UBRARY 
 
 University of Cliforn* 
 
 IRVINE 

 
 THE VAGABOND
 
 THE VAGABOND 
 
 BY ADAM BADEAU. 
 
 " I stand condemned, 
 A wandering vagabond." 
 
 Richard II. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 RUDD Sc CARL ETON, 130 GRAND STREET, 
 
 (BROOKS BUILDING, COR. OF BROADWAY.) 
 
 MDCCCLIX.
 
 I 
 
 ios-( 
 &5 
 V3 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1859, by 
 
 ADAM BADEAU, 
 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
 District of New York. 
 
 R. CRAIGIIEAD, 
 
 Printer, Stereotype!-, and Electrotyper, 
 
 Carton Suiltitiig, 
 81, 83, and 85 Centrt Strut.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOl 
 
 Preface, 6 
 
 Introductory, 7 
 
 Gottschalk and Thalberg, 15 
 
 Thorwaldsen, 22 
 
 The Matinees, 28 
 
 Meyerbeer, 35 
 
 Matilda Heron, T. 42 
 
 E. H. Chapiu, 49 
 
 Niblo s, 56 
 
 French Art in New York, 64 
 
 Edwin Forrest, 71 
 
 La Grange, 78 
 
 "The World s Own," 85 
 
 The Amateurs, 93 
 
 Verdi, 100 
 
 Myself, 106 
 
 Henry W. Bellows, .. 112 
 
 American Art, 12C 
 
 American Playwrights, 128 
 
 Parties, 135 
 
 The Ballet, 143 
 
 The National Academy of Design, 151
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Charlotte Bronte, 158 
 
 My Unknown Correspondents, 1 GO 
 
 The Country, 174 
 
 The Watering-Places, 180 
 
 Behind the Scenes, 1ST 
 
 Lake George, 194 
 
 The Howadji, 200 
 
 Charlotte Cushman, 207 
 
 Edward Everett, 213 
 
 American Sculpture, 221 
 
 Washington Society, 228 
 
 Pre-Raphaelitism, 235 
 
 Mrs Kemble, 242 
 
 American Belles, 249 
 
 Carl Formes, 256 
 
 Rachel, 2(53 
 
 An Amateur Opera, 272 
 
 Henry Ward Beecher, 279 
 
 Edwin Booth, T 28G 
 
 The Beaux, 293 
 
 George Bancroft, 301 
 
 The Prima Donnas, 308 
 
 Rossini, 3 1 5 
 
 The Married Belles, 321 
 
 Boston, . . 327 
 
 The Preachers, 333 
 
 Piccolomini, 340 
 
 A Night with the Booths, 347 
 
 Society and Art, . 355 
 
 Longfellow, 36d
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 "The origin and commencement." Hamlet. 
 
 I AM a Vagabond: I care not who knows it, nor who 5i 
 frightened from perusing my papers because of the announce 
 ment. You who dwell in dull propriety for ever, may be 
 shocked; you who take names for things, may abut up the 
 book ; you may remember that Johnson defined a Vagabond as 
 "a term of reproach," and that he stigmatized vagabundus as 
 " low Latin," the lexicographer ! but you must at least admit 
 that I who have so exact an appreciation of rny own character, 
 am likely to be correct in my notions about other people. 
 
 Vagabond has a merry sound in my ears ; the word is at 
 any rate classical French, and vagare was good enough Latin for 
 Virgil ; while as regards English, Shakespeare used it ; and 
 though Richard III. does spoak of " vagabonds, rascals, and run 
 aways," all in one breath, surely the Crookback is poor autho 
 rity in such matters; and though La Feu does say to Parolles, in 
 " All s Well that Ends Well," "You are a vagabond, and no true
 
 viii Introductory. 
 
 traveller," La Feu was himself a scamp unworthy of belief. I 
 maintain that the vagabonds are an illustrious fraternity. ^Eneas, 
 plus ^Eneas, madam, was one of the first, wandering around the 
 Lybian shores; and Homer; (you have heard of the poet? 
 Yes ?) did he not write the Odyssey, which is nothing but a 
 history of the adventures of a vagabond ? Ulysses had a good 
 time, too, with Calypso and Circe, and he escaped both Scylla 
 and Charybdis, did he. Then the knights-errant of chivalry, 
 what were they but vagabonds ? Their very name indicates 
 their vagrant habits. Tis true that Webster s dictionary is 
 worse than Johnson s ; it does say " by the laws of England 
 and the United States, vagabonds are liable to be taken up and 
 imprisoned ;" but Webster couldn t spell, and one of his name 
 was hanged; so how can he be right? Blackstone, a person 
 who wrote commentaries on law, a century ago, approaches 
 nearer to justice in his comments on my tribe : " Idle persons 
 or vagabonds, whom our ancient statutes describe to be such 
 as wake at night (correct), and sleep on the day (after a ball), 
 and haunt customable taverns and alehouses, and routs about ; 
 (well, who don t go to routs that gets invited), and no man 
 wot from whence they came, nor whither they went." And 
 why should any man have wot? let any man restrain his curiosity. 
 Two other old authors are all I shall quote to show how versed 
 I am in antiquarian lore. 
 
 Holinshed says : " The vagabond that will abide nowhere, but 
 runneth up and down from place to place," and Du Cange ex-
 
 Introductory. ix 
 
 claims : " Vagabundus que non habet domicilium, sed hodie hie 
 et eras alibi." The women at least are silenced by my Latin 
 sentence; that is to- them unanswerable; if they try me any 
 further, I vow I ll give them Greek ; so ladies beware ! 
 
 But do you want to know of some more vagabonds ? There are 
 Benedick and Jaques, both good fellows ; and Gil Bias of Santil- 
 lane, the companion of lackeys and their lords, the secretary of 
 archbishops, the comrade of banditti, and the favored swain of 
 half a score of black-eyed Castilian damsels ; Cortez and Pizarro 
 too, were nothing but vagabonds on a grander scale. The 
 Spaniards with all their stately ceremony seem inclined this 
 way , for think of the noble Don Caesar de Bazan, that Wallack 
 has played so superbly ; ragged and courteous, full of feeling 
 and frolic, ripe for any mischief, and ready for any generous 
 deed ; the very prince of vagabonds. Then there s Captain John 
 Smith in our own history, whose name will remind every one 
 that the sex is not averse to these good-for-nothing, fortunate 
 scamps. Has not dear, dusky, little Pocahontas rendered her 
 self for ever famous by flinging her copper-colored arms round 
 a vagabond s head ? And would not I be willing that fairer 
 maids should follow the example to-day ? And don t some fro 
 licking, rollicking, saucy blade, without a tittle of your worth, 
 Mr. Spectator, or a pretension to your learning, Mr. Rambler, 
 with none of the qualities that should bear the palm, but- only a 
 vagabond, don t he often distance all his rivals in modern draw 
 ing-rooms ? 
 
 1*
 
 x Introductory 
 
 I am a vagabond around town. I go prying into all sorts of 
 places, and frequent every corner of Manhattan. I purpose one 
 day to give you a sketch of some scene say in a pawnbroker s 
 shop, and at another time will discuss the marvellous beauty ol 
 an opera singer s legs. I am an habitue of the Academy ot 
 Music, but often kill time by dropping in at the shows of marvel 
 lous beasts and five-legged donkeys on Chatham street. I visit 
 all places of worship, from black prayer-meetings to the yearly 
 gatherings of the Friends, go to hear Antoinette Brown and Dr. 
 Hawks ; I will sometimes tell you what I have seen behind the 
 curtain, and sometimes discuss the merits of a favorite actor on 
 the stage. Pictures and parties, beaux and bores, all I study ; 
 art and life, in all their phases I like to contemplate. I have 
 peered among the purlieus of Justice, and burrowed in Knicker 
 bocker corners for relics of our Dutch and Huguenot ancestry. 
 I am likely to find out whatever there is of queer, quaint, or 
 passing strange in this metropolis. But, with all my eagerness 
 to catch the bubble of the minute ere it burst, to crowd as much 
 experience into an hour as any man, I have my sober times, 
 and can find sermons in stones, sometimes more forcible than 
 those I hear in churches ; so my lucubrations may not always 
 be in a merry vein. I know not that I am merrier than other 
 men. I am young (else I would not be a vagabond), and life 
 seems pleasant enough to me ; if you look at it with my eyes, 
 it will be like gazing through Claude Lorraine glasses every 
 thing will be in bright colors. Still, on a dull day, you may get
 
 Introductory. xi 
 
 a soberer paper, and on a sunny one, you shall have quips and 
 cranks and wanton wiles. 
 
 I forgot to tell you that in all my wanderings, whithersoever 
 I may penetrate, whether into mysteries like those of Bona Dea, 
 from which the entire masculine gender was excluded, or within 
 the sanctum sanctorum of temples, over whose doors might be 
 inscribed, as of old, "Procul, procul, este profani!" though I 
 may tell you of things that some of you would otherwise dream 
 not of, though I discuss fashionable belles and reverend priests, 
 as well as Bowery actresses or apple-venders, I hope never to 
 transgress the limits which good breeding imposes. I shall dis 
 close no secrets that ought to be kept, and give no inquisitive 
 gossip food for scandal So now you know me. I have intro 
 duced myself, taken my text, cleared my throat, and blown my 
 
 nose ; otherwise, Mr. of Niblo s, has called " Francois !" 
 
 and running out from behind the scenes, the de"butant bowa 
 nis best bow, smiles his opening smirk, and is ready to begin.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE following papers were written for a weekly periodical 
 published in New York. This fact will account for allusions that 
 might not otherwise seem always pertinent ; if it should also 
 account for the slight degree of interest the articles may happen 
 to excite when the pertinency is passed, the explanation will be 
 in some measure consolatory to 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 THE VAGABOND. 
 
 GOTTSCHALK AND THALBERG 
 
 "Under which King, Bezonian?" 
 
 2 Henry IV. 
 
 GOTTSCHALK, the adored of the ladies, is about to leave 
 us ; he has given three concerts, each positively the last, 
 and another is announced. Gottschalk s career as" an 
 American artist, both at home and abroad, relieves us 
 from the reproach of neither producing nor appreciating 
 genius ; for despite his numerous affectations, and his ad 
 captandum artifices, the handsome piano-player is a ge 
 nius. I heard him play, a week ago, at the concert of the 
 Philharmonic Society, and never was more impressed 
 with his littleness and his greatness. He lounged listlessly 
 towards the platform, scarcely vouchsafed a bow of 
 recognition as he snuffed up the incense of applause prof 
 fered by his worshippers in pink bonnets, and sat down 
 at the instrument. At first, his hands w r andered lan 
 guidly over the keys, and his eyes, soft and dreamy, 
 but with a blase expression strangely mingling with
 
 ift The Vagabond. 
 
 their gentleness, were gazing, not vacantly, but still not 
 intently, around the house. Occasionally the petted 
 Adonis smiled as he caught the glance of an acquaint 
 ance, and then the radiance which his worshippers say is 
 sun-like, Apollo-like, came over his countenance. In 
 fact, he is irresistible ; there is no use in denying it : be 
 sides, the adorers in pink bonnets frown on all heretics 
 who presume not to bow at the shrine. The fiery fur 
 nace of their indignation is heated seven times for such 
 presumptuous offenders. Have I not seen the Saratoga 
 beauties, one on each side of Adonis, fanning him , as he 
 sat exhausted after an unusual effort ? Do I not know 
 Massachusetts blues, those cold and critical dames, who 
 treasure up a finger of his glove, if haply they may 
 catch some of the magnetism imparted by his inspired 
 digits? What wonder if a young and handsome artist 
 has his head turned by such adulation ! 
 
