how deeply the sentiment of death is wrought into the mind and
imagination,--how it invests with awe, love, pity, and hope, thoughtful
and gifted spirits, inspires their art, elevates their conceptions, and
casts over life and consciousness a sacred mystery. The most finished and
suggestive piece of modern English verse is elegiac,--its theme a country
churchyard, and so instinct are its melancholy numbers with pathos and
reflection, embalmed in rhythmical music, that its lines have passed into
household words. Our national poet, who has sung of Nature in all her
characteristic phases on this continent, next to those ever-renewed
glories of the universe has found his chief inspiration in the same
reverent contemplation: _Thanatopsis_ was his first grand offering to the
Muses, and _The Disinterred Warrior_, the _Hymn to Death_, and _The Old
Man's Funeral_, are but pious variations of a strain worthy to be chanted
in the temple of humanity. Shakspeare in no instance comes nearer what is
highest in our common nature and miraculous in our experience, than when
he makes the philosophic Dane question his soul and confront mortality.
The once popular and ever-memorable _Night Thoughts_ of Young elaborate
kindred ideas in the light of Christian truth; the most quaintly eloquent
of early speculative writings in English prose is Sir Thomas Browne's
treatise on Urn-Burial. The most thoughtful and earnest of modern Italian
poems is Foscolo's _Sepolchri_; the Monody on Sir John Moore, Shelley's
Elegy on Keats, Tickell's on Addison, Byron's on Sheridan, and Tennyson's
_In Memoriam_, contain the most sincere and harmonious utterances of their
authors. Not the least affecting pages of _The Sketch Book_ are those
which describe the 'Village Funeral' and the 'Widow's Son;' and the
endeared author has marked his own sense of the local sanctity of the
grave by selecting that of his family in 'Sleepy Hollow,' in the midst of
scenes endeared by his abode and his fame. Halleck has given lyrical
immortality to the warrior's death in the cause of freedom; and
Wordsworth, in perhaps his most quoted ballad, has recorded with exquisite
simplicity childhood's unconsciousness of death; even the most analytical
of French novelists found, in the laws and ceremonial of a Parisian
interment, material for his keenest diagnosis of the scenes of life in
that marvellous capital. Hope's best descriptive powers were enlisted in
his sketch of burial-places near Constantinople, so pensively contrasting
with the more adventurous chapters of Anastasius. If in popular literature
this sentiment is so constantly appealed to, and so enshrined in the
poet's dream and the philosopher's speculation, classic and Hebrew authors
have inscribed its memorials in outlines of majestic and graceful import;
around it the picturesque and the moralizing, the vivacious and the
grandly simple expressions of the Roman, the Greek, and the Jewish writers
seem to hover with the significant plaint--heroism or faith--which invokes
us, with the voice of ages, to
'Pay the deep reverence taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;
Nor dare to trifle with the mould
Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.'
Perhaps there is no instance of this vague and awful interest more
memorable to the American than when he reads, on some ancient tablet in
the Old World, the burial record of his ancestors.
The monitory and reminiscent influence of the churchyard, apart from all
personal associations, cannot, indeed, be over-estimated; doubtless in a
spirit of propriety and good taste, it is now more frequently suburban,
made attractive by trees, flowers, a wide landscape, and rural peace, and
rendered comparatively safe from desecration by distance from the
so-called march of improvement which annually changes the aspect of our
growing towns. Yet, wherever situated, the homes of the dead, when made
eloquent by art, and kept fresh by reverent care, breathe a chastening and
holy lesson, perhaps the more impressive when uttered beside the teeming
camp of life. To the traveller in Europe it is a pathetic sight to watch
the Norwegian peasants strew flowers, every Sabbath, on the graves of
their kindred, and gives a living interest to the memorials of
Scandinavian antiquity gathered in the museums, whereby, through the
weapons and drinking-cups of stone, bronze, and iron, exhumed from graves,
he traces the origin and growth of that remote civilization. And when time
has softened the most acute and bitter memories of the War for the Union,
what monument to individual prowess, what trophy of patriotic
self-sacrifice will compare, in solemn and elevating pathos, with the
impression derived from the 'national cemeteries' of the battle-field and
the hospital? As Lincoln said of Gettysburg,--'they will dedicate us
afresh to our country, to humanity, and to God.'
