Kitabı oku: «Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, April 1885», sayfa 7

The range, then, of this poet in all the achievements of his long life is vast – lyrical, dramatic,³ narrative, allegoric, philosophical. Even strong and barbed satire is not wanting, as in “Sea-Dreams,” the fierce verses to Bulwer, “The Spiteful Letter.” Of the most varied measures he is master, as of the richest and most copious vocabulary. Only in the sonnet form, perhaps, does his genius not move with so royal a port, so assured a superiority over all rivals. I have seen sonnets even by other living English writers that appeared to me more striking; notably, fine sonnets by Mr. J. A. Symonds, Mr. Theodore Watts, Mrs. Pfeiffer, Miss Blind. But surely Tennyson must have written very little indifferent poetry when you think of the fuss made by his detractors over the rather poor verses beginning “I stood on a tower in the wet,” and the somewhat insignificant series entitled “The Window.” For “The Victim” appears to me exceedingly good. Talk of daintiness and prettiness! Yes; but it is the lambent, water-waved damascening on a Saladin’s blade; it is the rich enchasement on a Cœur de Lion’s armor. Amid the soul-subduing spaces, and tall forested piers of that cathedral by Rhine, there are long jewelled flames for window, and embalmed kings lie shrined in gold, with gems all over it like eyes. While Tennyson must loyally be recognized as the Arthur or Lancelot of modern English verse, even by those among us who believe that their own work in poetry cannot fairly be damned as “minor,” while he need fear the enthronement of no younger rival near him, the poetic standard he has established is in all respects so high that poets who love their art must needs glory in such a leader and such an example, though pretenders may verily be shamed into silence, and Marsyas cease henceforward to contend with Apollo. —Contemporary Review.

ON AN OLD SONG
BY W. E. H. LECKY

 
Little snatch of ancient song
What has made thee live so long?
Flying on thy wings of rhyme
Lightly down the depths of time,
Telling nothing strange or rare,
Scarce a thought or image there,
Nothing but the old, old tale
Of a hapless lover’s wail;
Offspring of some idle hour,
Whence has come thy lasting power?
By what turn of rhythm or phrase,
By what subtle, careless grace
Can thy music charm our ears
After full three hundred years?
 
 
Little song, since thou wert born
In the Reformation morn,
How much great has past away,
Shattered or by slow decay!
Stately piles in ruins crumbled,
Lordly houses lost or humbled.
Thrones and realms in darkness hurled,
Noble flags forever furled,
Wisest schemes by statesmen spun,
Time has seen them one by one
Like the leaves of autumn fall —
A little song outlives them all.
 
 
There were mighty scholars then
With the slow, laborious pen
Piling up their works of learning,
Men of solid, deep discerning,
Widely famous as they taught
Systems of connected thought,
Destined for all future ages;
Now the cobweb binds their pages,
All unread their volumes lie
Mouldering so peaceably,
Coffined thoughts of coffined men.
Never more to stir again
In the passion and the strife,
In the fleeting forms of life;
All their force and meaning gone
As the stream of thought flows on.
 
 
Art thou weary, little song,
Flying through the world so long?
Canst thou on thy fairy pinions
Cleave the future’s dark dominions?
And with music soft and clear
Charm the yet unfashioned ear,
Mingling with the things unborn
When perchance another morn
Great as that which gave thee birth
Dawns upon the changing earth?
It may be so, for all around
With a heavy crashing sound
Like the ice of polar seas
Melting in the summer breeze,
Signs of change are gathering fast,
Nations breaking with their past.
 
 
The pulse of thought is beating quicker,
The lamp of faith begins to flicker,
The ancient reverence decays
With forms and types of other days;
And old beliefs grow faint and few
As knowledge moulds the world anew,
And scatters far and wide the seeds
Of other hopes and other creeds;
And all in vain we seek to trace
The fortunes of the coming race,
Some with fear and some with hope,
None can cast its horoscope.
Vap’rous lamp or rising star,
Many a light is seen afar,
And dim shapeless figures loom
All around us in the gloom —
Forces that may rise and reign
As the old ideals wane.
 
