it is a warrantable inference from the results of modern
inquiry, that the class of cases is not a small one, where the person
commits a criminal act, or falls into vicious habits, with a full
knowledge of the nature and consequences of his conduct, and prompted,
perhaps, by the ordinary inducements to vice, who, nevertheless, would
have been a shining example of virtue, had the morbid element in his
cerebral organism been left out. In our rough estimates of
responsibility this goes for nothing, like the untoward influences of
education; and it could not well be otherwise, though it cannot be
denied that one element of moral responsibility, namely, the wish and
the power to pursue the right and avoid the wrong, is greatly defective.
There is another phasis of cerebral defect not very unlike the last,
which of late years has been occurring with increasing frequency,
embarrassing our courts, confounding the wise and the simple, and
overwhelming respectable families with shame and sorrow. With an
intellect unwarped by the slightest excitement or delusion, and with
many moral traits, it may be, calculated to please and to charm, its
subjects are irresistibly impelled to some particular form of crime.
With more or less effort they strive against it, and when they yield at
last, their conduct is as much a mystery to themselves as to others.
Ordinary criminals excite some touch of pity, on the score of bad
education or untamed passions; but if, in the common estimation of the
world, there is one criminal more reprehensible than another, it is he
who sins against great light and under the smallest temptations,--and,
of course, the hottest wrath of an incensed community is kindled against
him.
At the bar of yonder courtroom stands a youth with an aspect and manner
indicative of culture and refinement far above those of the common herd
of criminals. He was detected in the very act of committing a grave
criminal offence. He has been educated under good moral influences, and
possessed a patrimony that supplied every reasonable want. No looseness
of living, no violent passion is alleged against him, and no adequate
motive appears for the act. For a year or two past he has been unusually
restless by day and by night, has slept poorly, and his countenance has
worn an expression of distraction and anxiety. Various little details of
conduct are related of him, which, though not morally censurable, were
offensive to good taste and opposed to the ordinary observances of
society. His friends are sure he is not the man he once was, but no
expert ventures to pronounce him insane. Looking behind the scene, the
mystery clears up, and we behold only a simple operation of cerebral
dynamics. A glance at the family-history shows us a great-grandfather,
an aunt, two second-cousins, and a brother unequivocally insane, the
father and many other members widely noted for eccentricities and
irregularities of a kind scarcely compatible with the idea of sanity.
Considering that the brain does not spring out of the ground, but is the
final product of all the influences which for generations have been
working in the cerebral organism, it is not strange that the quality of
his brain became so vitiated as to be incapable of some of its highest
functions.--Looking a little farther back in our forensic experience, we
behold a youth scarcely arrived at the age of legal majority, with a
simple, verdant look, arraigned for trial on the charge of murder. He
was the servant of a farmer, and his victim was an adopted daughter of
the family, and some years younger than himself. One day they were left
together to take care of the house, a little girl in the neighborhood
having come in to keep them company. While engaged in the domestic
services, quietly and pleasantly, he invited his companion to go with
him into another room where he had something to show her, and there,
within a few minutes, he cut her throat from ear to ear. He soon came
down, told what he had done, and made no attempt to escape. They had
always been on good terms; no provocation, no motive whatever for the
act was shown or suspected. When questioned, he replied only,--"I loved
her, no one could tell how much I loved her." He had been drinking cider
during the morning, but his cool and collected manner, both before and
after the act, showed that he was not intoxicated. His employers
testified that they had always found him good-natured and correct, but
considered his intellect somewhat below the average grade. A few months
subsequently he died in jail of consumption. Regarded from the ordinary
moral stand-points, this was a strange, an unaccountable, a monstrous
act, and we are unable to take the first step towards a solution of the
mystery. Looking, however, at the material conditions of his affections,
his propensities, his impulses,--his cerebral dynamics,--we get a clew,
at least, to the secret. His father was an habitual drunkard, and a
frequent inmate of the poor-house. He had two children,--one an idiot,
and the other the prisoner; and the mental deficiency of the former, and
the senseless impulses to crime manifested by the latter, were equally
legitimate effects of the father's vice.--Here, again, is one who might
justly be regarded as a favored son of fortune. Fine talents, a
college-education, high social position, an honorable and lucrative
business in prospect were all his; but before leaving college he had
made considerable proficiency in lying, drinking, forgery, and
hypocrisy, besides evincing a remarkable ingenuity in concealing these
traits. His vices only increased with years, notwithstanding the various
parental expedients to effect reform,--a voyage to sea, establishment in
business, confinement in a hospital for the insane, a residence in the
country, a settlement in a new territory. All this time his intellect
was cool and clear, except when under the influence of drink, and he was
always ready with the most plausible explanations of his conduct. At
last, however, delusions began to appear, and unquestionable and
incurable insanity was established. The philosophy of our times utterly
fails to account for a phenomenon like this. Had the hand of the law
been laid upon him for his offences, he would have been regarded as one
of those examples of depravity which deserve the severest possible
punishment; and when the true nature of his case appeared at last,
doctors only wondered how so much mental disorder could happen to one
whose progenitors were singularly free from mental infirmities. In
noticing the agencies calculated to vitiate the quality of the brain, we
mentioned the neuropathies as among the most efficient, though their
effect is chiefly witnessed in subsequent generations, and the present
case is an illustration of the fact. His mother was a highly nervous
woman, and for many years a confirmed invalid.