When the traveller gazes on the marble effigy of the warrior at Ravenna,
and then treads the plain where Gaston de Foix fell in battle, the fixed
lineaments and obsolete armour bring home to his mind the very life of the
middle ages, solemnized by youthful heroism and early death; when he scans
the vast city beneath its smoky veil--thick with roofs and dotted with
spires,--from an elevated point of Père la Chaise, the humble and
garlanded cross, and the chiselled names of the wise and brave that
surround him, cause the parallel and inwoven mysteries of life and death
to stir the fountains of his heart with awe, and make his lips tremble
into prayer; and, familiar as is the spectacle, the more thoughtful of the
throng in New York's bustling thoroughfare will sometimes pause and cast a
salutary glance from the hurrying crowd to the monuments of the heroic
Lawrence, the eloquent Emmet, the gallant Montgomery, and the patriotic
Hamilton. Those associations which form at once the culture and the
romance of travel are identified with the same eternal sentiment. Next in
interest to the monuments of genius and character are those of death; or
rather, the inspiration of the former are everywhere consecrated by the
latter.
'Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings,--yet the dead are there!'
Nero dug his own grave, lest he should be denied burial, and Shakspeare
guarded his own ashes by an imprecatory epitaph; David praises the men of
Jabesh Gilead who rescue the bones of their king from the enemy. It is a
sweet custom,--that of making little excavations in sepulchral slabs to
catch the rain, that birds may be lured thither to drink and sing. The
Chinese sell themselves in order to obtain means to bury their parents.
We enter a city of antiquity--memorable Syracuse or disinterred
Pompeii--through a street of tombs; the majestic relics of Egyptian
civilization are the cenotaphs of kings; the Escurial is Spain's
architectural elegy; Abelard's philosophy is superseded, but his love and
death live daily to the vision of the mourners who go from the gay capital
of France, to place chaplets on the graves of departed friends;[28] the
grandeurs of Westminster Abbey are sublimated by the effigies of bards and
statesmen, and the rare music of St. George's choir made solemn by the
dust of royalty; deserted Ravenna is peopled with intense life by the
creations of Dante which haunt his sepulchre; Arqua is the shrine of
affectionate pilgrims; the radiant hues and graceful shapes of Titian and
Canova become ethereal to the fancy, when viewed beside their monuments;
St. Peter's is but a magnificent apostolic tomb; and the shadow of
mortality is incarnated in Lorenzo's brooding figure in the jewelled
temple of the dead Medici. Even the dim, half-explored catacombs of Rome
yield significant testimony to the Christian's heart to-day. 'The works of
painting found within them,' well says a recent writer, 'their
construction, the inscriptions on the graves,--all unite in bearing
witness to the simplicity of the faith, the purity of the doctrine, the
strength of the feeling, the change in the lives of the vast mass of the
members of the early church of Christ.'[29]
What resorts are Santa Croce, Mount Vernon, Saint Paul's, and Saint
Onofrio! What a goal, through ages, the Holy Sepulchre! How the dim
escutcheons sanctify cathedrals, and sunken headstones the rural cemetery!
How sacred the mystery of the Campagna hid in that 'stern round tower of
other days,' which bears the name of a Roman matron! The beautiful
sarcophagus of Scipio, the feudal crypt of Theodric, the silent soldier of
the Invalides, the mossy cone of Caius Cæstus, in whose shadow two English
poets[30] yet speak in graceful epitaphs, Thorwaldsen's grand mausoleum
at Copenhagen, composed of his own trophies,--what objects are these to
win the mind back into the lapsing ages, and upward with 'immortal
longings!' We turn from brilliant thoroughfares, alive with creatures of a
day, to catacombs obscure with the impalpable dust of bygone generations;
we pass from the vociferous piazza to the hushed and frescoed cloister,
and walk on mural tablets whose inscriptions are worn by the feet of
vanished multitudes; we steal from the cheerful highway to the field of
mounds, where a shaft, a cross, or a garland breathes of surviving
tenderness; we handle the cloudy lachrymal, quaint depository of
long-evaporated tears, or admire the sculptured urn, the casket of what
was unutterably precious, even in mortality; and thereby life is
solemnized, consciousness deepened, and we feel, above the tyrannous
present, and through the casual occupation of the hour, the 'electric
chain wherewith we're darkly bound.' 'When I look upon the tombs of the
great,' says Addison, 'every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the
epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet
with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with
compassion; when I see the tombs of the parents themselves, I consider the
vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings
lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by
side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and
disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little
competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several
dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred
years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be
contemporaries, and make our appearance together.' Thus perpetual is the
hymn of death, thus ubiquitous its memorials--attesting not only an
inevitable destiny, but a universal sentiment; under whatever name,--God's
Acre, Pantheon, Campo Santo, Valhalla, Potter's Field, Greenwood, or Mount
Auburn,--the last resting-place of the body, the last earthly shrine of
human love, fame, and sorrow, claims--by the pious instinct which
originates, the holy rites which consecrate, the blessed hopes which
glorify it--respect, protection, and sanctity.