 
Landmarks of the human mind,
One by one are left behind,
And a subtle change is wrought
In the mould and cast of thought,
Modes of reasoning pass away,
Types of beauty lose their sway,
Creeds and causes that have made
Many noble lives, must fade;
And the words that thrilled of old
Now seem hueless, dead, and cold;
Fancy’s rainbow tints are flying,
Thoughts, like men, are slowly dying;
All things perish, and the strongest
Often do not last the longest;
The stately ship is seen no more,
The fragile skiff attains the shore;
And while the great and wise decay,
And all their trophies pass away,
Some sudden thought, some careless rhyme
Still floats above the wrecks of time.
 

Macmillan’s Magazine.

THE AMERICAN AUDIENCE
BY HENRY IRVING

What is the difference between an English and an American audience? That is a question which has frequently been put to me, and which I have always found it difficult to answer. The points of dissimilarity are simply those arising from people of a common origin living under conditions often widely different. It is, therefore, only possible for me to indicate such traits in the bearing of the American playgoer as have come under my own personal notice, and impressed me with a sense of unfamiliarity.

Every American town, great or small, has – I believe, without exception – its theatre and its church, and when a new town is about to be built, the sites for a place of amusement and a place of worship are invariably those first selected. As an instance, take Pullman, which lies some sixteen miles from Chicago, pleasantly situated on the banks of the Calumet Lake. The original design of this little city, which is almost ideal in its organization, and has the enviable reputation of being absolutely perfect in its sanitation, was conceived on the lines just mentioned. Denver City, which is a growth almost abnormal even in an age and country of abnormal progress, has a theatre, which is said to be one of the finest in America. Boston, with its old civilization, boasts seventeen theatres, or buildings in which plays are given; New York possesses no less than twenty-eight regular theatres, besides a host of smaller ones; and Chicago, whose very foundations are younger than the beards of some men of thirty, has, according to a printed list, over twenty theatres, all of which seem to flourish. The number of theatres in America and the influence they exercise constitute important elements in the national life. This great multiplication of dramatic possibilities renders it necessary to take a very wide and general view, if one wishes to get a distinct impression as to how audiences here differ from those at home. So at least it must seem to a player, who can only find comparison possible when points of difference suggest themselves. For a proper understanding of such difference in audiences, we must ascertain wherein consist the differences of the theatres which they frequent, both in architectural construction, social arrangement, and that habit of management which is a natural growth.

By the enactments of the various States regulating the structure and conduct of places of amusement, full provision for the comfort and safety of the audience is insisted on. It is directed that the back of the auditorium should open by adequate doors directly upon the main passage or vestibule, and that through the centre of the floor should run an aisle right down to the orchestra rail. Thus the floor of the house is easy of access and exit, is generally of large expanse, and capable of containing half, or more than half, of the entire audience. It is usually divided into two parts – the orchestra or parquet, and the orchestra or parquet circle – the latter being a zone running around the former and covered by the projection of the first gallery. The floor of an American theatre is, as a rule, on a more inclined plane than is customary in English theatres, and there is a good view of the stage from every part. Outside the parquet circle, and within the inner wall of the building, is usually a wide passage where many persons can stand. Thus in most houses there is a great elasticity in the holding power, which at times adds not a little to the managerial success. I cannot but think that in several respects we have much to learn from our American cousins in the construction and arrangement of the auditorium of the theatre; on the other hand, they might study with advantage our equipment behind the proscenium.

It is perhaps due to the sentiment and tradition of personal equality in the nation, that the entire stream often turns to one portion of the house, in a way somewhat odd to those accustomed as we are in England to the separating force of social grades. To the great majority of persons, only one part of the theatre is eminently eligible, and other portions are mainly sought when the floor is occupied. The very willingness with which the public acquiesce in certain discomforts or annoyances attendant on visiting the theatre, would seem to show that the drama is an integral portion of their daily life. It cannot be denied by any one cognizant of the working of American theatres that there are certain facts or customs which must discount enjoyment. Before a visitor is in a position to settle comfortably to the reception of a play, he must, as a rule, experience many inconveniences. In the first place he has in some States to submit to the exactions of the ticket speculator or “scalper,” who, through defective State laws, is generally able to buy tickets in bulk, and to retail them at an exorbitant rate. I have known of instances where tickets of the full value of three dollars were paid for by the public at the average rate of ten or twelve dollars. Then, through the high price of labor, which in most American institutions causes employers to so dispose of their forces as to minimize service, the attendance in the front of the house is, I am told, often inadequate. Were it not for the orderly disposition and habit of the public, trained by the custom of equal rights to stand, and move en queue, it would not be possible to admit and seat the audience in the interval between the opening of the doors and the commencement of the performance. Thus the public are somewhat “hustled,” and from one cause or another too often reach their seats after having endured much annoyance with a patient submission which speaks volumes for their law-abiding nature; but which must sorely disturb that reposeful spirit which the actor may consider essential to a due enjoyment of the play.