This, then, being admitted, that a vitiated quality of the brain may be
transmitted to the offspring with accumulating effect, let us see what
are the general characteristics of this effect. We have no reason to
suppose that the brain is exempt from the operation of the same organic
laws which govern the rest of the animal economy. Observation abundantly
shows that its working capacity is diminished, and its activity becomes
irregular in one or more of the various degrees of irregularity, ranging
from a little eccentricity up to raving mania. Occasionally, such defect
is accompanied by remarkable manifestations of mental ability, but it is
no part of our doctrine that such conjunctions are incompatible. Byron
and Johnson accomplished great things; but who will deny that without
that hereditary taint they would have done more and done it better? The
latter, it is well known, was much dependent on moods, and spent long
periods in mental inactivity. The labors of the other were fitful, and
his views of life betray the influence of the same cerebral defect that
led to so much domestic woe. The narrow-chested, round-shouldered
person, whose lungs barely oxydize blood enough to maintain life, is not
expected to walk a thousand miles in a thousand hours, or to excel as a
performer on wind-instruments. We impute to him no fault for this sort
of incompetence. We should rather charge him with consummate folly, if
he undertook a line of exercises for which he is so clearly unfitted. We
do not wonder, in fact, when this unfortunate pulmonary constitution
sends its possessor to an early grave. Why not apply the same philosophy
to the brain, which may partake of all the defects incident to organized
matter? Why expect of one among whose progenitors insanity, idiocy,
scrofula, rickets, and epilepsy have prevailed in an extraordinary
degree all the moral and intellectual excellences displayed by those
whose blood through a long line of ancestors has been untainted by any
of these affections?
It is chiefly, however, in abnormal activity that the presence of this
cerebral depreciation is indicated. And here we find the same
disposition to insist on positive and absolute conditions, overlooking
those nicer shades of diversity which mark the movements of Nature. It
is the common belief that between eccentricity and insanity a great gulf
is fixed; and in courts of justice this notion is often used with great
effect to overthrow the conclusions of the medical expert, who, while he
admits their essential difference, finds it not very easy to avoid the
trap which a quick-witted lawyer is sure to make of it. Let him
recognize the fact that they are the results of a common agency,
differing chiefly in degree, and then his path is clear, though it may
not lead to popular confidence in his professional views.
Neither is the cerebral depreciation confined to any particular portion
of the organ; and therefore its effects may be witnessed in any of those
manifestations which are known to depend upon it. The affective powers,
meaning thereby the passions, affections, and emotions, are, like the
intellectual, connected with the brain, and, like them too, are shaped,
in a great degree, by the quality of that organ. It is curious, however,
that, while this fact is admitted in general terms, there is a prevalent
reluctance to make the legitimate practical application. It is denied
that the moral powers and propensities can be affected by disease,
though connected with a material organ. Everybody believes that a man
who thinks his legs are made of glass is insane; but if his affections
only are disordered,--love and kindness being replaced by jealousy and
hate,--an habitual regard for every moral propriety, by unbounded
looseness of life and conversation,--the practice of the strictest
virtue, by unblushing indulgence of crime, and all without apparent
cause or motive,--then the morbid element in the case is overlooked and
stoutly repudiated. We admit that a man may be a fool without any fault
of his own; but if he fall short of any of the requirements of the moral
law, he is regarded as a sinner, and perhaps punished as a criminal.
Before we utterly condemn him for failing to recognize all the sharp
distinctions between right and wrong, for yielding to temptation, and
walking in evil courses, we are bound in justice to inquire whether a
higher grade of moral excellence has not been debarred him by the
defective quality of his brain, the organ by which all moral graces are
manifested,--whether it has not become deteriorated by morbid
predispositions, transmitted with steadily accumulating force, to
insanity, or other affections which are known to spread their noxious
influence over the nervous system.
A scientific fact is supposed to be entitled to credence, when
accompanied by proper scientific proof; but, nevertheless, many worthy
people cannot resist the conclusion, that, if a man's moral character is
determined by the quality of the brain, then there is no such thing as
responsibility. And so we are brought up all standing against the old
problem of moral liberty, on which oceans of ink have been shed to
little purpose. Heaven forbid that we should add another drop! for our
object will be served by stating very briefly the scientific view of
this phenomenon. Every creature is free, within the limits of the
constitution which Nature has given him, to act and to think, each after
his kind. The horse rejoices in the liberty of acting like a horse, and
not like an ox; and man enjoys the privilege of acting the part of a
man, and not of a disembodied spirit. If the limbs of the former are
struck by an atrophy, we do not expect him to win the race. If the brain
of the latter is blasted by disease or deterioration, we cannot expect
the fruits of a sound and vigorous organism. When we say that a person
with a brain vitiated by an accumulation of hereditary defects is
incapable of that degree of moral excellence which is manifested by men
of the soundest brains, we utter a truism as self-evident, apparently,
as when we say that the ox is incapable of the fleetness of the horse or
the ferocity of the tiger. It is immaterial whether the cerebral
condition in question is one of original constitution or of acquired
deficiency, because the relation between the physical and the moral must
be the same in the one case as in the other. In the toiling masses, who,
from childhood, are brought face to face with want and vice, we do not
expect to find the moral graces of a Channing or a Cheverus; and we do
not hold them to a very strict responsibility for the deficiency. But
they are not utterly destitute of a moral sense, and what we have a
right to expect is, that they improve, in a reasonable degree, the light
and opportunities which have fallen to their lot. The principle is
precisely the same as it regards those whose brains have been vitiated
by some noxious agency. To make them morally responsible in an equal
degree with men more happily endowed would be repugnant to every idea of
right and justice. But within the range of their capacity, whatever it
may be, they are free, and accountable for the use of their liberty.