 But I have wandered from the concert. The pianist s 
 hand rambled for a while carelessly and affectedly over 
 the key-board, but at last the interest of the music ex 
 cited him. And though this rambling style is not 
 without its charms, the intenser sort is what carries the 
 hearers away. At first, Ludwig shakes his head somewhat 
 vehemently, moves his legs nervously but, it strikes me, 
 rather more than even his passionate nature suggests, 
 catches at bits of paper and conveys them to his kissable 
 mouth (that adjective is a lady s), and chews them franti 
 cally. As the music approaches a climax, he marks the 
 emphasis with his head still more emphatically disorders 
 his hyacinthine locks, especially the one that comes down 
 over his forehead so negligently chews harder than 
 ever raises his hands to a prodigious height as he
 
 Gottschalk and Tnalberg. 17 
 
 strikes the keys waves his body changes the position 
 of his legs but does all this so gracefully, and wildly, 
 and naturally, that he ends by catching you up in his 
 own enthusiasm ; and, criticise as you may afterwards, 
 at the time you are as foolish as he. The performance 
 seems to me a mere performance, at first ; but he works 
 himself into the frenzy, and at last cannot help it if he 
 would. All this he is shrewd enough to know contributes 
 to his influence ; but it probably assists his imagination, 
 too. It is an intoxication to his excitable nature ; it is, 
 too, in part, the necessary expression of that nature. 
 
 But I should do the artist great injustice if I stopped 
 here without talking of his music so Avild, so dreamy, 
 so passionate ; of his playing so exquisite, so Chopin- 
 like, so inspired. Gottschalk has the real artist tempera 
 ment. The odor of heliotropes affects him prodigiously, 
 and we all know how susceptible he is to the charms of 
 beauty. Doubtless the reputation of his successes with 
 the sex, and of his cruelty, adds zest to their admiration. 
 At any rate, he plays just as one would imagine a poet 
 in love to do : he plays poems, and dreams, and passions. 
 He reminds one of the description of Chopin, consump 
 tive and down-cast in that deserted abbey in Madeira, 
 playing for hours passionate fantasies and weird-like 
 strains to his mistress. He makes you forget the con 
 cert-room and the gaslights, your gloves and your lorg 
 nette, and give yourself up to a sort of infatuation ; you 
 dream, you feel, you listen, you enjoy. This is all inde 
 finite criticism; but those who appreciate Gottschalk 
 will tell you if such is not the effect he produces. You are 
 not inclined to talk of the precision of his touch, or to 
 count his time ; you lose sight of the mechanical means :
 
 i8 The Vagabond. 
 
 you are interested only in the result. Those melting 
 strains, those wailing passages, those inspired, exalted 
 bursts, what have they to do with demi-semi-quavers and 
 two-four time ? You might as well interrupt Rachel, in 
 her imprecations on Rome, to parse the language of 
 Corneille. 
 
 We forgive our gifted countryman all his foibles, and 
 forget them, too, for the sake of the tremulous, rapturous 
 music he makes for us. We need not wish him success 
 among the wild, excitable southerners, towards whom he 
 wends his way. He had heaped up his laurels before he 
 came among us ; though born here, his first triumphs were 
 abroad. He first appealed to us for our plaudits when 
 his head was already crowned with laurels placed there 
 by the genius and the sovereigns of Europe. At the 
 outset he was not appreciated, but he bided his time, 
 and at last the harvest was ripe. He gave fifty concerts 
 in New York last season, and at this moment is not 
 only more a favorite than any American artist ever has 
 been, among Americans, but better appreciated and bet 
 ter liked than any artist in the New World. 
 
 What a change from Gottschalk to Thalberg ! The 
 one all genius, the other all art; the one young, im 
 passioned, irregular, fitful ; the other middle-aged, calm, 
 unimpassioned, but omniscient and omnipotent as far as 
 his piano is concerned. Gottschalk surprises, moves, en 
 trances ; Thalberg diffuses serene pleasure, and performs 
 unheard-of feats with perfect ease. One is Apollo, the 
 other Jupiter. It is the old comparison ; the real and 
 the ideal, Rachel and Ristori, Kemble and Kean. One 
 excites, the other soothes ; one is intensely human, the 
 other half divine. But there is no rivalry between the
 
 Gottschalk and Thalberg. 19 
 
 two artists ; their followers only contend, and how fool 
 ishly ! Because a rose is sweet, must I not smell a vio 
 let ? Because Naples is lovely, has Como no charms ? 
 A Vagabond can enjoy all the romance and the fervor 
 of Gottschalk, and none the less appreciate the marvel 
 lous perfection of Thalberg. 
 
 Still the battle rages furiously in the saloons of the 
 metropolis ; rival forces attack each other at the opera 
 and at morning visits. Not even the election campaign 
 was half so bitter as this strife, which divides families 
 and separates sets. Engagements are broken off, because 
 the lover persists that Gottschalk s eyes have a greenish 
 tinge ; and I have lost more than one invitation for not 
 avowing myself an open adherent of Thalberg. 
 
 Generally, the young muster under Gottschalk s ban 
 ners. His beauty has subdued all the ladies under twen 
 ty-five (which includes all under thirty-five), while the 
 young men find his music faster than Thalberg s, and so 
 appreciate him better. But, with the last there is a 
 spice of jealousy : they would support Gottschalk en 
 masse, were it not he is so much admired by the pink 
 bonnets ; whereas the travelled people, the blase, the 
 critics, and that sort, prefer Thalberg. They like the 
 music which it requires a more cultivated taste to appre 
 ciate, which it implies bad taste not to admire. So, some 
 are in a quandary ; they want to appear youthful, but 
 would not for the world seem uncritical. What shall 
 they do ? 
 
 Thalberg s quiet ease and his unconstrained demea 
 nor (which Mr. Willis said was shopboy-like), pre 
 possessed me in his favor. He never seems making 
 an effort. He is conscious of his greatness, but so
 
 2o The Vagabond. 
 
 conscious that he need not obtrude it. He plays with 
 perfect self-command. He has no inspirations, it is true ; 
 perhaps he has only talent ; but when talent is so 
 marvellously accomplished, when it produces such effects, 
 it is on a level with genius. The intricate and elaborate 
 ornamentation in which Thalberg involves and wraps 
 his theme, at the same time letting you hear that theme, 
 is among the most wonderful effects of art. It affords 
 me as much delight, though of an entirely different sort, 
 as the rhapsodical snatches of his younger rival. Then, 
 his mastery of his instrument we all know surpasses 
 that of any man living, and at times extorts the hom 
 age of the most bigoted Gottschalkites. There are 
 effects in his performance of UElisir cPAmore, of 
 Norma, and of Mose in Egitto, which almost draw 
 you to your feet. I have seen at these moments the 
 most collected fashionables and the roughest-looking 
 people in the room alike bursting with admiration, 
 wonder and delight. Even the pink bonnets jump up 
 here and there to see if he really does all that with one 
 pair of hands. And it is not simply amazement that the 
 master produces : the pleasure is exquisite enough to 
 set one s nerves titillating, and that is my test of artis 
 tic excellence. Whatever affects my spinal marrow I 
 consider first-rate, in music, acting, eloquence, or poetry. 
 There is, however, one thing finer than Thalberg s 
 playing, and which both great armies of admirers will 
 admit to excel the separate excellence of either, and 
 that is the combined music made by the two. They 
 recently played a duet together, and in all my musical 
 experience, I have seldom listened to such ravishing 
 harmony. The audience rose and shouted, and little
 
 Gottschalk and Thalberg. 21 
 
 tiny hands in Fiench gloves were clapped, and delicate 
 lace fabrics were waved, and the two great artists 
 came back to gather their laurels. It was beautiful in 
 them both, to add thus to each other s glory. It was 
 especially delicate in Gottschalk, who had reigned su 
 preme until the very king of pianists came to claim the 
 first place : it was delicate in him, I say, to show no 
 spite nor jealousy. He has, it is true, relinquished the 
 field, but gracefully. He stayed long enough after the 
 arrival of Thalberg to show that he feared not even the 
 greatest ; but he chose not to contend. He takes with 
 him the good wishes and hearty admiration of a crowd 
 of pink bonnets and of a Vagabond. 
 
 I don t know whether I ought to say it, but I have 
 lately heard that Gottschalk powders his face so prodi 
 giously that his eyes look smaUer then they really are. 
 It is, however, but just to add that my informant wears 
 a straw-colored bonnet.
 
 THORWALDSEN. 
 
 Able to breathe life into a stone." 
 
 All s Well that Ends Well 
 
 THERE is an evident affinity between the Scandinavian 
 character and that of the Anglo-Saxon race. Sprung, 
 indeed, irom the same stock, speaking cognate languages, 
 each with the blue eyes and flaxen hair that mark their 
 northern origin, it is not remarkable that the two 
 branches of one great family resemble each other in 
 national and individual traits. The gods of England 
 and of Iceland were the same. Our forefathers worship 
 ped Odin ; and Thor and Woden, the divinities of the 
 north, are still commemorated in the names we Christians 
 give to the days of the week. The same warm-hearted 
 but reserved character, the same silent tongue, resolute 
 look and strong arm, bear witness to the ancient kin 
 dred. But especially in that development of character 
 which is exhibited in art is this likeness apparent. The 
 heroes of Ossian and the Norsemen of Icelandic sagas 
 are german to each other. Goethe and Shakspeare are 
 not dissimilar ; Jenny Lind found a warmer welcome in 
 English and American homes than captious Parisian 
 critics would accord ; and FrederikaBremer s works are 
 better known among us than in continental Europe. Our 
 national mind appreciates Scandinavian art. 
 
 And in that form of art in which American genius has
 
 Thorwaldsen. 23 
 
 compelled the acknowledgment of unwilling Europe, in 
 which only America has yet taken a position at all worthy 
 of her material greatness, there too has the Danish cha 
 racter found its highest development. The field where 
 Powers and Greenough have reaped their laurels, is that 
 where Thorwaldsen has achieved his triumphs. It is fit 
 ting then that hither should have been sent some of the 
 worthiest productions of the great Scandinavian artist. 
 To the new world, and to its commercial emporium, have 
 come specimens of the glories of BertelThorwal dsen, of 
 those works that his countrymen have garnered up from 
 Rome and Berlin, and all over Europe, and treasured 
 hi a great museum called after his own name. 
 
 At the Crystal Palace are now the original plaster 
 models of the "Christ and His Apostles," whose marble 
 copies stand in the Frue Kirke, at Copenhagen ; and in a 
 little room on Broadway (No. 297), may be seen many 
 of Thorwaldsen s famous bas-reliefs the works of the 
 artist whom his nation delighted to honor, the first sculp 
 tor of modern times. 
 
 Statuary seems to be that form of art in which north 
 ern nations most delight to clothe their ideas of the beau 
 tiful. Whether it is that colder natures find the stone a 
 fitting symbol of the calm which distinguishes them ; 
 Avhetherits unchangeableness aptly represents the charac 
 ter of temperate races, would be hard to say. But causes 
 such as these do influence mind and its development. 
 Painting, with its warmth of color and its powers of pas 
 sionate expression, seems better suited for the mobile in 
 habitants of the south, who have ever excelled in the 
 pictorial art. And indeed, when the old Greeks resorted 
 to statuary, they were fain to color their marble: the 
 Parian stone was all too cold for their torrid tempera-
 
 24 The Vagabond. 
 
 ments. Ivory and gold adorned the statues of Phidias, 
 and blue and gorgeous red enlivened the im.nges of gods 
 and men admired by the Athenians. Our chaster but 
 possibly not more correct taste, rejects these ornaments ; 
 and though an attempt has been made by a modern Ita 
 lian to revive the mode, critics of France and England 
 disapprove. However, whatever cause may exist, the fact 
 is undoubted, that the sculptor s art in later centuries is 
 prosecuted with most success by the children of the north. 
 
 Cold, the passionate southerners call us. They, brim 
 ful of life, and their blood boiling under the rays of a 
 torrid sun, cannot endure our comparative immobility ; 
 but, in this again, the statue images our character not 
 fickle, not changeable, but when after years of labor and 
 toil, excellence is accomplished, it is fixed as the marble. 
 Neither is the northern character destitute of a suscepti 
 bility to genius and to beauty ; of a power to render the 
 whisperings of nature in music as exquisite as that which 
 Italians warble ; to fashion the ideal into forms of ever 
 lasting grace and dignity ; to compel ev on Rome to con 
 tend for the residence of Danish and American artists. 
 Witness Crawford and Thorwaldsen his master. 
 