Once in his seat the American playgoer does not, as a rule, leave it until the performance is at an end. The percentage of persons who move about during the entr’acte is, when compared with that in England, exceedingly small, and sinks into complete insignificance when contrasted with the exodus to the foyer customary in continental theatres. In the equipment of the American theatre there is one omission which will surprise us at home – that of the bar, or refreshment room. In not a single theatre that I can call to mind in America have I found provision made for drinking. It is not by any means that the average playgoer is a teetotaler, but that, if he wishes or needs to drink during the evening, he does it as he does during the hours of his working life, and not as a necessary concomitant to the enjoyment of his leisure hours. Two other things are noticeable: first, that the audiences are sometimes very unpunctual, and to suit the audiences the managers sometimes delay beginning. The audience depend on this delay, and the consequence frequently is, that a first act is entirely disturbed by their entry; secondly, that, after the play, it is a custom, in a degree unknown in any European capital, to adjourn to various restaurants for supper.

As the audience en bloc remain seated, so the length of the performance must be taken into account by managers; and commonly two hours and a half is considered the maximum length to which a performance should run, though I must say that we have at times sinned by keeping our audiences seated until eleven o’clock, and it has been even later. Of course in this branch of the subject must be also considered the difficulty of reaching their homes experienced by audiences in cities whose liberal arrangements of space, and absence of cheap cabs, renders necessary a due regard to time. In matter of duration, however, the audience is not to be trifled with or imposed on. I have heard of a case in a city of Colorado where the manager of a travelling company, on the last night of an engagement, in order to catch a through train, hurried the ordinary performance of his play into an hour and a half. When next the company were coming to the city they were met en route, some fifty miles out, by the sheriff, who warned them to pass on by some other way, as their coming was awaited by a large section of the able-bodied male population armed with shot guns. The company did not, I am informed, on that occasion visit the city. I may here mention that in America the dramatic season lasts about eight months – from the beginning of the “fall” in September till the hot weather commences in April. During this period the theatres are kept busy, as there are performances on the evenings of every week day, and in the South and West on Sunday evening also, whilst matinées are given every Saturday, and in a large number of cases every Wednesday. In certain places even the afternoon of Sunday sees a performance. It is a fact, somewhat amusing at first, that in nearly all towns of comparatively minor importance the theatre is known as the Opera House.

I have dwelt on the external condition of the American audiences in order to explain the condition antecedent to the actor’s appearance. The differences between various audiences are so minute that some such insight seems necessary to enable one to recognise and understand them. An actor in the ordinary course of his work can only partially at best realise such differences as there may be, much less attempt to state them explicitly. His first experience before a strange audience is the discovery whether or not he is en rapport with them. This, however, he can most surely feel, though he cannot always give a reason for the feeling. As there is, in the occurrences of daily life, a conveyance other than by words of meaning, of sentiment, or of understanding between different individuals, so there is a carriage of mutual understanding or reciprocity of sentiment between the stage and the auditorium. The emotion which an actor may feel, or which his art may empower him successfully to simulate, can be conveyed over the floats in some way which neither actor nor audience may be able to explain; and the reciprocation of such emotion can be as surely manifested by the audience by more subtle and unconscious ways than overt applause or otherwise. It must be remembered that the opportunities which I have had of observing audiences have been almost entirely from my own stage. Little facility of wider observation is afforded to a man who plays seven performances each week and fills up most of the blank mornings with rehearsal or travel. I only put forward what I feel or believe. Such belief is based on the opportunities I have had of observation or of following out the experience of others.