True, there is often difficulty in making these distinctions, even where
the necessity for it is the greatest; but we dissent from the
conclusion, that therefore the doctrine can have but little practical
value. It is something to have the fact of the intimate connection
between organic conditions and moral manifestations distinctly
recognized. The advance of knowledge will be steadily widening the
practical application of the fact. A judge might not be justified in
favoring the acquittal of a criminal on the ground of his having
inherited a brain of vitiated quality; but, surely, it would not be
repugnant to the testimony of science, or the dictates of common sense
and common justice, if he allowed this fact to operate in mitigation of
sentence.
A NEW SCULPTOR.
Once to my Fancy's hall a stranger came,
Of mien unwonted,
And its pale shapes of glory without shame
Or speech confronted.
Fair was my hall,--a gallery of Gods
Smoothly appointed;
With Nymphs and Satyrs from the dewy sods
Freshly anointed.
Great Jove sat throned in state, with Hermes near,
And fiery Bacchus;
Pallas and Pluto, and those powers of Fear
Whose visions rack us.
Artemis wore her crescent free of stars,
The hunt just scented;
Glad Aphrodite met the warrior Mars,
The myriad-tented.
Rude was my visitant, of sturdy form,
Draped in such clothing
As the world's great, whom luxury makes warm,
Look on with loathing.
And yet, methought, his service-badge of soil
With honor wearing;
And in his dexter hand, embossed with toil,
A hammer bearing.
But while I waited till his eye should sink,
O'ercome of beauty,
With heart impatience brimming to the brink
Of courteous duty,--
He smote my marbles many a murderous blow,
His weapon poising;
I, in my wrath and wonderment of woe,
No comment voicing.
"Come, sweep this rubbish from the workman's way,
Wreck of past ages,--
Afford me here a lump of harmless clay,
Ye grooms and pages!"
Then, from that voidness of our mother Earth,
A frame he builded
Of a new feature,--with the power of birth
Fashioned and welded.
It had a might mine eyes had never seen,
A mien, a stature,
As if the centuries that rolled between
Had greatened Nature.
It breathed, it moved; above Jove's classic sway
A place was won it:
The rustic sculptor motioned; then "To-day"
He wrote upon it.
"What man art thou?" I cried, "and what this wrong
That thou hast wrought me?
My marbles lived on symmetry and song;
Why hast thou brought me
"A form of all necessities, that asks
Nurture and feeding?
Not this the burthen of my maidhood's tasks,
Nor my high breeding."
"Behold," he said, "Life's great impersonate,
Nourished by Labor!
Thy Gods are gone with old-time faith and Fate;
Here is thy Neighbor."
PLAYS AND PLAY-ACTING.
One evening, after seeing Booth in "Richard III.," three of us fell
a-talking about the authorship of the play, and wondering how far
Shakespeare was responsible for what we had heard. Everybody knows that
Colley Cibber improved upon the text of the old folios and quartos: for
what was listened to with delight by Ben Jonson could not satisfy
Congreve, and William III. needed better verses than those applauded by
Queen Elizabeth. None of us knew how great or how many these
improvements were. I doubt whether many of the audience that crowded the
theatre that evening were wiser than we. The next day I got an acting
copy of "Richard III.," and, with the help of Mrs. Clarke's
Concordance,[1] arrived at the following astonishing results.
"Shakspeare's Historical Tragedy of Richard III., adapted to
Representation by Colley Cibber," (I quote the full title for its
matchless impudence,) makes a pamphlet of fifty-nine small pages. Of
these, Cibber was good enough to write twenty-six out of his own head.
Then, modestly recognizing Shakespeare's superiority, he took
twenty-_seven_ pages from him, (not all from this particular play, to be
sure,) remodelled six other pages of the original, and, mixing it all up
together, produced a play, and called it Shakespeare.
With Mrs. Clarke's touchstone it is easy to separate the base metal from
the fine gold; though you have only to ring most of Cibber's
counterfeits to see how flat they are. Would any one take the following
for genuine coin, and believe that Shakespeare could make a poor ghost
talk thus?
"PRINCE E. Richard, dream on, and see the wandering spirits
Of thy young nephews, murdered in the tower:
Could not our youth, our innocence, persuade
Thy cruel heart to spare our harmless lives?
Who, but for thee, alas! might have enjoyed
Our many promised years of happiness.
No soul, save thine, but pities our misusage.
Oh! 'twas a cruel deed! therefore alone,
Unpitying, unpitied shalt thou fall."
Or thus:--
"K. HENRY. The morning's dawn has summoned me away;
And let that wild despair, which now does prey
Upon thy mangled thoughts, alarm the world.
Awake, Richard, awake! to guilty minds
A terrible example!"