There is, indeed, no spot of earth so hallowed to the contemplative as
that which holds the ashes of an intellectual benefactor. What a grateful
tribute does the trans-atlantic pilgrim instinctively offer at the
sepulchre of Roscoe at Liverpool, of Lafayette in France, of Berkeley at
Oxford, of Burns at Alloway Kirk, and of Keats and Goldsmith,--of all the
bards, philosophers, and reformers whose conceptions warmed and exalted
his dawning intelligence, and became thereby sacred to his memory for
ever! How fruitful the hours--snatched from less serene pleasure--devoted
to Stratford, Melrose, and the Abbey! To realize the value of these
opportunities, the spirit of humanity enshrined in such 'Meccas of the
mind,' we must fancy the barrenness of earth stripped of these landmarks
of the gifted and the lost. How denuded of its most tender light would be
Olney, Stoke Pogis, the vale of Florence, the cypress groves of Rome, and
the park at Weimar, unconsecrated by the sepulchres of Cowper and Gray,
Michael Angelo, Tasso, and Schiller, whose sweet and lofty remembrance
links meadow and stream, mountain and sunset, with the thought of all that
is most pensive, beautiful, and sublime in genius and in woe.
ACTORS.
'All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.'
JACQUES.
Dramatic talent is far more common than is usually believed. In every
family where decided traits of character prevail, it is spontaneously
exhibited; and no intimate circle of friends in which a perfect mutual
understanding and entire frankness exist, can often meet without an
instinctive development of a propensity and a gift innate in all
intelligent and genial minds; either in the play of humour, in graphic
narrative, in skilful imitation, or the accidental turn of conversation,
the dramatic appears, and we have only to look and listen objectively, to
find the scene and the dialogue 'as good as a play.' Almost every
community has its self-elected buffoons, its volunteer harlequins, and its
involuntary actors, who, carried away by the spur of vanity or the
overflow of enthusiasm, vividly represent either the ludicrous, the
characteristic, or the impassioned in human nature. To the imaginative,
observant, and susceptible, 'all the world's a stage,' and men and women
'merely players;' or, rather, there are times when the aspects of society
thus impress us. There is, too, a dramatic instinct in the very
consciousness of imaginative and impassioned natures, who, to use the
words of a woman of genius, yield to 'un besoin inné qu'elles éprouvent de
dramatiser leur existence à leurs propres yeux.' A national dramatic
language has ever been recognized in the responsive vivacity of the
Italian manners, the theatrical bearing of the French, and the proud
reticence of the Spaniard; these traits are infinitely modified to the eye
of scientific observation; and are the direct and significant language of
temperament, race, and character. It is, perhaps, because the elements of
the dramatic art are thus universal, that its professors are so little
esteemed, unless of the very highest order. It is certainly true of most
of the celebrated performers that they have been unhappy, and averse to
their children adopting the vocation.
To appreciate the significance of elocutionary art, we have but to
consider that all poetry and rhetoric need interpretation. To the
multitude, in its printed or written form, the word of genius is often as
much a sealed book as the notes of a fine musical composition to one
uninitiated as to the meaning of those occult signs of harmony. Wordsworth
gained many converts to his poetical theory by the impressive manner in
which he recited his verses, who would have remained insensible to their
worth if only the force of reasoning had been used. The popularity of many
English lyrics and dramatic scenes is owing to the emphasis given them, in
the memory, by felicitous declaimers. How different is the Church Service,
an old ballad, an oration, the sentiment of Tennyson, the chivalry of
Campbell, or the ardent gloom of Byron, when melodiously and intelligently
uttered: only those who really feel the sense or pathos of a poem, win
others adequately to receive it; and there now lie neglected heaps of
noble verse, the latent music of which has not been vocally eliminated. In
this view, the requisite combination of voice, sensibility, and
intelligence, that constitute a good elocutionist, is an endowment of
inestimable value. Lee, the dramatist, used to read his plays so
effectively that it discouraged the actors from undertaking them; and the
crowds that listen attentively to an able reader of Shakspeare, indicate
the extent of public taste for this unappreciated and rarely cultivated
accomplishment. Kean gave 'a local habitation,' in the minds of thousands,
to Shaksperian inspiration; his surviving auditors are yet haunted by his
tones; his inflections and emphasis sculptured, as it were, with a breath,
upon memory, words that had previously left only a transient impression.