The dominant characteristic of the American audience seems to be impartiality. They do not sit in judgment, resenting as positive offences lack of power to convey meanings or divergence of interpretation of particular character or scene. I understand that when they do not like a performance they simply go away, so that at the close of the evening the silence of a deserted house gives to the management a verdict more potent than audible condemnation. This does not apply to questions of morals, which can be, and are, as quickly judged here as elsewhere. On this subject I give entirely the evidence of others, for it has been my good fortune to see our audiences seated till the final falling of the curtain. Again, there is a kindly feeling on the part of the audience towards the actor as an individual, especially if he be not a complete stranger, which is, I presume, a part of that recognition of individuality which is so striking a characteristic in American life and customs. Many an actor draws habitually a portion of his audience, not in consequence of artistic merit, not from capacity to arouse or excite emotion, but simply because there is something in his personality which they like. This spirit forcibly reminds me of the story told of the manager of one of the old “Circuits,” who gave as a reason for the continued engagement of an impossibly bad actor, that “he was kind to his mother.” The thorough enjoyment of the audience is another point to be noticed. Not only are they quick to understand and appreciate, but there seems to be a genuine pleasure in the expression of approval. American audiences are not surpassed in quickness and completeness of comprehension by any that I have yet seen, and no actor need fear to make his strongest or his most subtle effort, for such is sure to receive instant and full acknowledgment at their hands.

There is little more than this to be said of the American audience. But short though the record is, the impression upon the player himself is profound and abiding. To describe what one sees and hears over the footlights is infinitely easier than to convey an idea of the mental disposition and feeling of the spectators. The house is ample and comfortable, and the audience is well-disposed to be pleased. Ladies and gentlemen alike are mostly in morning dress, distinguished in appearance, and guided in every respect by a refined decorum. The sight is generally picturesque. Even in winter flowers abound, and the majority of ladies have bouquets either carried in the hand or fastened on the shoulder or corsage. At matinée performances especially, where the larger proportion of the audience is composed of ladies, the effect is not less pleasing to the olfactory senses than to the eye. Courteous, patient, enthusiastic, the American audience is worthy of any effort which the actor can make on its behalf, and he who has had experience of them would be an untrustworthy chronicler if he failed, or even hesitated, to bear witness to their intelligence, their taste and their generosity. —Fortnightly Review.

STIMULANTS AND NARCOTICS
BY PERCY GREG

Among all the signal inventions, discoveries, and improvements of the age, social and material, scientific and mechanical, few, perhaps, are fraught with graver possibilities for good and evil than the great achievement of recent medicine – the development, if it should not more properly be called the discovery, of anæsthetics. Steam has revolutionized mechanics; the locomotive, the steam-hammer, and the power-loom, the creation of the railway and the factory system, have essentially modified social as well as material civilization; and it is possible at least that electric lights and motors, telegraphs and telephones, may produce yet greater consequences. This last century has been signalized by greater mechanical achievements than the whole historic period since the discovery of iron. But in obvious, immediate influence on human happiness, it is quite conceivable that the discovery of chloroform, ether, and other anæsthetics – the diffusion of chloral, opium, and other narcotics, putting them within the reach of every individual, at the command of men and women, almost of children, independently of medical advice or sanction – may be, for a time at least, more important than those inventions which have changed the fundamental conditions of industry, or those which may yet change them once more. It is difficult for the rising generation to realize that state of medicine, and especially of surgery, which old men can well remember; when every operation, from the extraction of a bad tooth to the removal of a limb, must be performed upon patients in full possession of their senses. In those days the horror with which men and women, uninfluenced by scientific enthusiasm, now regard the alleged tortures of vivisection was hardly possible. Thousands of human beings had yearly to undergo – every man, woman, and child might have to undergo – agonies quite as terrible as any that the most ardent advocate of the rights of animals, the most vivid imagination excited by fear for dearly loved dumb companions, ascribes to the vivisector’s knife. It may well be doubted whether the highest brutes are capable of suffering any pain comparable with that of hardy soldiers or seamen – much less with that of sensitive, nervous men, and delicate women – when the surgeon’s blade cut through living, often inflamed tissues, generally rendered infinitely more sensitive by previous disease or injury, while the brain was fully, intensely conscious; every nerve quivering with even exaggerated sensibility. The brutes, at any rate, are spared the long agony of anticipation, and at least half the tortures of memory. They may fear for a few minutes; our fathers and mothers lay in terror for hours and days, nay, persons of vivid imagination must have suffered acutely through half a lifetime, in the expectation that, soon or late, their only choice might lie between excruciating temporary torture and a death of lingering hopeless anguish. No gift of God, perhaps, has been so precious, no effort of human intellect has done more to lessen human suffering and fear, to take from life much of its darkest evil and horror, than anæsthesia as developed during the last fifty years. True that in the case of severe operations it is as yet beyond the power of medicine to give complete relief. If spared the torture of the operation, the patient has yet to endure the cruel smart that the knife leaves behind. But the relief of previous terror, of the awful, unspeakable, and, to those who never felt it, almost inconceivable agony endured while the flesh was carved, and the bone sawn, have disappeared from the sick room and the hospital.