No wonder that Gloucester finds it quite hopeless to reply to such
ghosts in the words Shakespeare put into his mouth, and so has recourse
to Cibber. We are not told what (Cibber's) ghosts say to Richmond; but
he declares,--
"If dreams should animate a soul resolved,
_I'm more than pleased with those I've had to-night._"
Just after this, it is rather confusing to find him straying off into
"Henry V." Still, "In peace there's nothing so becomes a man," seems to
promise Shakespeare at least,--so compose yourself to listen and
enjoy:--
"In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As _mild behavior_ and humility;
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
_Let us be tigers in our fierce deportment_."
After this outrage, I defy you to help hoping that the comparatively
innocent Richard will chop off Richmond's head,--in spite of history and
Shakespeare.
It does not follow that all change or omission is unlawful in placing
Shakespeare's plays on the stage. Though in the pit or parquet we sit
(more or less) at our ease, instead of standing as the groundlings did
in old days, yet a tragedy five hours and a half long would be rather
too much of a good thing for us. There must have been a real love of the
drama in those times. Fancy a fine gentleman, able to pay his shilling
and sit with the wits upon the rush-strewn stage, listening for such a
length of time to "Hamlet," with no change of scenes to help the
illusion or break the monotony, beyond a curtain or two hung across the
stage, a wooden gallery at the back whence the court of Denmark might
view "The Mouse-Trap," and, perhaps, a wooden tomb pushed on or
"discovered" in the graveyard-scene by pulling aside one of these
curtains or "traverses." No pretty women, either, dressed in becoming
robes, and invested with the mysterious halo of interest which an
actress seems to bring with her from the side-scenes. No women at all.
Poor Ophelia presented by a great lubberly boy, and the part of the
Queen very likely intrusted to him who was last year the "_jeune
première_," and whose voice is now somewhat cracked within the ring. To
be sure, in those days every gentleman took his pipe with him; and the
fragrant clouds would be some consolation in the eyes, or rather in the
noses, of some of us. But still,--almost six hours of tragedy! It is too
much of a good thing for these degenerate days; and we must allow the
prompter to use his pencil on the actors' copy of "Hamlet," though he
strike out page upon page of immortal philosophy.
But there are certain parts of this play omitted whose loss makes one
grieve. Why do the actors leave out the strange half-crazed exclamations
wrung from Hamlet by his father's voice repeating "Swear" from beneath
his feet?
HAM. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.
GHOST [_beneath_]. Swear.
HAM. Ah, ha, boy! say'st thou so? art thou there, true-penny?--
Come on,--you hear this fellow in the cellarage--
* * * * *
Swear by my sword.
GHOST [_beneath_]. Swear.
HAM. _Hic et ubique_? then we'll shift our ground.--
Come hither, gentlemen,
And lay your hands again upon my sword:
Never to speak of this that you have heard,
Swear by my sword.
GHOST [_beneath_]. Swear.
HAM. Well said, old mole! Canst work i' the ground so fast?
A worthy pioneer I....
... This not to do,
So grace and mercy at your most need help you, swear.
GHOST [_beneath_]. Swear.
HAM. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!
The sensitive organization which makes Hamlet what he is has been too
rudely handled: the machine, too delicate for the rough work of
every-day life, breaks down, under the strain. The horror of the
time--beginning with Horatio's story of the apparition, and growing more
fearful with every moment of reflection, until Hamlet longs for the
coming of the dread hour--reaches a point beyond which human nature has
no power to endure. If he could share his burden with his friend
Horatio,--but Marcellus thrusts himself forward, and he checks the
half-uttered confidence, and struggles to put aside their curiosity with
trifling words. Anything, to be alone and free to think on what he has
heard and what he has to do. And then,--as he is swearing them to
secrecy before escaping from them,--_there_, from under their feet and
out of the solid earth, comes the voice whose adieu is yet ringing in
his ears. In terror they hurry to another spot; but the awful voice
follows their steps, and its tones shake the ground under them. What
wonder, if, broken down by all this, Hamlet utters words which would be
irreverent in their levity, were they not terrible in their wildness?
Have you never marked what pathos there is in a very trivial phrase used
by one so crushed down by grief that he acts and speaks like a little
child?
It is wonderful that a great actor should neglect a passage that paints
with one touch Hamlet's half-hysterical state. Given as it might be
given, it would curdle the blood in your veins. I asked the best Hamlet
it has been my fortune to see, why he left out these lines. "I have
often thought I would speak them; but I don't know how." That was his
answer, and a very honest one it was. But such a reason is not worthy of
any man who dares to play Hamlet,--much less of one who plays it as ----
does.
It is curious to observe how persistently the players, in making up the
stage-travesties of Shakespeare's plays, have followed the uncertain
lead of the quartos, where they and the folio differ. It almost seems as
if the stage-editors found something more congenial in a text made up
from the actors' recollections, plentifully adorned with what we now
call "gag." They appear to forget one capital fact: that Shakespeare was
at once actor, author, and manager,--that he wrote for the stage
exclusively, producing plays for the immediate use of his own
company,--and that his plays may therefore be reasonably supposed to be
"adapted to representation" in their original state. Does Mr. Crummles
know better than Master Shakespeare knew how "Romeo and Juliet" should
be ended with the best effect,--not only to the ear in the closet, but
theatrically on the stage? The story was not a new one; and the
dramatist deliberately followed one of two existing versions rather than
the other. In Boisteau's translation of Bandello's novel, Juliet wakes
from her trance before Romeo's death; in Brooke's poem, which the great
master chose to adopt as his authority, all is over, and she wakes to
find her lover dead. Garrick must needs know better than Shakespeare,
the actor-author; and no stage Romeo has the grace to die until he has,
in elegant phrase, "piled up the agony" with lines like these:--
"JULIET. ... Death's in thy face.