 No more splendid and beautiful representative of Scan 
 dinavian art ever existed than Albert Bertel Thorwald 
 sen. The child of the people, he became the companion 
 of kings. Born of poor and humble parentage, a nation 
 mourned over his funeral, and genius, rank, and beauty 
 made part of the pageant of his life. His own genius 
 was the personification of the aesthetic spirit of his race. 
 All its wild beauty, all its delicate grace, all its majesty, 
 all its depth of feeling and imaginative sentiment, find 
 expression in his works. The exquisite poetry of an 
 Undine is embodied, though under another name, by
 
 Thorwaldsen. 2 
 
 him. The sublime religious feeling, innate in the race, 
 that feeling which pervades the mythology of the north ; 
 the genius of their poetry, the meaning of their su 
 perstition, the warmth of their hearts, are all uttered in 
 his creations. To be sure, they find other names : the 
 religious sentiment is embodied in his "Christ and Apos 
 tles," while the lighter graces sought the classic lore of 
 Greece and Rome for illustration ; but it is the national 
 spirit that has expression in either. Then the absence 
 in all his works of the southern passion is equally re 
 markable. Fulness of feeling he has indeed ; but no 
 passionate Niobc or Laocoon, no Dying Gladiator gives 
 vent to the over-charged heart or indicates the dramatic 
 intensity that animates artists born in the sunny south. 
 Of tearful meaning there is plenty but none of the wild 
 fervor or divine agony of southern art. 
 
 The finest creation of his genius is that which adorns 
 the Crystal Palace. The figures are of the original size, 
 are from the hand of Thorwaldsen himself, and save 
 that they may lack the rounded fulness that only mar 
 ble can display, are said to be in every way equal to 
 the proudest ornaments of Copenhagen. They have all 
 the beauty of form, the anatomical correctness, the won 
 derful expression, the graceful fall of drapery, and the 
 classic severity which distinguish the others. The Christ 
 stands colossal in size, godlike in attitude, full of benig 
 nity, beautiful as Raphael would have conceived, and 
 grand as Michael Angelo would have executed, saying 
 to the assembled disciples : " Come unto me." The gen 
 tleness of the invitation, the mingled mildness and ma 
 jesty of the countenance, the union of power and love, 
 are triumphs of the sculptor. The apostles, larger than 
 
 2
 
 26 The Vagabond. 
 
 life, but inferior in size to the master, are grouped 
 around, each elevated on a pedestal, each distinguished 
 by his appropriate symbol St. John by the lamb, St. 
 Peter by the keys but each marked yet more plainly 
 by his individual expression ; Thomas doubts and Peter 
 promises, Paul preaches and John loves. The expres 
 sion in attitude, and limb, and lineament, leaves no room 
 to doubt their individuality. 
 
 The height of the figures contributes very greatly to 
 their effect. Size always conveys the idea of grandeur, 
 and the increased magnitude of the Christ is in accord 
 ance with the most approved canons of art. Their 
 being elevated above the spectator, also, forces one to 
 look upwards, and contributes to the sentiment of awe 
 with which we regard them. But more than these mi- 
 nutia?, the genius which is instinct in them makes them 
 among the greatest specimens of Christian art ever exe 
 cuted. They are a sermon in themselves. They preach 
 love, and charity, and truth ; they speak of the Divine 
 calm and holy peace of the God-man, they tell of Cal 
 vary and Gethsemane. 
 
 The exquisite angel form supporting the font is unri 
 valled in grace, and extremely admired by European 
 critics. William Howitt, perhaps best fitted by his in 
 timate acquaintance with Scandinavian literature, and 
 by his being so imbued with the spirit as well as the lore 
 of the north, to criticise and to feel the meaning of Thor- 
 waldsen, declares the effect upon hims elf of this angel 
 form to be magical ; but it has always seemed to me 
 incongruous unfitted for the group, or for its original 
 purpose. Graceful and beautiful airy, angelic, if you 
 will it always suggests to me the supernatural creations
 
 Thorwaldsen. 27 
 
 of the northern mythology, rather than those of Chris 
 tian belief. Holding a sea-shell for a font, it recalls 
 to my mind the fascinating creatures of the sea Undine, 
 or those fair beings who beguiled mortals to their homes 
 beneath the ocean. I cannot look at it in connexion 
 with the Christ, and not feel an unfitness. 
 
 Notwithstanding that Thorwaldsen is the embodiment 
 of his national art, he is yet equally happy in portraying 
 classic fable. Deeply imbued with the feeling of Greek 
 and Roman mythology, he brings vividly before us the 
 white-armed Andromache, and the crest-shaking Hec 
 tor. He illustrates the odes of Anacreon with an exqui 
 site felicity and a truth of rendering entirely unequalled. 
 His Bacchus is the very god of wine crowned with 
 vine leaves, naked, revelling, intoxicated with joy and 
 pleasure, but refined, radiant, beautiful with it all ; 
 his Venus is not coarse, though sensual ; his heroes are 
 indeed demi-gods. At the same time, the original 
 poetic fancies in which he indulges, the creations which 
 his own imagination calls forth, are remarkable for 
 beauty and delicacy of thought, grace of execution, 
 severity of taste and finish of style. His " Day and 
 Night," and his " Four Seasons," are poems equal to the 
 most subtile fancies of Sappho or Shelley. Sentiment is 
 embodied in them ; love and beauty are breathed over 
 them. It is not often that on this continent lovers of 
 the beautiful can feast their eyes at such a banquet ; can 
 improve and correct their tastes in such a school. But 
 those who look longingly across the seas to Dresden and 
 Florence may visit these productions and envy not the 
 owners of Corregios ; may for awhile forget the Venus 
 of the Tribune, and the Apollo of the Vatican.
 
 28 The Vagabond. 
 
 THE MATINEES. 
 
 " I am advised to give her music o mornings. 
 They say it will penetrate." 
 
 Cymbeline. 
 
 SHE seems to fike the prescription. It must peneti ate. 
 The manager was well advised to give her music o 
 mornings. Indeed, if I were fitted to advise opera 
 managers, I should say, repeat the dose ad infinitum / 
 or as often as the patient will bear it. Mr. Ullman 
 might abandon altogether the exploded fashion of giving 
 operatic entertainments at night ; w r e can all amuse our 
 selves so much better by daylight. I say we, deliberately ; 
 for though the matinees doubtless originated in a devil 
 ish desire to tempt the weaker sex, yet, when the wo 
 man declared the apple good, Adam thought he might 
 relish it too. Though, at first, only the daughters of 
 Eve attended the music o mornings, the sons and 
 grand-sons have of late been as numerous. At the 
 last matinee there must have been a thousand men. 
 And not only fashionable fellows ; not only young men 
 about town, or vagabonds whom you might expect to 
 find following in the wake of woman, or lazily lounging 
 in the lobbies of the Academy by day as well as by night. 
 I saw great historians stand all the morning in the par 
 quet ; and reverend divines gazing through their lorg-
 
 The Matindes. 29 
 
 nettes when Soto danced ; and South-street merchants 
 comfortably ensconced in their boxes during Change 
 hoars. All the beaux were there of course : endeavoring 
 to penetrate the mass of crinoline, and, for the sake oi 
 being agreeable to one woman, making themselves dis 
 agreeable to twenty ; sitting on the floor of the boxes 
 close between two chairs occupied by their female 
 friends ; peering in through the half-open doors of the 
 first circle ; promenading in the foyer, and stopping at 
 each turn before the long mirrors to pull up their collars 
 and fasten their cravats ; or Availing around the entrance 
 for the hegira. All the belles were there, for they had 
 nothing else to do ; they wanted to kill a morning, and 
 then they were so fond of music ; and William might 
 chance to leave the office in time to stop on his way up 
 town ; and if they should meet Tom as they appointed 
 yesterday. 
 
 The women, at first, used to think themselves alone 
 and unobserved at these matinees. And then you 
 should have observed them. They went prying around 
 the lobbies ; they stalked into the proscenium boxes 
 without leave ; they climbed into the amphitheatre ; 
 they tried the stage-door ; they were rude to each other, 
 crowded and jostled, and said naughty words, and 
 looked daggers, and I believe even pinched and trod on 
 toes purposely, too : they certainly tore the laces, and 
 sat on the camels -hair shawls of their neighbors. They 
 went hours before the time, and crowded around the 
 entrance, pounding at the doors, and demanding admis 
 sion so vehemently that at last the manager was obliged 
 to allow them access earlier than at the time stated in the 
 bills ; they stood immediately in front of the private
 
 30 The Vagabond. 
 
 boxes ; they took out chairs from the same ; they sat on 
 the edges ; and, one morning, two Brobdignagians 
 nearly smothered Gulliver, who was in the back seat of 
 a box, by flinging their shawls, and furs, and crinolines 
 over his shoulders. I do not, of course, imagine that 
 any of my fair readers were guilty of these solecisms ; 
 that any of them opened the doors of secured boxes ; 
 that they pushed in the aisles, and scolded in the lob 
 bies ; that they quarrelled with the ushers, and berated 
 the doorkeepers ; but surely, ladies, you must have 
 seen the women who did these things. Doubtless you 
 were as much annoyed as any one at such conduct. 
 Doubtless you have remarked the change in behavior 
 since more men have attended the matinees. Well, was 
 it not shocking ? And to what do you attribute the 
 reformation ? It can t be that the softer sex need the 
 refining influence of ours to render their manners bland. 
 It can t be that when our charmers are alone they be 
 have in this way ; that all the graces are put on for the 
 sake of us ; that the natural woman is such as was mani 
 fested at the first matinees. " Oh ! no ; on those earlier 
 occasions it was not so fashionable to attend. A differ 
 ent class of women went, and, of late, more ladies have 
 been present ; and therefore, Mr. Vagabond, you per 
 ceive a difference. No impertinent insinuations, sir." 
 " I assure you, madam, I did not intend any ; you furnish, 
 of course, the only explanation that could present itself 
 to a reasonable mind." 
 
 The matinees are a mystery to me. What in heaven s 
 name the people go for I can t imagine. They can t see 
 each other : the house is so miserably lighted that the 
 best lorgnette only gives you a headache to use ; they
 
 The Matinees. 31 
 
 don t dress fine, so you might as well walk the street ; 
 you can t show your own clothes, nor criticise your ac 
 quaintances ; very few men can get around to visit ; you 
 can t flirt and chatter as you could at the classic Philhar 
 monic rehearsals ; the crowd is so great that locomotion 
 is uncomfortable ; hundreds of the audience stand dur 
 ing the entire performance women as well as men. And 
 it does me good to see the malicious creatures obliged to 
 stand. When I think how often I have had to get up 
 in a railroad car for some one who bounced into my 
 place without as much as a "Thank ye," I m glad to 
 observe them looking weary and worn out. I go into a 
 private box on purpose to let them see a man at his ease, 
 while they rest first on one leg, and then on the other, 
 like a chicken at roost. But why does all the world go 
 to the matinees ? I believe in the musical taste of New 
 York. I believe in it very firmly. I swear by the ama 
 teurs; and know twenty young ladies who sing well 
 enough for prima donnas, besides a thousand people who 
 doat on the last opera, whatever it may be ; but they 
 can all go in the evening; they do. Why, then, should 
 they crowd in the daytime, when no place is secured ? 
 I myself am indifferent musical, but I don t like opera 
 well enough to stand three hours in a dark place with a 
 bonnet and feathers stuck right in my eyes, and steel 
 hoops knocking my knees on every side, even to listen to 
 Laborde or to look at Piccolomini. I am not a regular 
 habitue of the matinees. I go for an hour, and gaze, 
 and wonder, and come away. 
 
 There is but one way to account for the phenomenon, 
 and that is, to say that matinees are the rage. Every 
 body goes because everybody else goes. Everybody
 
 ^2 The Vagabond. 
 
 likes to be in a crowd, perceives the electric influence 
 there evolved, gets en rapport with the music, thinks 
 better, and brighter, and faster, talks quicker and 
 shrewder, feels more acutely, enjoys more keenly. 
 