Had we, in our Western civilization, a profession analogous to the
improvisatore of the South, or the story-teller of the East, to make
familiar and impressive the utterance of our poets, they need not fear
comparison with the ancient bards of the people. Tasso and Ariosto are
read to this day, in squares and on quays in Italy, to swarthy and
tattered groups, who applaud a good line as if it were a new candidate for
fame; and, notwithstanding the aversion of the highly intellectual to the
theatre, Shakspeare became domesticated in the English mind through the
interpretation of histrionic genius. It is on account of this vital
connection between literature and elocution, this absolute need of a
popular exposition of what otherwise would never penetrate the common
mind, that the decadence of the Stage is to be regretted, and the
recognition of elocution as a high, graceful, and useful art is desirable.
We have an abundance of critics; we need expositors, artists to embody in
clear, emphatic, and justly-modulated tones, the graces and the thoughts
which minstrel and philosopher have elaborated; this would awaken moral
sympathy, give a social interest to the pleasures of literature, and wing
words of truth and beauty over the world. It is in view of such an office
that the actor rises to dignity; and that such a 'great simple being' as
Mrs. Siddons was consoled, when insulted by an audience, for her
'consciousness of a humiliating vocation;' and that Kean, wayward and
dissolute, recklessly leaping the barrier of civilization, like Freneau's
Indian boy who ran from college to the woods, reappears to the fancy as a
genuine minister at the altar of humanity. Talma's life was coincident
with some of the greatest events of the century; and his social position
is a noble vindication of histrionic genius in alliance with superior
character. Associated with the literary men of his country, and befriended
by her statesmen, his reminiscences are quite as interesting as his
professional triumphs. Intimate with Chenier, David, and Danton, he was
admired and cherished by Napoleon. Like Kean his earliest attempts failed,
and like Garrick he was a reformer in his art. The philosophy of dramatic
personation as regarded by such a man has a peculiar interest. 'Acting,'
he said, 'is a complete paradox; we must possess the power of strong
feeling, or we could never command and carry with us the sympathy of a
mixed audience in a crowded theatre; but we must, at the same time,
control our sensations on the stage, for their indulgence would enfeeble
execution. The skilful actor calculates his effects beforehand; the voice,
gesture, and look which pass for inspiration, have been rehearsed a
hundred times. On the other hand, a dull, composed, phlegmatic nature can
never make a great actor.' Talma's introduction of Kemble's toga in the
Roman plays, his teaching Bonaparte to play king, according to the famous
_on-dit_, his matchless dignity and elocution, his English affinities, his
charming talk, his select circle of friends, his prosperous style of
living, and the new rank he gave his vocation, combine to endear and
elevate his memory.
In an historical view the relation of actors to society, art, letters, and
religion, offers many curious problems: _protégés_ of the State in the
palmy days of Greece, with the purely secular interest attached to the
stage under the Romans it degenerated; yet Cicero profited by the
instructions of Roscius, and gained for him an important suit; and while
Augustus decreed that 'players were exempt from stripes,' later edicts
declared 'that no senators should enter the houses of pantomimes, and that
Roman knights should not attend them in the streets.' Excommunicated by
the Church of Rome in the middle ages, they gave vital scope and
character to Spanish literature by evoking the rich and national materials
of that extraordinary drama of which Calderon and Lope de Vega are the
permanent expositors. Its history shows how, from religious comedies to
historical and social plays, the representatives of the stage in Spain
fostered her intellectual development and only popular culture, 'until
there was hardly a village that did not possess some kind of a theatre.'
The actors at Madrid 'constituted no less than forty companies,' and
'secular comedies of a very equivocal complexion were represented in some
of the principal monasteries of the kingdom.' The conduct of the Spanish
actors, however, according to the same testimony,[31] 'did more than
anything else to endanger the privileges of the drama.' Their personal lot
seems to have been as hard as the worst of their successors; 'slaves in
Algiers were better off.' In France, political, social, and literary life
and labour are often so related to or influenced by the renowned
_artistes_ of the stage, that they figure as an inevitable element in
popular memoirs; nowhere is the influence of the profession so direct and
absolute; and while the rise of German literature and liberalism is
identified with the advent of dramatic genius and the national revival of
the theatre, in England the most distinctive and pervading glory of her
intellectual character and fame is the offspring of this form of letters
and this phase of social recreative art. The biographies of the most
celebrated and endeared authors, from Alfieri to Irving, and from Goëthe
to Wilson, indicate that dramatic entertainments, whether Italian opera or
the English stage in its prime, court-plays at Weimar, or Terry at
Edinburgh, are to them the most available recuperative and inspiring of
pastimes.