ROM. _It is indeed_. I struggle with him now:
The transports that I felt,
To hear thee speak, and see thy opening eyes,
Stopped, for a moment, his impetuous course,
And all my mind was happiness and thee:--
But now," etc.,
"My powers are blasted;
'Twist death and love I'm torn, I am distracted;
_But death is strongest_."
And then, to give a chance for the manoeuvre beloved by dying
actors,--that getting up and falling back into the arms of the actress
kneeling by him, with a proper amount of gasping and eyes rolling in
delirium,--the stage Romeo adds:--
"ROM. She is my wife,--our hearts are twined together:--
Capulet, forbear:--Paris, loose your hold:--
Pull not our heart-strings thus;--they crack,--they break:--
Oh, Juliet, Juliet!"
[_Dies. Juliet faints on his body._
Is this Garrick or Otway? (for I believe Garrick borrowed some of his
improvements from Otway's "Caius Marius.") I don't know, and don't care.
It is not Shakespeare. It may "show something of the skill of kindred
genius," as the preface to the acting edition says it does. I confess I
do not see it. I would have such bombast delivered with the traditional
accompaniment of red fire; and the curtain should descend majestically
to the sound of slow music. That would be consistent and appropriate.
* * * * *
It has always been a consoling thought to Englishmen that Shakespeare
exists for them alone,--or that a Frenchman's nature, at least, makes it
hopeless for him to try to understand the great dramatist. They confess
that their neighbors know how to construct the plot of a comedy, and
prove the honesty of their approval by "borrowing" whatever they can
make useful. French tragedies they despise--(though a century ago the
new English tragedies were generally Corneille or Racine in disguise).
As to Shakespeare, it has time out of mind been an article of faith with
the insolent insulars that he is quite above any Frenchman's reach. One
by one they are driven from their foolish prejudices, and made to
confess that Frenchmen _may_ equal them in some serious things, as well
as beat them in all the lighter accomplishments. French iron-clad
steamers have been followed by the curious spectacle of a French actor
teaching an English audience how Shakespeare should be acted. I would
give a good deal to see M. Fechter in Hamlet, Othello, or Iago,--the
only parts he has yet attempted; the rather, because the low condition
of the stage in England, where Mr. Macready and Mr. Charles Kean are
called great actors, makes the English newspaper-criticisms of little
value. In default of this, I have been reading M. Fechter's acting
edition of "Othello," which a friend kindly sent me from London. It is a
curiosity,--not the text, which is incorrect, full of arbitrary changes,
and punctuated in a way almost unintelligible to an English eye: colons
being scattered about with truly French profusion. The stage-directions
are the interest of the book. They are so many and so minute that it
seems a wonder why they were printed, if M. Fechter is sincere in
declaring that he has no desire to force others to follow in his exact
footsteps in this part. But they are generally so judicious, as well as
original, that actors born with English tongues in their heads may well
be ashamed that a foreigner could find so many new and effective
resources on their own ground. For example: when Othello and Iago are
first met by the enraged Brabantio, the Moor is standing on the
threshold of his house, having just opened the door with a key taken
from his girdle. He is going in, when he sees the lights borne by the
other party. Observe how Othello's honest frankness is shown by the
action:--
"OTH. But look: what lights come yonder?
IAGO. These are the raised father and his friends.
[_Othello shuts the door quickly and takes the key._
You were best go in.
OTH. [_coming forward_], Not I: I must be found!"
Again, at the end of this scene, see how thoroughly the editor has
studied the legitimate dramatic effect of the situations, preserving to
each person his due place and characteristic manner:--
"BRAB. [_To his followers_]. Bring him away!
[_They advance to take Othello, who puts them back with a look._
Mine's not an idle cause:
[_Passes before Othello, who bows to him with respect._
The Duke himself," etc.
[_Exit, preceded by the servants of the Senate. His followers are about
to pass; Othello stays them, beckons to Cassio, and exit with him.
The rest follow, humbly._
The scene wherein Iago first begins to poison the Moor's mind is
admirable in the situations and movements of the actors. A great variety
is given to the dialogue by the minute directions set down for the
guidance of the players. It would be tedious to give them in detail; but
I must point out the truth of one action, near the end. The poison is
working; but as yet Othello cannot believe he is so wronged,--he is only
"perplexed in the extreme,"--not yet transformed quite out of his noble
nature.
"OTH. [dismissing Iago with a gesture]. Farewell! farewell!
[Stopping him, as he goes to the door on the right.
If more thou dost perceive, let me know more:
Set on thy wife to observe----
[He stops, suffused with shame, and crosses before Iago, without looking
at him.
Leave me, Iago.
IAGO. My lord, I take my leave."