 The performers themselves are not unsusceptible to 
 this magnetism ; they sing and act better, and so exert 
 a reacting influence. Thus out of the bitter comes forth 
 sweetness ; artistic excellence results from fashionable 
 folly. For all these people cannot listen to the splendid 
 strains of passionate music, callous, or indifferent, or fool 
 ish though the majority may be, without many of them 
 feeling the refining and ennobling effects. And not only 
 the ear is touched, and through that the brain, and 
 nerve, and soul, but the lust of the eye and the pride of 
 life are gratified. The magnificent theatre crowded 
 with human beings ; tier above tier of heads and faces ; 
 the very obscurity making the hall look larger as well as 
 dimmer ; the strange effect of the stage and the singers 
 seen in this half light ; all make a confused sort of pic 
 ture on the retina like the remembrance of a dream. 
 The faces in the distance seem unreal and shadowy, the 
 lights flicker, the pageant wavers, but remains ; the 
 restlessness of these thousands contrasted with their 
 occasional and absolute silence to listen to a great air 
 or a particular singer, this, too, has a strange fascination 
 for some natures ; this brings some hither. 
 
 For all is not nonsense that seems so ; many and 
 many of those you meet in society are not so shallow as 
 you think; many receive vivid impressions from the 
 gaiety of a scene who you imagine are absorbed in fri 
 volity. While a man stands paying silly compliments tc 
 some little flirt just out this season, his eye takes in not
 
 The Matinees. 
 
 33 
 
 only the fresh ana budding charms before him, but all 
 the brilliancy of the ball. The gaily-decorated room ; 
 the lofty walls covered with mirrors and pictures ; sta 
 tues peering from behind the heavy curtains ; flowers, 
 and frescoes, and gilding, and columns, making up the 
 background ; dazzling light streaming down on the rest 
 less throng ; beautiful women clad in elegant and dainty 
 garments ; gallant men saying courteous things ; young 
 forms bearing the lovely maidens swiftly in the dance ; 
 tossing plumes, sparkling jewels, subtle perfumes ; white 
 arms, half exposed ; exquisite bosoms, shrouded in deli 
 cate laces : then the music of soft voices and gentle 
 tones and subdued laughter, with some inspiriting strain 
 from a distant band ; all this furnishes an intoxication, a 
 sort of delire to an imaginative nature, that is not easily 
 resisted. 
 
 Should you get accustomed to the sight, enter the 
 ball-room ; notice the merry feet of the dancers as they 
 glide swiftly by in the mazes of the redowa ; feel your 
 own blood tingle as the robes of a woman you admire 
 are swept hurriedly by, and the influence of the wine 
 mounts up to your brain ; catch the inspiration of the 
 music and the moment, and approach some fair girl ra 
 diant with youth and beauty, whose eyes beam softly 
 and gladly when you ask her to join the dance. Lay 
 your arm around the taper waist that otherwise you 
 scarce dare think of, feel her soft breath on your cheek, 
 her finger clasped in yours ; and if the excitement of soci 
 ety is not then quite entrancing, you are not susceptible. 
 Quicker and quicker becomes the movement of the 
 music ; faster and faster you whirl on ; as your partner 
 pants with the rapid motion and the sympathetic excite- 
 2*
 
 34. The Vagabond. 
 
 mcnt, she rests more closely on you for support, and 
 all her pulses beat in unison with yours. Ah, me ! could 
 one always be dancing ! Do you remember the German 
 princess who waltzed to Strauss s music till she died ? 
 What wonder ? And yet the blues and the old fogies 
 can t understand why the young people like society, 
 what charm there is in dancing. "Well, when our blood 
 gets cold, and our imagination dull, perhaps we shall 
 wonder too. Thank heaven! that time is not come 
 yet! 
 
 The matinee is not so great a mystery after all. Music 
 o mornings ; they say it will penetrate.
 
 MEYERBEER. 
 
 " Is it not strange that sheep s guts should hale souls 
 Out of men s bodies." 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 SOME people say it is not the sheep s guts, nor the 
 women s voices, nor the music of " The Huguenots " that 
 is so powerful in haling our souls, but the painted gardens 
 and the glistening robes, and the prancing horses, and 
 the illuminated barges, and the crowds of supernumera 
 ries that have made " The Huguenots " the talk of the 
 town. And, doubtless, the pageantry does its share ; 
 doubtless very many who would never be attracted to 
 the opera by the sublime strains of the conjuration 
 chorus, or the magnificent intensity of the great duet, 
 find the pomp and circumstance worth seeing. But 
 among those who understand the language of music, 
 who need no interpreter to explain the significance of 
 Raoul s notes or Valentina s song, whose temperament 
 answers back to every sob or paean of the tune, there 
 are not many who fail to find expression and meaning 
 in Meyerbeer. I know, indeed, those who speak of the 
 paucity of his ideas ; who declare he is remarkable only 
 for his learning ; who can or will perceive in his music 
 none of the subtile influences that Verdi, and Rossini, 
 and Mozart wield. There are those who call him cold ;
 
 36 The Vagabond. 
 
 who say he creates no melodies; who acknowledge nc 
 inspiration in Giacomo Meyerbeer. I do not understand 
 this in people susceptible to musical impressions. I can 
 not conceive of music more crowded with thought, more 
 pregnant with meaning, more profoundly passionate than 
 Meyerbeer s is, by turns. How can he be said to lack feel 
 ing, who wrote the "Robert, toi que j aime ?" How can 
 he be called cold to whom we owe the "^4A, mon fils ?" 
 How can he be deemed uninspired who penned the 
 strains in that wonderful duet between Raoul and Valen- 
 tina, where every passion is compressed into music, where 
 a language infinitely superior to that of words,, or ges 
 tures, or looks, is given to the subtlest and intensest feel 
 ing of our nature ? 
 
 But music is like mythology : it is Janus-faced ; it has 
 one side for the multitude, and another for those who 
 penetrate behind the veil. In the days of Homer and 
 Menander, the fables of antiquity were all true for the 
 vulgar, though the philosophers saw in them a hidden 
 meaning, a life and a beauty that have endured till now, 
 when their religious influence has been dead for centuries. 
 Those who would might then discover that Hercules 
 was a personification, that the legend of Prometheus had 
 a double import, that Venus symbolized more than sen 
 sual pleasure, and those who care, may now find in music 
 a deeper significance, a profo under interest, than it 
 awakens in the bosoms of most listeners. To many, an 
 opera is a refined luxury, an artificial pleasure, an aristo 
 cratic taste, exquisite, sensual, and nothing more ; but 
 does any man suppose that the profound students, the 
 great artists, the poets, the thinkers of the old world, 
 who listen nightly to the strains of Rossini and Beetho-
 
 Meyerbeer. 37 
 
 ven, find in them a mere sensual titillation a mere 
 intoxication as intense and enervating as that of wine ? 
 that they go to the opera because it is the fashion ? 
 And in America, how is it that despite of prejudice, 
 despite of mismanagement and quarrels, high prices and 
 Astor-Place riots, opera, an exotic, has taken root in this 
 furiously native soil ? Why is it that, all the world over, 
 it has supplanted the drama in the estimation of the cul 
 tivated and the refined ? A mere fashion lasts not so 
 long as this; extends not from Mexico to St. Peters- 
 burgh, from Paris to San Francisco. And the taste for 
 the ajnusement is not confined to a fashionable class. 
 Thousands are fascinated by music who never clothe 
 their hands in the skin of kid before they applaud, and 
 who listen without the aid of opera-cloaks and dress- 
 coats to assist their sense of hearing. The truth is, 
 music speaks an universal language : it speaks to the 
 soul ; it is the form in which the feeling of this age finds 
 its fullest and freest development. 
 
 Indeed, all art is something more than a luxury : it has 
 its meaning like the symbolism of the Roman Catholic 
 religion. Ignorant or grovelling minds may worship 
 the statue and forget the saint may bow at the shrine 
 and wonder at the lamp ; but he who knows what the 
 meaning of all this is, sees and receives another influence. 
 He only is the true worshipper, and this, too, whether the 
 artist feels his mission or not. The unworthiness of the 
 priest affects not the validity of the sacrament ; and the 
 vanity or worldliaess of the artist interferes not mate 
 rially with the emotions he excites in another. 
 
 Art, in other times, has been expressed in other ways. 
 The old Greeks gave vent to their love for the beautiful
 
 38 The Vagabond. 
 
 in the more tangible forms of architecture and sculpture, 
 and the temples and statues that delighted the ancients 
 have never since been surpassed. In the middle ages, 
 it burst into flower in painting, and the gorgeous crea 
 tions of the Italian masters were the result. To-day, 
 art finds its development in music. Our painting is poor 
 and our sculpture is cold, compared with the passion and 
 poetry that breathe in the music of the nineteenth cen 
 tury ; and if we must yield the palm to other ages in 
 other arts, here we can claim a super-excellence. The 
 ancients had no conception of the power of music ; 
 the moderns, until now, have been groping befwe the 
 dawn of that day in whose meridian splendor we are 
 basking. Compare the fugues and the cathedral music 
 of two centuries back with the harmonic glories ushered 
 in by Gluck, and brought to perfection by Beethoven 
 and Mozart ! Compare even the discoveries of Pales- 
 trina with the science of Meyerbeer ! 
 
 And if music culminates to-day, it is because it is the 
 truest exponent of the feeling of the present age. Emo 
 tions too subtle for other embodiment, sentiments too 
 fleeting, passions too intense, feelings too profound 
 even for poetry, are here all told ; and especially do I 
 recognise in the music of this century the utterance 
 of that feeling which struggles for expression in the 
 deeper literature of the time the wild unrest, the 
 earnestness, the uncertainty of Tennyson, of Carlyle, 
 of George Sand, of Margaret Fuller, are all expressed in 
 the sublime music of modern composers, are all ex 
 pressed in Meyerbeer. The pretty strains of Auber may 
 do for some ; the passion of Donizetti and the intensity 
 of Verdi, perhaps, are the fit correlatives of the outside
 
 Meyerbeer. 39 
 
 turbulence and revolutionary spirit of our age ; the ex 
 quisite flow of Rossini and the divine calm of Mozart 
 are soothing and religious; but only the awful terror 
 and unearthly wildness, the supernatural grandeur 
 and unequalled sublimity, the fierce struggles and pierc 
 ing agonies of Meyerbeer, combine all the character 
 istics of this era. 
 
 " Robert le Diable " tells of the spirit which breathes 
 in Goethe s " Faust," and pervades every page of the 
 earnest literature of England, France, Germany, and 
 America the peering into forbidden secrets, the dealing 
 with more than earthly beings; the scepticism, the 
 doubt, the anxiety, the terror, and the struggle. Who 
 that has ever heard the " Robert, toi que j aime" that 
 piercing wail of a spirit that is bound that cry to man 
 to save himself but has thrilled with an intense reality 
 that made him forget the pageant of the stage. For 
 my part, I shut my eyes, and care nothing for the mimic 
 life there represented ; the great genius has spoken to 
 an inner being. The calm of Alice, the wildness of the 
 incantation scene, the gloom that shrouds Bertram as 
 with a garment, and the humanity of Robert, are all told 
 as no poet ever told them. Robert is equal to Faust, 
 Alice is greater than Gretchen. They stand out indi 
 vidualized as distinctly in our memories as the crea 
 tions of the greatest of poets, or the figures of the 
 greatest of painters. 
 
 Another such magnificent subject could not be found 
 as the strife of a demon for his son, with the simple, 
 pure peasant girl of Normandy, and the struggle of 
 that son, beset by the entreaties of love and the seduc 
 tions of hell ! It is the history of every man ; it is
 
 40 The Vagabond. 
 
 the grand problem of life interpreted into sound ; it is 
 the very mystery of being, set before us. 
 
 Then in "Le Prophete" how vividly do we see the 
 Ana-baptists ! How wonderful a creation is Fides ! How 
 natural the variable Jean of Leyden now triumphant, 
 now yielding, now lost a type again of man ! And 
 Fides, with all the fervor and intensity of woman wo 
 man in her purest, truest, noblest aspect, the mother 
 all compressed into the "Ah, mon fils /" which rivals 
 the "Jtobert, toi que j aime /" in depth of pathos, sub 
 limity of expression, and intensity of meaning. 
 