Narcotics should be carefully distinguished from anæsthetics. Their use is different, not in degree only, but in character and purpose. Their legitimate object is two-fold: primarily, in a limited number of cases, to relieve or mitigate pain temporarily or permanently incurable; but secondarily and principally to cure what to a large and constantly increasing class in every civilized country is among the severest trials attendant on sickness, over-work, or nervous excitement – that loss of sleep which is a terrible affliction in itself, and aggravates, much more than inexperience would suppose, every form of suffering with which it is connected. Nature mercifully intended that prolonged intolerable pain should of itself bring the relief of sleep or swooning; and primitive races like the Red Indian, living in the open air, with dull imagination and insensible nerves, still find such relief. The victims of Mohawk and Huron tortures have been known, during a brief intermission of agony, to sleep at the stake till fire was used to awaken them. But among the many drawbacks of civilized life must be counted the tendency of artificial conditions to defeat some of Nature’s most merciful provisions. The nerves of civilized men are too sensitive, the brains developed by hereditary culture and constant exercise are too restless, to obtain from sleep that relief in pain, especially prolonged pain, that nature apparently intended. Many of us, even in sleep, are keenly sensitive to suffering, at least to chronic as distinguished from acute pain, to dull protracted pangs like those of rheumatism, ear-ache, or tooth-ache. A little sharper pain, and sleep becomes impossible. The sufferer is not only deprived of the respite that slumber should afford, but insomnia itself enhances his sensibility, besides adding a new and terrible torment of its own. Artificial prevention of sleep was notoriously among the most cruel and the most certainly mortal of mediæval or barbaric tortures. The sensations of one who has not slept for several nights, beginning with a restless, unnatural, constantly increasing consciousness of the brain, its existence and its action, passing by degrees into an acute, unendurably distressing irritation of that organ – generally unconscious or insensible, probably because its habitual sensibility would be intolerable – are indescribable, unimaginable by those who have not felt them; and seem to be proportionate to the activity of the intellect, the susceptibility of nerve and vitality of temperament – the capacity for pain and pleasure. In a word, the finer the physical and nervous character, the more terrible the torment of sleeplessness. A little more and the patient is confronted with one of the most frightful forms of pain and terror, the consciousness of incipient insanity. But long before reaching this stage, sleeplessness exaggerates pain and weakens the power of endurance, quickens the sensibility of the nerves, enfeebles the will, exacerbates the temper, produces a physical and nervous irritability which to an observer unacquainted with the cause seems irrational, unaccountable, extravagant, even frantic, but which afflicts the patient incomparably more than those, however near and however sensitive, on whom it is vented. Drugs, then, which enable the physician in most cases to check insomnia at an early stage – to secure, for example, in a case of chronic pain, six or seven hours of complete repose out of the twenty-four, to arrest a mischief which leads by the shortest and most painful route directly to insanity – are simply invaluable.