This is an idea worthy of a great actor; and of M. Fechter's acting here
an English critic says,--"Delicate in its conception and marvellous in
its close adherence to Nature is the expression that accompanies the
words. The actor's face is literally suffused with a burning blush; and,
as he buries his face in his hands, we almost fancy we see the scalding
tears force their way through the trembling fingers and adorn the
shame-reddened cheeks." The same writer goes on to praise "the ingenuity
and novelty of the glance at the reflection of his dark face in the
mirror, which suggests the words, 'Haply for I am black.'" I cannot
agree. Othello had been too often reproached with his swarthy skin and
likened to the Devil by Desdemona's father to need any such commonplace
reminder of his defects, in his agony of doubt. It is, however, a fair
ground for difference of opinion. But when the same artifice is resorted
to in the last act to explain the words, "It is the cause, it is the
cause, my soul!!"--and Othello is made to take up a toilet-glass which
has fallen from Desdemona's hand,--it becomes a vile conceit, unworthy
of the situation or of an actor like Fechter. A man does not look in the
glass, and talk about his complexion, when he is going to kill what he
loves best in life; and if the words are broken and unintelligible, they
are all the truer to Nature. The whole of the last act, as arranged by
Fechter, is bad. There is no propriety in directing Desdemona to leave
her bed and walk about,--to say nothing of the scramble that must ensue
when Othello "in mad fury throws her onto the bed" again. But what shall
we say of this?
"OTH. What noise is this?
[_He turns to the side whence the noise comes, and raises the pillow,
but, as Desdemona stirs, replaces it abruptly._
Not dead! Not yet quite dead!
I, that am cruel, am yet merciful;
I would not have thee linger in thy pain.
[_Passing his poignard under the pillow, and turning away his eyes,_
So,--so."
What, but that it is utterly vile and melodramatic, contrary to
Othello's expressed resolve, and quite unnecessary?--for a better effect
would be produced, if the actor averted his head and with both hands
pressed hard upon the pillow, trembling in every limb at the horrible
deed he is forced, in mercy, to bring to a quick end. This idea of
stabbing Desdemona at last is not original with Fechter,--who here, and
in several other places, has consented to follow our stage-traditions,
and has been led astray.
* * * * *
Shakespeare on the stage is a sad falling off from Shakespeare in the
closet. (I do not mean on the American stage only: the theatre in
England is, if possible, lower than with us.) To a great extent this is
unavoidable. Our imaginations are not kept in check by the pitiless
limits that make themselves felt in the theatre. An army, when we read
of it, seems something far grander than all that can be effected by the
best-appointed company of actors. The forest of Ardennes has for us life
and motion beyond the reach of the scene-painter's skill. But these
necessary shortcomings are no excuse for making no attempt to imitate
Nature. Yet hardly any serious effort is made to reach this purpose of
playing. The ordinary arrangement of our stage is as bad as bad can be,
for it fails to look like the places where the action is supposed to
lie. Two rows of narrow screens stretching down from the ends of a broad
screen at the back never can be made to look like a room, still less
like a grove. Such an arrangement may be convenient for the carpenters
or scene-shifters, and is very likely cheaper than a properly designed
interior. But it does not look like what it pretends to be, and has been
superseded on every stage but ours and the English by properly
constructed scenery. Who ever went into a French theatre for the first
time without being charmed by the _reality_ of the scene? They take the
trouble to build a room, when a room is wanted, with side-walls and
doors, and often a ceiling. The consequence is, you can fancy yourself
present at a scene taken from real life. The theatre goes no farther
than the proscenium. Beyond that, you have a parlor, with one wall
removed for your better view. It is Asmodeus's show improved. I went to
a Paris theatre with a friend. The play began with half a dozen
milliners chattering and sewing round a table. After a few moments, my
friend gave a prodigious yawn, and declared he was going home, "for you
might as well sit down and see a parcel of real milliners at work as
this play." Tastes differ; and I did not find this an objection. But
what a compliment that was to the whole corps,--actors, actresses, and
scene-painter!--and how impossible it would be to make the same
complaint of an English play!
"But," I have been told by theatrical people, "such an arrangement is
all very well in French vaudevilles, where one scene lasts through an
act; but it will not do for English plays, with their constant
scene-shifting." I grant it is less convenient to the stage-manager than
the present wretched assembly of screens; but it is not impracticable in
any play. Witness the melodramas which are the delight of the patrons of
the minor Paris theatres,--_pièces à spectacle en 4 actes et 24
tableaux_, that is, twenty-four changes of scene. I remember sitting
through one which was so deadly stupid that nothing but the ingenuity of
the stage-arrangements made it endurable. Side-scenes dropped down into
their places,--"flats" fell through the stage or were drawn up out of
sight,--trees and rocks rose out of the earth,--in a word, scenery that
looked like reality, and not like canvas, was disposed and cleared away
with such marvellous rapidity that I forgot to yawn over the play.
Attention to these matters is almost unknown with us: perhaps, in strict
justice, I ought to say was unknown until very lately. Within a few
years, one or two of our theatres have profited by the example set by
stage-managers abroad. At Wallack's, in New York, _rooms_ have to a
great extent taken the place of the old _screens_; and only the other
night at the Boston Museum I saw an arrangement of scenery which really
helped the illusion.
Let us hope there may be a speedy reform in the matter of the costume of
the players,--at least in plays where the dresses are of our own time.