 These are the glories, the marvellous works of 
 Meyerbeer. He has not the dramatic feeling of Doni 
 zetti, nor perhaps the elan which Italian composers 
 infuse into the expression of earthly passion. He does 
 not represent love as they do ; but when something 
 more than human is to be told, when something clear 
 from every stain of human dross is to be expressed 
 the cry of a mother over a son, or the appeal of a wo 
 man to her lover to save himself Meyerbeer is equal 
 to the emergency. No guilty raptures, no Favorita, 
 no Norma, does he portray; but the sublime purity 
 of an Alice, or the holy fervor of a Fides. 
 
 I have not spoken technically of this composer. I 
 leave it to others to dilate upon the means by which 
 he produces his effects: it is my task to treat of 
 those effects and tell how he influences me. His 
 learning and his science are great and manifest; his 
 combinations are peculiar, and his method superb, 
 Others, if they choose, may treat of these ; it is enough 
 for me to confess his power, to recognise his genius ; 
 for it is the truest test of Meyerbeer s glories that he
 
 Meyerbeer. /j.1 
 
 awakens your sympathies, he touches your feelings quite 
 as truly as any of his rivals. He does not electrify, he 
 does not take you by storm, but he catches hold of 
 some string that is twined close around the heart ; he 
 strikes some nerve that helps him to " hale souls out 
 of men s bodies."
 
 MATILDA HERON. 
 
 " She is sad and passionate." 
 
 King John, 
 
 THE night of the twenty-second of January was cold 
 and uninviting. There was no opera, and I know not why 
 I was anxious to Avitness the debdt of a Western actress 
 at Wallack s theatre ; but it was fated, and I sallied forth 
 into the snoAV. I sat in the orchestra, and was not at all 
 crowded. There came upon the stage a fine Avoman, 
 Avith an easy manner, and Avho spoke two or three Avords 
 in a natural tone. I was surprised at the phenomenon, 
 and attended to what she should do or say next. Of 
 course I Avas amazed at her daring portrayal of Camille ; 
 but Avhen the curtain fell at the end of the first act I 
 acknowledged the spell of genius. As the play AA T ent on 
 I became absorbed ; by-and-by, eye and car were both 
 touched by an electricity that readied brain and heart ; 
 and ere the climax, I had experienced such a Avrenching 
 and tightening of emotions, such a Avhirhvind of feeling, 
 as made criticism impossible. All I had to do Avas to 
 give myself up to the sway of the magician, to be swept 
 away by the torrent of enthusiasm in Avhich the Avhole 
 audience Avas involved. 
 
 I went again shortly, and again, and again. Each time 
 excitement Avas almost painful. Not tears spoke the
 
 Matilda Heron. 43 
 
 depth of feelings that were roused, but absolute exhaus 
 tion declared their power. It was not until familiarity 
 with the performance of " Carnille" had in some measure 
 blunted my susceptibility that I was able calmly to criti 
 cise. Seldom, in a theatre, had my inmost nature been 
 so stirred as by this new actress. " Medea " came next : it 
 was not modern ; I was prepared to judge severely, and 
 by comparison with the highest standard ; yet, even 
 in this play, I felt at times the same overpowering influ 
 ence, the same shaking of nerve and thrilling of frame. 
 
 Miss Heron is emotional : it is your feelings that she 
 rouses, your heart that she speaks to, your soul that she 
 stirs. The brain, the intellect, is not untouched ; but 
 when you get time to take breath from your own sobs, 
 and wipe your eyes from the blinding mist that will rise ; 
 when you rest your ears from the burden of those 
 passionate accents, there is much in her acting that you 
 do not admire. But admire her or not, I defy you to 
 remain calm. Still, it is well to analyse her remarkable 
 powers. 
 
 And first of all is her naturalness. This first demands 
 applause from the most discerning critic, and ends by 
 provoking cavils. This first forces itself upon your 
 notice, this first rivets your attention ; this is the great 
 secret of her acting is her talent, ay, and her art. 
 Surely naturalness cannot be decried. And yet this is 
 not only her great peculiarity, it is, perhaps, her fault. 
 She is absolutely too natural. She portrays a character 
 exactly as it is, not only without one touch of grace not 
 its own, but with every touch of awkwardness belong 
 ing to it. She not only adds nothing, but subtracts 
 nothing. She not only idealizes not, refines not, elevates
 
 44 The Vagabond. 
 
 not ; she eliminates nothing of coarse or displeasing ; 
 she spares no harrowing thought, no disgusting minutin? ; 
 she is not only terrible in her life-likeness, but at times 
 offensive. And yet this very offensiveness adds to her 
 thrall over you : you are held in spite of your dislike, 
 because of it. The vulgarity of the earlier scenes in 
 " Camille " is fearful in its truthfulness, but effective as 
 well ; the repulsiveness of the sick-bed scene is painfully 
 real. And here Miss Heron differs from any other 
 actress I have seen. All others refine, in some degree, 
 either by throwing a charm around a character that it 
 cannot really claim, or by concealing defects which it 
 absolutely possesses. Here, too, Miss Heron differs 
 especially from the great French actress, with whom she 
 has sometimes been compared ; for this western per 
 former has indeed thrust herself into the foremost rank, 
 and is to be judged only by comparison with the fore 
 most. As she is great, she must in many things be like 
 her who is greatest ; but in her naturalness she differs 
 from the Jewess. 
 
 Rachel s conception was always idealized, was alw r ays 
 unreal. Her exquisite taste, her refined intellectuality, 
 made all things common and inferior seem unreal to her; 
 whatever she looked upon became in her eyes refined 
 and elevated. And her execution corresponded Avith 
 this idea. She was the living embodiment of Greek 
 poetry and Greek statuary ; she was the spirit of anti 
 quity made manifest in the flesh ; she was what JEschylus 
 and Euripides dreamed of, what Praxiteles fancied ere he 
 formed. She was what educated men of all time have 
 since imagined the Roman maiden and the Grecian 
 queen to have been, possibly superior even to the reality :
 
 Matilda Heron. 45 
 
 Phaedra could not have been more stately in her grace, 
 nor Camilla more severe in her beauty, than their 
 modern representative. Nor was either wilder in 
 her woe or more terrific in her wrath ; probably both 
 Pasiphae s daughter and the Alban s bride, in the 
 storm of passion, lost or lacked some degree of that 
 superlative grace that still crowned in Rachel the highest 
 and fiercest abandonment. When she writhed in the 
 agony of guilty love, or hurled denunciations on Rome, 
 beyond the magnificent personation of passion, there 
 was the strange beauty of attitude, the marvellous music 
 of intonation. These gratified the taste, while the intel 
 lect was satisfied at the representation. 
 
 But was not the heart untouched ? Thrills of real hor 
 ror Rachel did excite, the terrible emotions she did 
 sway ; but tears she could not reach, tenderer feelings 
 she could not evoke. When she essayed modern life, 
 she descended from her pedestal : she was no better than 
 others. In her own exalted region of high art, she was 
 unapproachable ; but it was as really unreal as the pa 
 laces of Olympus, or the personations of the opera. 
 Grant that she was to give you a poetic conception, a 
 realization of your visions of Ilermione and Cassandra, 
 and you must admit that she accomplished what she 
 aimed at ; but ask if women, even in those days, did 
 things according to rule, raged in such divine attitudes, 
 or stormed in such magnificent tones, and you might as 
 well suppose that their ordinary language was measured 
 into hexameters, or their passions expressed in odes. 
 
 Then, again, Rachel was cold ; beautiful, but so statue- 
 like. Now, Miss Heron is the reverse of all this : she is 
 not modelled, she is not stereotyped; she has an inspi-
 
 46 The Vagabond. 
 
 ration of the moment. Seeing Rachel once in a certain 
 part, you had seen her always: she never changed. 
 True, why should she ? She had reached perfection ; 
 change must be for the worse; and she never changed, 
 for better or worse. But this new aspirant is impulsive, 
 fitful, variable ; undecided even. She changes her exe 
 cution too much; sometimes omits fine touches, slurs 
 over to-night what last night was most carefully por 
 trayed, or makes wonderfully vivid what to-morrow 
 may seem of less account. But she has not reached the 
 acme of her art ; she is not sure of herself, she is pois 
 ing her wing ; she is trying her strength. 
 
 Miss Heron is not the calm, collected, self-possessed 
 woman that a perfect artist is ; but though she has more 
 blemishes for that, she has some greater excellences for 
 the same reason. She paints not with the exactitude of 
 a Denner nor of a Raphael ; but some touches are only 
 the gift of inspiration. She is yet a novice, has much 
 to learn, has capabilities undeveloped ; but the true gifts 
 arc there : those which scarcely need cultivation, only 
 direction, only restraint, only development, which tran 
 scend all efiects of culture, all results of art. This 
 resolves itself again into nature. She is not only true 
 to the nature that she plays, but true to her own nature. 
 By looking to the one she is just to the other. Her atti 
 tudes are not indeed studies of grace, but they are easy, 
 at least, and sometimes brimful of passion, although she 
 never achieves that wonderful expression of feeling in her 
 whole form that Rachel accomplished. She has not 
 the anatomical control of her muscles and limbs that the 
 Frenchwoman possessed. Still, of all women who have 
 ever played in America, she ranks next after Rachel in
 
 Matilda Heron. 47 
 
 this respect. Then her voice is not trained to cadences 
 of such mellifluous melody ; she preserves not the music 
 of intonation that marked the great tragic queen in all 
 the depth of woe or fiercest bursts of imprecation. 
 Miss Heron sometimes seems even to lose control of her 
 vocal organs, and her elocution is often far from perfect 
 but there is a weight of passion in her accents that I 
 confess I did not always find in Rachel s. This is, 
 however, only when expressing intense womanly pas 
 sion ; for in embodying horror and terror Miss Heron 
 comes far short of her own conception. 
 
 She is not gifted with the talents requisite for the 
 highest tragic parts ; her imprecations degenerate into 
 rant, her gestures are strained, her voice is utterly in 
 capable of the fiercest expression, and she does not her 
 self feel with the intensity with which she does other 
 pans. She fails here ; of course, only by comparison with 
 the highest ; still she fails. But she has her revenge : if 
 she is not a sybil or a fury ; if she plays neither Eume- 
 nides nor Niobe ; if she lacks the statuesque majesty 
 and the splendor of poetry and marble, or even which 
 we have been wont to look for in the drama, she is 
 more womanly than any actress who speaks the English 
 tongue. 
 
 She is of this day. Modem life is her field ; but only 
 because in portraying modern life she portrays emotions 
 common to humanity. When she plays Medea, and 
 begs her children to come to the maternal bosom, " the 
 breasts that fed ye, the heart that gave ye life," she strikes 
 a chord that would have waked an answering throb in 
 Grecian mothers, that would have forced tears from 
 them and wrung their heart-strings, when Rachel would
 
 48 The Vagabond. 
 
 only have provoked their admiration. In the humanity 
 deeper than all distinctions of race, in the instincts com 
 mon to Greek and Puritan, here is this new actress 
 greatest. She moves not with the stately step of Jason s 
 queen, but she sinks on her knees and yearns towards her 
 little ones as_ mothers in all ages would do, and cries to 
 them with a harrowing tenderness for the absence of 
 which stateliness could never atone. 
 
 So in her love-scenes. Rachel could not love at 
 least on the stage : she was too intellectual ; but Miss 
 Heron is more of the woman ; none of the statue about 
 her ; her full bust beats with the pulses of a sensuous 
 nature; her eye, that glares not with the snake-like, 
 withering power of Rachel, burns with intense tender 
 ness, and is radiant with an ecstasy of joy that the other 
 knew not of; her voice, though it breaks, and is harsh 
 or whimpering, yet tells the true language of passion ; 
 its tones touch nerves that Rachel could never strike ; 
 its accents provoke tears, that none other can so won 
 derfully excite. 
 
 So she has a field all her own ; not classic, not ideal, 
 not terrible ; but womanly, passionate, human. As yet 
 her studies are incomplete. Continued labor, the culture 
 of her taste, and the practice of her profession, will finish 
 and polish her style ; but never give her the marvellous 
 refinement of some, or the striking nobleness of others. 
 She has her special traits, wherein she is super-eminent ; 
 wherein others fall as far short of her, as she of them. 
 Her excellence in these is surpassing, and in these, if 
 she is wise, will she trust.
 