It may seem a paradox, it is a truism, to say that in their value lies their peril. Because they have such power for good, because the suffering they relieve is in its lighter forms so common, because neuralgia and sleeplessness are ailments as familiar to the present generation as gout, rheumatism, catarrh to our grandfathers, therefore the medicines which immediately relieve sleeplessness and neuralgic pain are among the most dangerous possessions, the most subtle temptations, of civilized and especially of intellectual life. Every one of these drugs has, besides its immediate and beneficial effect, other and injurious tendencies. The relief which it gives is purchased at a certain price; and in every instance the relief is lessened or rendered uncertain, the mischievous influence is enhanced and aggravated by repetition; till, when the use has become habitual, it has become pure abuse, when the drug has become a necessity of life it has lost the greater part if not the whole of its value, and serves only to satisfy the need which itself alone has created. Contrary to popular tradition, we believe that of popular narcotics opium is on the whole, if the most seductive, the least injurious; chloral, which at first passed for being almost harmless, is probably the most noxious of all, having both chemical and vital effects which approach if they do not amount to blood-poisoning. It is said (we do not affirm with what truth) that the subsequent administration of half a teaspoonful of a common alkali operates as an antidote to some of these specific effects. The bromide of potash, another favorite, especially with women, is less, perhaps, a narcotic proper than a sedative. It is said not to produce sleep directly, like chloral or opium, by stupefaction, but at least in small doses simply to allay the nervous irritability which is often the sole cause of sleeplessness. But in larger quantities and in its ultimate effects it is scarcely less to be dreaded than chloral. It has been recommended as a potent, indeed a specific and the only specific, remedy for sea-sickness. But the state to which, as its advocate allows, the patient must be reduced, a state of complete nervous subjection to the power of the drug, seems worse than the disease, save in its most cruel and dangerous forms. Such points, however, may be left to the chemist, the physician, or the physiologist; our purpose is rather to indicate briefly the social aspects of the subject, the social causes, conditions, and consequences of that narcotism which is, if not yet a prevalent, certainly a rapidly-spreading habit.

The desire or craving for stimulants in the most general sense of the word – for drugs acting upon the nerves whether as excitant or sedative agents – is an almost if not absolutely universal human appetite; so general, so early developed, that we might almost call it an instinct. Alcohol, of course, is the most popular, under ordinary circumstances the most seductive, and by far the most widely diffused of all stimulant substances. From the Euphrates to the Straits of Dover, the vine has been from the earliest ages second only to corn in popular estimation; wine, next to bread, the most prized and most universal article of human food. The connection between Ceres and Bacchus is found in almost every language as in the social life of every nation, from the warlike Assyrian monarchy, the stable hierocratic despotism of Egypt, to the modern French Republic and German Empire. Corn itself has furnished stimulant second in popularity to wine alone; the spirit which delighted the fiercer, sterner races of Northern Europe – Swede, Norwegian, and Dane, St. Olaf, and Harold Hardrada, as their descendants of to-day; and the ale of our own Saxon and Scandinavian ancestry, which neither spirit, cider, nor Spanish wine has superseded among ourselves. The vine, again, seems to have been native to America; but the civilized or semi-civilized races of the southern and central part of the Western Continent had other more popular and more peculiar stimulants, also for the most part alcoholic. The palm, again, has furnished to African and Asiatic tribes a spirit not less potent or less noxious, not less popular and probably not less primitive, than whiskey or beer. But where alcohol has been unknown, among races to whose habits and temperament it was alien, or in climates where so powerful an excitant produced effects too palpably alarming to be tolerated by rulers or law-givers royal or priestly, other and milder stimulants or sedatives are found in equally universal use. Till the white man introduced among them his own destructive beverages, till the “fire-water” spread demoralization and disease, tobacco was the favorite indulgence of the Red Indian of North America, and very probably of that mighty race which preceded them and seems to have disappeared before they came upon the scene – the Mound-builders, whose gigantic works bear testimony to the existence of an agriculture scarcely less advanced or less prolific, a despotism probably not less absolute than that of Egypt. Coffee has for ages been almost equally dear to the Arabs; tea has been to China all that wine is and was to Europe, probably from a still earlier period, and has taken hold on the Northern, as coffee and tobacco upon the Southern, branches of the Tartar race. Opium, or drugs resembling opium in character, have been found as well suited to the temper, as delightful to the taste, of the quieter and more passive Oriental races as wine to the Aryan and Semitic nations. The Malays, the Vikings of the East Indies, found in bhang a drug the most exciting and maddening in its effects of any known to civilized or uncivilized man; a substitute for opium or haschisch bearing much the same relation to those sedatives as brandy or whiskey to the light wines of Southern Europe.