You may count on your fingers the actresses in America who dress on the
stage as _ladies_ dress in polite society. And as for the actors, I am
afraid one hand has too many fingers for the tally. Because people go to
the President's Ball in frock-coats is no reason why actors who
undertake to look like fashionable gentlemen should outrage all
conventional rules. I once saw a play in which a gentleman came to make
an informal morning-visit to a lady in the country, in that dress which
has received the bitterly ironical name of "full American uniform," that
is to say, black dress-coat and trousers and black satin waistcoat; and
the costume was made even more complete by a black satin _tie_, of many
plaits, with a huge dull diamond pin in it, and a long steel watch-chain
dangling upon the wretched man's stomach. He might have played his part
to perfection,--which he did not, but murdered it in cold blood,--but he
_might_ have done so in vain; nothing would or could absolve him from
such a crime against the god of fashion or propriety. "Little things,
these," the critic may say: and so our actors seem to think. But life is
made up of little things; and if you would paint life, you must attend
to them. Ask any one who has spent (wasted?) evening after evening at
the Paris theatres about them; and, ten to one, he begins by praising
the details, which, in their sum, conveyed the impression of perfection
he brought away with him.
Unless you are a little cracked on the subject of the stage, (as I
confess I am,) and have talked with a French actor about it, you have no
idea how systematically they train their young actors. I will tell you a
few of the odd facts I picked up in long talks with my friend Monsieur
D----. of the Théâtre Français.
The Conservatoire, their great school for actors, is, like almost
everything else in Paris, more or less under Government control,--the
Minister of State being charged with its superintendence. He appoints
the professors, who are actors of the Français, and receive a salary of
two thousand francs. The first order a pupil receives, on presenting
himself for instruction, is this: "Say _rose_." Now your Parisian rather
prides himself on a peculiar pronunciation of the letter _r_. He neither
rolls it like an Italian, nor does he make anything like the noise
standing for _r_ in our conversational English,--something like
_uhr-ose_,--a sound said to be peculiar to our language. A Parisian
rolls his r, by making his _uvula_ vibrate, keeping the tongue quite
still: producing a peculiar gurgling sound. This is an abomination in
the ears of the Conservatoire. "Ne _grasseyez_ donc pas, Monsieur," or
"Mademoiselle," says the professor, fiercely,--this peculiar way of
saying _r_ being called _grasseyement_. The pupil tries again, using the
tip of his tongue this time. "Ah! I thought so. Your _r_ is pasty
(_empâté_). Say _tuddah!_" (I spell this sound _à l'Anglaise_.)
"_Tuddah_" repeats the wondering candidate. "_Thuddah?_" the professor
repeats, with great disgust: "I did not ask you to say _thuddah_, but
_tuddah_." The victim tries again and again, and thinks he succeeds; but
the master does not agree with him. His delicate ear detects a certain
thickness of enunciation,--which our _th_ very imperfectly
represents,--a want of crispness, as it were. The tip of the tongue does
not strike the front teeth with a single _tick_, as sharp as a
needle-point; and until he can do this, the pupil can do nothing. He is
dismissed with the advice to say "_tuddah, tuddah, tuddah_," as many
hours a day as he can without losing his mind. D---- told me he often
met young men walking about the streets in all the agonies of this first
step in the art of learning to act, and astonishing the passers-by with
this mysterious jargon. A pupil of average quickness and nicety of ear
learns to say tuddah in about a month. Then he is told to say _rose_
once more. The training his tongue has received enables him to use only
its very tip. A great point is gained: he can pronounce the _r_. Any
other defects in pronunciation which he has are next attacked and
corrected. Then he is drilled in moving, standing, and carriage. And
finally, "a quantity of practice truly prodigious" is given to the
_ancien répertoire,_--the classic models of French dramatic literature,
Corneille, Racine, Molière, Beaumarchais, etc. The first scholar of each
year has the right to appear at once at the Théâtre Français,--a right
rarely claimed, as most young actors prefer to go through a novitiate
elsewhere to braving the most critical audience in the world before they
have acquired the confidence that comes only with habit and success.
After he has gained a foothold at this classic theatre, an actor still
sees prizes held out to stimulate his ambition. If he keeps the promise
of his youth, he may hope to be chosen a stockholder (_sociétaire_), and
thus obtain a share both in the direction of affairs and in the profits,
besides a retiring pension, depending in, amount upon his term of
service.
_Panem, et circenses_ is the demand of modern Paris, as it was of old
Rome,--and the people expect the Government to see that neither supply
fails. While the Opera receives large sums to pay for gorgeous scenery
and dresses, the Français is paid for devoting three nights in the week
to the classical school: a real loss to the theatre at times when the
fickle public would gladly crowd the house to applaud the success of the
hour. The Minister of State interferes as seldom as possible with the
management; but when he speaks, his word is law. This was queerly shown
in a dispute about Rachel's _congés_. At first she played during nine
months of the year three times a week; later her duties were reduced to
six months in the year, playing only twice a week, at a salary of forty
thousand francs, with five hundred francs for every extra performance.
Spoiled by indulgence, she demanded leave of absence just when the Queen
of England was coming to Paris. The manager indignantly refused. The
next day the Minister of State politely requested that Mlle. Rachel
might have a short _congé_. "It is not reasonable," said the poor
manager. "We have cut down her duties and raised her salary; now the
Queen is coming, Paris will be full of English, and they are always
crazy after Mlle. Rachel. It is really out of the question, _Monsieur le
Ministre_." The Minister was very sorry, but hoped there would be no
real difficulty. The manager was equally sorry, but really he could not
think of it. "_Monsieur,_" said the Minister, rising and dismissing the
manager, "_il le faut," "Oh, il le faut?_ Then it _must_;--only you
might as well have begun with that." And so Rachel got her leave of
absence.