 E. H. CHAPIN. 
 
 " Tis time we were at church." 
 
 Taming the Shrew. 
 
 I HAVE always had a taste for theology. I read ser 
 mons with as much interest as poems, study Jeremy 
 Taylor and the judicious Hooker as ardently as their 
 contemporaries, Massinger and Ford, and go as readily 
 to hear Dr. Hawks or Dr. Bellows as I would to see a 
 picture or play. And it is not simply for the intellectual 
 gratification that I read or listen ; though I enjoy the 
 elaborate declamation of the French preachers, and love 
 to fancy that I hear Bourdaloue or Bossuet delivering 
 funeral orations in Notre Dame, or Barrow and Louth 
 uttering their fine ideas in nervous English ; though my 
 taste is gratified by the elegant language of Mr. Osgood, 
 and my feelings sometimes stirred by the eloquence of 
 the blind Milburn ; yet I find another interest in the 
 pulpit, a profounder concern, a different feeling from 
 that which mere dilettanteism in preaching can arouse. 
 The subject which should engage the efforts of the 
 preacher is to me all-absorbing : I read and listen with 
 quicker sensibility, with livelier attention, with more 
 earnest thoughtfulness when religion is the theme. 
 
 Herein I am not fashionable. The world of New 
 York goes to church in the morning for the sake of 
 
 3
 
 ^o The Vagabond. 
 
 respectability, or in the evening for the sake of amuse 
 ment. It goes on Sunday to hear Dr. Chapin just as it 
 goes the next night to see Miss Heron, for the sake of 
 the sensation. It likes to criticise ; to censure, or ap 
 plaud the poetical quotation, the overdone rhetoric, the 
 hackneyed morality, the large humanity of this popular 
 preacher. It does not go to have doubts allayed, ques 
 tions settled, spirits cheered, fears dispelled ; if it did, it 
 would be disappointed. But as it wants only surface 
 preaching, it is satisfied. As it has no doubts, or thoughts, 
 or .cares, the shallow tide of Dr. Chapin s oratory floats 
 it along : as it is not deeply religious, it likes his ser 
 mons. I fancy I see my readers holding up their hands 
 at this paragraph. Is the Vagabond also among the 
 prophets ! the Vagabond talking about deep religious 
 feeling ! But even the gayest may have moments of 
 thought ; those most immersed in the cares or pleasures 
 of the world may have times of hankering after some 
 thing else ; the most indifferent may occasionally re 
 member, occasionally reflect. The Vagabond pretends 
 to be no better than the rest of the world : the Vagabond 
 is thoughtless, indifferent, absorbed, it may be, in the 
 materialism of the age ; but he and his readers at times 
 feel or think on theological topics ; at times long to 
 learn the mystery of humanity, to solve the problem of 
 destiny, to look into eternity. 
 
 I appeal to my young readers if "it is not so. If you 
 have acute sensibilities, warm feelings, quick perceptions, 
 do not these very qualities at times oblige you to con 
 sider religious subjects? Does not the very vividness 
 with which we, the young, enjoy this life, does not the 
 intensity of our pleasure itself suggest another existence ?
 
 E. H. Chapin. 51 
 
 Does not the brightness of life, by comparison, call up 
 death ? Does not the banquet ever have the skeleton 
 at the board, if only to add zest to the wine ? Does not 
 the beauty of the fresh garland remind us how quickly 
 it is withered ? Then, too, all intensity has a dash of 
 something unearthly in it ; genius is allied to divinity ; 
 and this art, in its different forms, this art which I preach 
 and love music, sculpture, poetry, painting, the drama 
 has something elevating, links us with what is more 
 than human, reaches out after the infinite. Those who 
 are most susceptible to its influences must appreciate what 
 I say. I speak not now of the thoughtful : they, of course, 
 ponder on the most important of all concerns. I speak 
 of the young and gay. They, too, have their moods of 
 contemplation, their hours of soberness, when the awful 
 uncertainty which surrounds us, the gloom of futurity, 
 the tremendous interests of humanity will present them 
 selves. We recover from these influences, we rush more 
 eagerly to pleasure after a Lenten abstinence ; we go 
 more gladly to the dance after a pause in the music, but 
 we must acknowledge the reality of the influence. 
 
 If we go to hear Dr. Chapin in one of these moods, 
 what shall we think of him? That he gives us chaff; 
 that he is showy and unsubstantial ; intent on saying fine 
 things ; pleased with the jingle of his own sentences, and 
 delighted with the glitter of his own ideas, but utterly 
 unsatisfactory to an earnest, craving mind. His fanciful 
 conceits, his extravagant rhetoric, his swelling verbiage 
 is at all times distasteful to a true culture ; but when 
 one goes longing for truth, for earnestness, for help, all 
 this is offensive. It is thrusting the man the speaker 
 between you and God : it is mockery.
 
 ^2 The Vagabond. 
 
 Dr. Chapin never satisfies me : his ideas are always 
 trite, his treatment commonplace, his philosophy what 
 you may learn in the " Elegant Extracts " or the " Eng 
 lish Reader." Prettinesses of speech are substituted 
 for real thought ; sentimentality takes the place of rea 
 soning ; a large-minded charity, a generous morality, is 
 held up as the host to which all must bow down. But 
 important questions he ever shirks. He may touch on 
 fashion, but not on faith ; he may dilate on temperance 
 or truthfulness, but he discusses not eternity ; he avoids 
 the profounder problems that perplex all thoughtful 
 minds. He is good-natured and genial, he lends a help 
 ing hand to every good work, he says a good word for 
 every new enterprise, he preaches about to-day, which 
 is all very well. He has a fling at every folly ; a sneer 
 at every scepticism in which he does not himself share ; 
 a stroke, and sometimes a right heavy one, at every 
 wrong, no matter how gigantic in its proportions, or 
 venerable in its antiquity, or imposing in its strength. 
 He sympathizes rightly or wrongly, but earnestly, with 
 every movement which he believes to be for the ame 
 lioration of the race. Perhaps his judgment is wrong, 
 his head sometimes weak, and his hand unsteady, but 
 his heart is always right. 
 
 But his attention to temporalities is too exclusive; 
 his vision magnifies near objects so that distant ones 
 become obscure ; the glass of faith he does not often 
 look through ; the deep waters he never treads ; he 
 never enters the holy of holies ; he never brings down 
 a sacred fire. Like the priests of Baal, who cut them 
 selves with knives and cried aloud from morning until 
 evening, he labors, but in vain. He preaches, but with
 
 E. H. Chapin. 53 
 
 no unction ; he ministers, but with no effect. One is 
 never moved by his discourses to anything more than a 
 present or passing sympathy. A lofty influence, an 
 exalted, pure, religious fervor, is entirely lacking in his 
 sermons. Could he have satisfied the cravings of poor 
 young Stirling? Could he have silenced the doubts 
 of Tennyson, or demolished the arguments of Carlyle ? 
 A soul struggling for the light, wrestling with despair 
 and anxiety, an " infant crying in the night," would find 
 no solace, no answer, no light for the darkness, no 
 ease for a troubled mind with him. 
 
 When will the preachers of this day learn how wide 
 spread is the doubt that disturbs the minds of educated 
 men ? Not only is it diffused among those who avow 
 themselves unbelievers, but among members of Christian 
 churches, among those who seldom acknowledge their 
 perplexity ; and stranger still, among those who appear 
 immersed in business or pleasure, there are many who 
 think earnestly, seriously, faithfully ; many who cannot 
 be satisfied ; who determine not to think, to drown 
 doubts in the whirl of excitement, but to whom these 
 thoughts return in spite of themselves, to whom they 
 cling like the old man of the mountain to Sinbad, 
 which they cannot shake off. And yet preachers go 
 lazily on, telling men and women that God is love, and 
 will damn them all if they don t believe. While many, 
 perhaps a majority of the leading literary minds of this 
 and other countries are tinctured with free-thinking 
 notions, no effort is made, or none commensurate with 
 the need, to affect the age. Missionaries are sent to 
 Boroboolah Gha, and a wail is made over the Five 
 Points, but the mass of the educated people of the
 
 54 The Vagabond. 
 
 country will be infidel before the preachers know 
 it. 
 
 Dr. Chapin s style is second-rate. It is pretentious 
 and tawdry, overloaded with ornament, crammed with 
 fine words and far-fetched or commonplace figures, 
 interlarded with Avitticisms, and stuck full of poetical 
 quotations, which are recited in the worst theatrical 
 manner. The arrangement is often faulty, the logic 
 entirely wanting, and the really fine things are fre 
 quently so obtruded as to become offensive. If he 
 thinks of anything clever, or can say anything cleverly, 
 in it conies, though utterly irrelevant. There is a con 
 stant aim at effect, a constant straining for applause. 
 The interest of his subject never so far absorbs him that 
 he forgets himself; when he makes a good point, lie 
 stops and looks around, as if to cry " Plaudite nunc /" 
 and a rustling is heard all over the house. lie 
 seldom fails of a certain effect ; he produces in a pro 
 miscuous audience a kind of mental titillation, but never 
 impresses one soberly or permanently. Though occa 
 sionally some strokes come home to every one, and 
 some flights are actually successful, his eloquence is, on 
 the whole, too sophomoreish to please either scholars 
 or people of high cultivation. The chastening effect of 
 ripe mental culture is everywhere lacking. 
 
 His earnest sympathy, his genial charity, his univer 
 sal amiability, are traits that distinguish the man rather 
 than the preacher or orator. His showy talents are 
 the very ones to make him popular, just as the gaudy 
 colors of a picture are sure to attract the uneducated 
 eye, which the cultivated taste as surely rejects. The 
 few effective things he says can no more redeem
 
 E. H. Chapin. 55 
 
 his reputation as an orator, than the praiseworthy cha 
 racteristics I have mentioned can make him a true 
 preacher. You leave the house after listening to his 
 discourses, thinking of the clever man, not of the 
 absorbing theme ; you have seen a brilliant display of 
 fireworks, perhaps, but the smell and the smoke remain, 
 and the darkness of doubt is deeper than ever.
 
 NIBLO S. 
 
 The house is a respected house." 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 NIBLO S is to be abolished ; the time-honored " gar 
 den" must at last succumb before the march of trade ; 
 the house so long respected in the memories of play 
 goers is hereafter to be respected in memory alone. 
 On the first of May, the theatre must give way to the 
 hotel. I am sorry. Some of my pleasantest recollections 
 of the play-house are connected with Niblo s, as must 
 be those of every aboriginal New Yorker. Since Vaux- 
 hall and the Park theatre disappeared, this has been the 
 oldest theatrical landmark on the west side of the town ; 
 in fact, the only one that has lasted half a generation 
 the only one with any savor of age about it, or any halo 
 of association, ^was the first place of amusement I 
 ever visited. I recollect as well as if it were but yester 
 day how I sat in the parquet, in my plaid jacket and cap, 
 and saw the green curtain, with the inexplicable tight 
 rope coming down over the footlights and the heads of 
 the musicians. I remember vividly enough the loud 
 music of the orchestra, and the impression of " some 
 thing rich and strange" it made upon my baby ear; 
 indeed, I am not sure but that the recollection of the
 
 Niblo s. 
 
 57 
 
 music was, for long, more vivid than the memory of the 
 spectacle that came after. 
 
 But oh ! the wonderful fairy-land into which I was let 
 when the curtain was first lifted before my eyes. Would 
 you believe it, tis fairy-land yet, often and often to me, 
 when the curtain is lifted. I have spent more happy 
 hours in a theatre than I ever did out of it. I have 
 known as keen enjoyment gazing upon the fairy world 
 that lies beyond that curtain, as I have ever known away 
 from its influences. Oh ! when I think of the exquisite 
 gratifications afforded me by the stage ; when I remem 
 ber the domain of the imagination all made real, the 
 fancies embodied, the poetry incarnated in a theatre ; 
 when I recall the strains of delicious music, with all the 
 delicate and subtle influences that music summons up 
 all the host of thoughts, and passions, and feelings, and 
 fancies that are its slaves as the genius was of Aladdin 
 the rage of Norma and the witchery of Freischutz, the 
 passion of Lucrezia and the intrigues of Seville ; when I 
 remember, too, the wit of merry Beatrice and the 
 jealousy of dun Othello, the sublime agony of the 
 ancient Phedre and the wretchedness of our modern 
 Camille, the lofty sorrow of Lord Hamlot and the awful 
 horror of Macbeth all the mingled intellectual and sen 
 sual delights that I have received from the stage can I 
 ever forget my first night in a theatre ? 
 