(I must insert here from my note-book a criticism on Rachel,--valuable
as coming from a man of talent in her own profession who had worked with
her for years, and deserving additional weight, as it was, no doubt,
rather the collective judgment of her fellow-actors than the opinion of
the speaker alone.)
"Rachel," said M. D----, "was a great genius,--but a genius that ever
needed the hand of a master to guide its efforts. Without this, she
could do nothing: and Samson was forever behind her, directing her
steps. Mme. Allan, who weighed almost three hundred pounds and had an
abominable voice, was infinitely her superior in the power of creating a
part. But Rachel had the voice of an angel. In the expression of disdain
or terror she was unapproachable. In the softer passions she was feeble.
We all looked upon her _Lady Tartuffe_ as a failure."
* * * * *
Such a school of acting as the Conservatoire and the Français form could
of course never be seen in America. The idea of our popular practical
Government undertaking to direct the amusements of the people is quite
ludicrous. In France, the Government does all it can for the people.
With us, the people are left to do everything for themselves, with the
least possible amount of Government interference. Our play-writers and
play-actors could do a great deal to raise the standard of
stage-literature and of acting, if they would but try. But they do not
try. I went the other evening to see that relic of the Dark Ages, a
sterling English comedy. If any one thinks I go too far in saying that
there is no attempt on our stage to imitate Nature, and that the writing
and acting of English plays are like the landscape-painting of the
Chinese,--a wonderfully good copy of the absurdities handed down through
generations of artists,--let him go and look at one of these plays. He
will see the choleric East-India uncle, with a red face, and a Malacca
cane held by the middle, stumping about, and bullying his nephew,--"a
young rascal,"--or his niece,--"you baggage, you." When this young
person wishes to have a good talk with a friend, they stand up behind
the footlights to do it; and the audience is let into secrets essential
to the plot by means of long "asides" delivered by one, while the other
does nothing and pretends not to hear what is spoken within three feet
of him. The waiting-maid behaves in a way that would get her turned out
of any respectable house, and is chased off the stage by the old
gentleman in a manner that no gentleman ever chases his servants.
Something is the matter with the men's legs: they all move by two steps
and a hitch. They all speak with an intonation as unlike the English of
real life as if they talked Greek. The young people make fools of the
old people in a way they would never dream of in life,--and the old
people are preternaturally stupid in submitting to be made fools of.
After seeing one of these classics, let the spectator sit down and
honestly ask himself if this is an attempt to hold the mirror up to
Nature, or an effort to reflect the traditional manners and customs of
the stage.
If he thinks he has ever seen anything of the sort in real life, we will
agree to differ.
[Footnote 1: Are we as grateful as we should be to Mrs. Cowden Clarke?
Did you ever try to find anything by the help of Ayscough, when that was
the best guide to be had? If you have, you remember your teasing search
for the principal word in the passage,--how _day_ seemed a less likely
key than _jocund_, and yet, as this was only an adjective, perhaps
_tiptoe_ were better; or, if you pitched upon _mountain-tops_, it was a
problem with which half of the compound to begin the search. Consider
that Mrs. Clarke is no dry word-critic, to revel in pulling the
soliloquy to pieces, and half inclined to carry the work farther and
give you the separate letters and the number of each, but a woman who
loves Shakespeare and what he wrote. Think of her sitting down for
sixteen years to pick up senseless words one by one, and stow each one
away in its own niche, with a ticket hanging to it to guide the search
of any one who can bring the smallest sample of the cloth of gold he
wants. Think of this, whenever you open her miracle of patient labor,
and be grateful.]
OFF SHORE.
Rock, little boat, beneath the quiet sky!
Only the stars behold us, where we lie,--
Only the stars, and yonder brightening moon.
On the wide sea to-night alone are we:
The sweet, bright, summer day dies silently;
Its glowing sunset will have faded soon.
Rock softly, little boat, the while I mark
The far-off gliding sails, distinct and dark,
Across the west pass steadily and slow.
But on the eastern waters sad they change
And vanish, dream-like, gray and cold and strange,
And no one knoweth whither they may go.
We care not, we, drifting with wind and tide,
With glad waves darkening upon every side,
Save where the moon sends silver sparkles down,
And yonder slender stream of changing light,
Now white, now crimson, tremulously bright,
Where dark the light-house stands, with fiery crown.
Thick falls the dew, soundless, on sea and shore;
It shines on little boat and idle oar,
Wherever moonbeams touch with tranquil glow.
The waves are full of whispers wild and sweet;
They call to me; incessantly they beat
Along the boat from stem to curvèd prow.
Comes the careering wind, blows back my hair
All damp with dew, to kiss me unaware,--
Murmuring, "Thee I love,"--and passes on.
Sweet sounds on rocky shores the distant rote.
Oh, could we float forever, little boat,
Under the blissful sky drifting alone!
LIFE IN THE OPEN AIR.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "CECIL DREEME" AND "JOHN BRENT."
KATAHDIN AND THE PENOBSCOT.