 That was the vestibule to the temple ; the initiation 
 to a whole realm of enjoyment. Grisi s wondrous tones 
 and Sontag s delicate grace ; Forrest s Metamora, Ra 
 chel s Adrienne, Heron s Medea, Wallack s Don Caesar, 
 Burton s Dogberry, young Booth s Richard, all these 
 were ushered in by the delights of that evening. These,
 
 ^8 The Vagabond. 
 
 a splendid company, stood waiting at the door of my 
 brain that night, sure, when once they had entered, to 
 be welcome .visitants for ever. Little did the boy who 
 clapped his tiny hands at Gabriel Ravel s feats, dream 
 of the big crowd of after pleasures that were destined 
 to follow on the heels of the tumbler. Little did those 
 who took him to the play-house imagine that in all his 
 youth and early manhood he could find no pleasures, 
 either in study, or travel, or gayer life (and all of these 
 he tried), that should rival those of the theatre ; plea 
 sures which study and travel and society fitted him the 
 better to relish and appreciate : for indeed all books and 
 all culture fit one the better to delight in the expression 
 and illustration of the choicest literature ; in the render 
 ing of the most exquisite poetry ; in the uttering of the 
 greatest tragedies and comedies. All travel and all ex 
 perience make one a fitter judge of the naturalness of 
 acting, a better critic of those representations of life 
 and passion, of those pictures of men and women in 
 various climes and times and in the varied situations of 
 the stage. 
 
 Do you wonder, then, that I look kindly back on 
 Niblo s ; that the house is to me a respected house ; 
 that I retain a distinct remembrance of the very play that 
 was performed on that eventful night ; that I recall the 
 children dancers who since then have grown into men 
 and women ; that I like to summon up again the panto 
 mime, and the clown, and the rope-dancing, and the 
 balance-pole, and the glittering background, and the 
 handsomely painted men and the bright-eyed women, 
 and all the paraphernalia that dazzled my infant senses 
 so that they have not yet recovered. There were fire-
 
 Niblo s. ^g 
 
 works, too, in the garden : for there was a garden then ; 
 and we went upon a piazza to look on, but these were 
 not half so wonderful to me as the pageant within doors. 
 I was ever more interested in humanity than in its sur 
 roundings, although I confess the surroundings have an 
 influence on me. But my temperament is sympathetic. 
 I am still more susceptible to the influences of passion 
 than to those of taste. I preferred the plot of the seri 
 ous pantomime within to the brilliant wheels and rockets 
 out-of-doors ; and to-day I like people better than shows, 
 and a play better than a spectacle. 
 
 After that night I was not soon let go again. I talked 
 and dreamed of nothing but the theatre, and those who 
 had charge of me were afraid I might get stage struck, 
 I suppose, or crazy; so I used to steal away at nightfall, 
 arid stand by th e door of Niblo s to watch the people as 
 they entered the wonderful palace of delights. I was 
 so young that I dared not go in alone, but I formed an 
 acquaintance with the doorkeeper, and told him that I 
 once had been within the magic precincts. I assured 
 him that when the Ravels returned I was to be taken 
 thither again ; once in a season I might hope to pene 
 trate the mysteries of Melpomene. I got a copy of 
 Shakspeare, too, and carried it under my arm while I 
 stood at the portals beyond which I might not pass ; 
 and though I could scarcely have had the faintest idea 
 of its beauties, I pored over the volume constantly at 
 home, because it was a book of plays. There s another 
 habit of which I am not yet cured. 
 
 Afterwards came children s theatricals, and all the 
 early experience of Wilhelm Meister ; only as soon as I 
 was at all able to appreciate good acting, my delight in
 
 60 The Vagabond. 
 
 witnessing it was so great that I lost any desire tc 
 take part in the performance. I went occasionally to 
 Niblo s till I was about thirteen, and then I ventured 
 alone. My memories of the place since, are like those 
 of other people, I suppose. Others, besides me, remem 
 ber Alboni, and Sontag, and Mo watt, and Cushman : 
 others remember the most delicious singer in the world^ 
 as Orsini, on that night when Salvi and DeVries were 
 in the cast of " Lucrezia Borgia," and Marini and Rocco 
 sang in the chorus ; that chorus so superbly given at the 
 end of the first act, that the house nearly rose. I don t 
 believe it has ever been as well sung in New York since. 
 Others, besides me, remember Sontag in "Don Pasquale," 
 as bewitching a Norina as Piccolomini was last week ; 
 Steffanoni too, storming so splendidly in the "Favorita," 
 and Thillon, the fascinating vivandibre. Then, later, 
 there have been Mrs. Mowatt, and Burton, and Miss 
 Cushman ; Armand, and Mr. Toodles, and Lady Mac 
 beth ; and the dancers, the finest ballet people we have 
 ever had in New York ; the Sotos in their prime, the 
 Roussets, and the Pougauds, and the Rollas. 
 
 I had a little adventure of my own when Mrs. Mow 
 att was at Niblo s. It was the last night of her stage 
 life ; the house was crowded to its utmost capacity with 
 a fashionable audience, many of them personal friends 
 of the lovely woman whose history all New Yorkers 
 know ; who has now gone back to grace the society 
 that claimed her for one of its brightest ornaments ere 
 the world at large knew of her talents or her charms. 
 The throng was so great that I could find no place but 
 the passage-way in the dress-circle, and there I sat on 
 the floor. A fine grey-headed old man was on the sofa
 
 Niblo s. 61 
 
 next to me, and opened the conversation : remarked the 
 immense concourse, and said it reminded him of the 
 Theatre Fran9ais in the days of Talma. From the 
 crowd to the actress was a ready transition ; so we fell 
 to discussing Mrs. Mowatt. I said she was charming 
 and clever, and wondered if her graces were natural or 
 acquired. My acquaintance insisted that they were 
 natural ; in fact, he knew they were so. Then I won 
 dered if this were really her last appearance, and sur 
 mised that she would soon return to the stage. " No," 
 said my friend, " she will be married in a month." I 
 knew of that before, and told him the day ; but we did 
 not agree about the date, and the fine old grey-headed 
 gentleman thought he ought to know best, since " he 
 was her father." Of course I admitted the probability 
 of his being correctly informed, and apologized for the 
 freedom of my criticisms ; he declared, however, that 
 they had not been offensive, and even if they had 
 proved unfavorable, that I was not to blame. But I 
 could not remember having been very censorious, and 
 we chatted away all the evening. I applauded very 
 vigorously, as you may guess, and I remember going 
 out to buy a bouquet. I was to be taken to the wedding, 
 and thought I might as well secure a gracious recep 
 tion. I went to the wedding along with two thousand 
 other people, on a fine day in June, shortly after, and 
 I was not the only one there who remembered Niblo s. 
 But the time would fail me to recall all my adventures 
 at Niblo s. There I first went behind the scenes ; it 
 was at a college commencement, and belles and beaux 
 were flirting in the green-room and over the trap-doors 
 wl ere Mazulme, the night-owl, was wont to descend ;
 
 62 The Vagabond. 
 
 benediction was repeated by the Chancellor right under 
 the pulley that let down Pougaud ; and the college 
 dons sat erect and precise on the very spot where Soto s 
 pas was most enchanting. There, too, I have been with 
 sweethearts innumerable ; I flirted only a week ago 
 with half-a-dozen different pretty girls at a Philharmonic 
 rehearsal, when I ought to have been listening to Schu 
 mann or Schubert ; and I went one morning last week 
 with a crowd of children to see the circus performances. 
 I held a baby on my lap while Jack the Giant Killer 
 pei-fornied his feats in the ring, and I had an adventure 
 meanwhile quite as funny as the one with Mrs. Mowatt s 
 father. This time I sat next a plain little woman not 
 thirty years old, who, as I was reading the programme 
 aloud to my charges, said to me proudly, " My 
 husband plays the giant." After this advance on her 
 part, our conversation became animated ; my friend 
 gave me abundant information regarding the horses and 
 their riders ; furnished me material enough to write a 
 biography of Dan Rice and his horse, Excelsior ; told 
 how much salary each gets a Aveek, and who was to 
 play the giantess. When the tumblers came on she 
 pointed out her husband, a tall, lank, sprightly fellow, 
 and assured me he was all muscle and bone, every inch 
 of him ; and to be sure he did deeds of dreadful note ; 
 and as the giant appeared in the concluding spectacle, 
 with a head bigger than a barrel, she exclaimed: " Now 
 who d think that was my John ? I vow I wouldn t 
 have knowed him !" 
 
 But, alas ! all these days and nights at Niblo s are 
 drawing to a close ; no more operas nor pantomimes ; 
 no flirting behind the scenes nor in front ; no philhar-
 
 Niblo s. 63 
 
 monic rehearsals nor circus matinees; no adventures 
 with fashionable men or unfashionable women, with the 
 parents of distinguished actresses or the wives of mus 
 cular gymnasts ; the fashion of this world passeth away.
 
 FRENCH ART IN NEW YORK. 
 
 "Painting is Welcome." 
 
 Timon of Athens. 
 
 FRANCE is the fulcrum that Archimedes wanted : he 
 who rests his lever there can move the world. For Paris 
 sets the fashion in revolutions as well as in dress, stamps 
 the reputation of a singer, or lights the torch that puts 
 Europe in a blaze. French ideas are at the basis of all 
 that is distinctive in modern civilization, in our philoso 
 phy, our art, and our life. Even England, prejudiced, sel 
 fish, introspective, is influenced by her lively, magnetic 
 neighbor, and Punch acknowledges that Mr. Bull has to 
 take his time from Napoleon, while the rest of trans-At 
 lantic Christendom openly follows in the wake of France. 
 We, on this side of the ocean, are apt to think ourselves 
 our own exemplar ; but lookers-on tell hoAV much New 
 York is like a second Paris ; how the life in public the 
 cafes, the showy streets, the gay population reminds 
 them more vividly of the Boulevards than of the Strand. 
 And to go back to history, the truest democrats of 76 
 were men imbued with the spirit and notions of French 
 philosophers. Many of the founders of this Union were 
 indeed far from anticipating, or even desiring, the result 
 which we witness. They preferred and worked to 
 accomplish a sober, aristocratic form of government,
 
 French Art in New York. 65 
 
 where people of family and condition should quietly 
 assume the lead. But Jefferson established another 
 school ; a school which has completely and wonderfully 
 triumphed, whose doctrines are now almost universally 
 received ; and those doctrines were learned at the feet 
 of French Gamaliels. Voltaire and Rousseau first pro 
 claimed the ideas from which has sprung our modern 
 American republic. 
 
 Not only in philosophy, however, is that wonderful 
 people in advance of the world ; her civilization is the 
 completest, her art the most carefully studied of our day. 
 It is that art, in those of its manifestations which have 
 been presented to the metropolis of America, that I 
 wish now to discuss. French literature is sufficiently 
 familiar to us. Unfortunately, its more unpleasant 
 phases are most conspicuous ; still, the best authors of 
 modern France are widely read and thoroughly appre 
 ciated by cultivated Americans. We have also had 
 opportunities of witnessing the culminating glories of 
 the French theatre. We have seen Rachel, the incar 
 nation of French art, we have studied the classic and 
 romantic dramas as represented by their common queen ; 
 but it is neither the influence and character of the French 
 stage, nor of French literature, but of French paintings, 
 upon which I propose now to remark. 
 
 Fine paintings, master-pieces indeed of art, by great 
 Frenchmen, have been at various times exhibited in New 
 York. The productions of Horace Vernet, of Scheffer, 
 and of De la Roche, have been submitted to our consi 
 deration. They obtained the notice of those who loved 
 pictures, and were variously criticised in the journals of 
 the day. I know not, however, that they have been
 
 66 The Vagabond. 
 
 contemplated as indices to national character, as deve 
 lopments of national intellect. And yet the French 
 mind is so alive to the influences of art, manifests itself 
 so frequently through this medium, acknowledges the 
 productions of art as fair illustrations of the national or 
 individual character, that it seems fitting we should thus 
 consider the specimens which have been in America. 
 True, the American mind is, in the mass, as yet too ma 
 terial to submit to be judged in a similar manner. The 
 artistic development of our character is not yet sufficient 
 for us to consent that it should be taken as a type of 
 ourselves ; but we can at least consider others under 
 forms Avhich we have not assumed. It is fair to the 
 French to contemplate them under this aspect. 
 
 The recent death of De la Roche of course recalls the 
 productions of that master, three of whose greatest 
 efforts are familiar to lovers and students of art in our 
 midst. These are his " Napoleon Crossing the Alps," 
 which is still in New York ; his " Hemicycle of the 
 Palace of Fine Arts;" and, greater than either, per 
 haps greater than any of his other works, " Marie An 
 toinette before the Revolutionary Tribunal." The pic 
 tures of his father-in-law, the great Vernet, are not 
 unknown to us. Mr. Bryan has in his gallery a little 
 work of Vernet s, entitled " Napoleon before the Battle 
 of Waterloo ;" and the Messrs. Goupil exhibited, not a 
 great while ago, a brilliant picture of his, " The Breth 
 ren of Joseph. Of Scheffer s works it is only neces 
 sary to mention the "Dante and Beatrice," "The 
 Temptation," "The Dead Christ," and the prints of 
 " Christus Consolator " and " Remunerator." These three 
 great masters are sufficiently individualized, and at the
 
 French Art in New York. 67 
 
 same time sufficiently marked in their nationality, to re 
 present not unworthily three important phases of French 
 art. I have no scruple in reckoning Scheffer among 
 French artists ; for though by birth a Belgian, his stu 
 dies and tastes are essentially French, and his works as 
 emphatically so as those of any of his contemporaries. 
 
 Some years ago the French seemed to have passed 
 the era when genius culminates. The critical epoch 
 had arrived with them ; the six days of creation were 
 over, and the Sabbath of rest was begun. They were 
 occupied in perfecting their taste, in elaborating their 
 skill, in polishing their marble, and carving their stone : 
 they no longer cut out Apollos, or built Notre Dames. 
 The classic taste of Racine, and the Alexandrines of 
 Corneille, reigned supreme on their stage. Even in 
 enunciating truths and doctrines of the most astound 
 ing import to mankind, the Des Cartes and Voltaires 
 stopped to polish their epigrams and chasten their style. 
 But the whirlwind of the revolution has evoked other ge 
 niuses. On the stage, the romantic school now contends 
 with the classic ; in literature, the burning eloquence of 
 Madame Dudevant, and the intensity of modern fiction, 
 have supplanted the calm wit and delicate satire of 
 La Bruyere and De Sevigne. Something of the same 
 sort may be seen in art, the same struggle in another 
 field. Ary Scjieffer s studied attitudes and elaborate 
 grace, his coldness and sentimentality, are counterparts 
 of the ancient regime ; the gay brilliancy and theatrical 
 exaggeration of Vernet ally him to the present century 
 as well as to the past ; but the profound significance, the 
 intense feeling, the passionate expression of De la Roche, 
 make him the exponent of revolutionary Fance.
 
 68 The Vagabond 
 
 I confess these things do not speak so plainly from the 
 canvas as from the printed page or from the theatre. 
 The national mind of France has not been particularly 
 directed to painting. No such outburst of intellect and 
 genius is there apparent as in the Italian school, or the 
 Flemish even, as in the statues of Greece, or the archi 
 tecture of the middle ages. Still, he who looks close 
 may find a meaning even in the comparatively meaning 
 less pictures of France. 
 
 Scheifer I cannot admire. His tameness and his ele 
 gance according to rule, remind me of Watteau and the 
 three unities of Racine. Not all his tenderness and 
 occasional sweetness, not even the dignity of some com 
 positions, and the religious calm of others, compensate 
 for the frigid, stilted air which pervades them all for 
 the absence of deep feeling, for the lack of inspiration, 
 which I remark in all his works. In the mild, insipid 
 countenance of the Christ of " The Temptation," for 
 instance, or the very unimpassioned Dante of his more 
 famous work, I can discover no trace of genius. Care 
 fully cultivated talent, correct taste, real learning, but 
 no feeling, no soul, no genius. He is, I think, the type 
 of the worst phase of French art. A dead Christ, in 
 deed, he paints; but let him attempt no living one. 
 No light burns in the eyes of his faces, and no life ani 
 mates his figures. A chill strikes you on looking at 
 them, like that you feel on entering a vault. He is the 
 Delia Cruscan painter of France the Pope, or rather 
 the Cowley, of French art. Two mites once outweighed 
 a treasury, and two strokes of the pencil of genius are 
 worth a Louvre full of Schefier s paintings. 
 
 Vernet s best works have never been in America ; but
 
 French Art in New York. 69 
 
 a tolerable estimate of his ability can be formed from 
 those which have. He holds a middle place between 
 the cold statue of Scheffer and the inspired man of 
 De la Roche. He paints out-door life, the sun of the 
 tropics, the sands of Africa, the gay colors and fiery 
 chargers of war ; the armies of Napoleon, but not Na 
 poleon himself; the smoke and the carnage of battle, 
 but not its poetry ; the Arabs of the desert, but no indi 
 vidual man. A confirmed realist, a Dumas in painting, 
 brilliant, gorgeous, truthful in outsides, but never pene 
 trating beneath them ; excellent as far as he goes, hav 
 ing a mission, and doing it well ; having a talent, and 
 not hiding it in a napkin ; singing his song, painting his 
 picture, but no more trenching upon the province of 
 the great artist than the grasshopper does upon that 
 of the nightingale than the faun half divine, can be 
 said to assume the thunderbolts of Jupiter. 
 
 Paul de la Roche is the greatest of all French paint 
 ers. He only, or he best seems penetrated with the 
 spirit of the wonderful age in which we live. He feels 
 all its actuality and all its ideality, for it indeed combines 
 the two ; intensely material, but finding more poetry in 
 matter than ever was dreamed of in spirit. De la Roche 
 loves outward nature, appreciates beauty of form and 
 figure, but knows that the highest beauty of face is that 
 of the soul limned in feature. His pictures are learned 
 in art, are studies in drawing and color, have beauties 
 enough for the eye of the connoisseur ; but more than 
 all this, they speak to the heart of the man. The face 
 of his Napoleon, full of genius, of character, of life ; 
 the compression into eye and mouth of such a woi ld 
 of meaning, of a lifetime of history, is wonderful.
 
 jo The Vagabond. 
 
 Look into that face, and see Marengo and Egypt, 
 empire and destiny. Then, for an example of touch 
 ing tenderness, of queenly dignity, and womanly forti 
 tude, the countenance of his Marie Antoinette is almost 
 unparalleled. Tears start unbidden to one s eyes upon 
 looking at this great picture. The hair, blanched by 
 sorrow, the heavy eyelids, the proud, yet quivering 
 mouth, and the form stately in misfortune all these 
 are inimitable. His selection of subjects, as well as 
 their handling,, proves the master s mind susceptible, 
 shows the reflex of events, the influence of the age. 
 In his works are imaged the wild republican fury 
 and the love of military glory, the two passions which 
 distract France. Here is mirrored the unrest that 
 throbs in George Sand, and is uttered by Meyerbeer 
 and Victor Hugo. Here is the truest exposition on 
 canvas of the Marseillaise, as Rachel sang it during the 
 days of February. Here we find another voice for the 
 spirit that has overturned thrones and dynasties ; that 
 has shaken Europe again and again to its centre ; that 
 volcano of thought and feeling which ever and anon 
 belches out yet another eruption to overwhelm more 
 than another Pompeii. De la Roche is modern France.
 
 EDWIN FORREST. 
 
 "I can t acquit by wholesale, nor condemn." 
 
 CHURCHILL S Rosciad. 
 
 Roscius had a defect in his eye, and Churchill found 
 fault with Garrick ; but Cicero studied oratory with 
 Roscius for all his squint, and Churchill finished hig 
 lines by declaring : 
 
 " Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree, 
 And pleased with Nature, must be pleased with thee." 
 
 Mr. Forrest may or may not be a Roscius or a Gar 
 rick ; we, who see him, can know of the others only by 
 tradition ; but we do know that the great masters and 
 models of the stage were not without faults and fault 
 finders ; so we need not be surprised if there be those 
 who refuse any praise to one of the first tragedians of 
 our day, nor even if there exist some reason for the 
 refusal. 
 
 I call Mr. Forrest one of the first tragedians of our 
 day. I know it is the fashion to decry him ; I know 
 that his audiences, though large, are not generally com 
 posed of cultivated people ; but they are sometimes as 
 good judges of acting as the scholars and thinkers who 
 affect to despise them. No acting is great which does
 
 72 The Vagabond. 
 
 not please more than a class. That which is addressed 
 to, and intended solely for a few, lacks the truest con 
 stituent of greatness, universality. Any work of 
 literature or art, of poetry or oratory, as well as the 
 drama, must, to produce the finest effect, appeal to the 
 passions, or the feelings as well as the taste ; and passion 
 brings men to a common level. The profoundest scholar, 
 the most accomplished man of the world, loves and hates, 
 fears and exults, just as the Bowery boy, or the plebeian 
 of old Rome. When passion arrives at a climax, its 
 manifestation is pretty much the same in all classes, and 
 the gods of the gallery are as good critics of the great 
 points in a performance as the wits and blues of the 
 boxes. Because then, Mr. Forrest has triumphed only 
 or mostly over audiences not "in society," he has 
 triumphed none the less triumphantly. 
 
 Neither is he altogether limited in this regard. Many 
 a straggler from the high places of fashion finds his 
 way into the Broadway ; and here and there you will 
 meet an admirer of his, willing to do battle in a good 
 cause, though against fearful odds. The fair sex espe 
 cially would be glad to return to their allegiance ; for the 
 time has been when it was the fashion to admire For 
 rest ; when it was in good taste to take seats for his bene 
 fit, and highly respectable to applaud him in Metamora, 
 or to cry over his Damon. The present rage for staying 
 away came in, as everybody knows, when Macready 
 went out. Mr. Forrest offended the fashionable world, 
 and it has pouted ever since. Then he subsequently 
 flung his gauntlet in the face of the literary world, which 
 has never forgiven him. But these quarrels don t affect 
 his acting. His merits are as conspicuous now as before
 
 Edwin Forrest. 73 
 
 the Astor-Place riots, and his faults are no more glaring 
 than when up-town crowded to see him as eagerly as 
 down-town does now. Nobody disliked some points in 
 Mr. Forrest s conduct more than the Vagabond, but I 
 can do justice to his great talents for all that. In fact, I 
 cannot altogether debar myself the pleasure of witness 
 ing his personations. 
 
 What especially I find to admire in Mr. Forrest is his 
 power to move me. He has great faults ; he rants un 
 doubtedly ; he roars and bellows at times in the most 
 unpleasant manner ; he conceives some parts very differ 
 ently from my idea of them ; and I never see him with 
 out disapproving of many things that he does. But I 
 never see him without confessing his ability. He pos 
 sesses the true dramatic talent the power to make you 
 weep and shudder at his will. He himself feels what he 
 represents. He is mindful of the old Roman s maxim : 
 
 " Si vis me flere, dolendum est 
 Primum tibi." 
 
 He is for awhile Damon, or Cade, or Spartacus. He 
 forgets himself, and you forget him too. His humanity 
 excites your sympathy, his passion strikes an answering 
 chord in your breast, he moves you. 
 
 Others may give a picture more critically exact, may 
 read with more of the elocutionist s skill, may even dis 
 sect a part with a truer philosophy ; but few will grasp 
 more certainly the prominent features of a character, or 
 give them half the expression, half the earnestness, the 
 likeness, the reality that he does. 
 
 I was particularly struck with this of late. Hamlet 
 4
 
 74 The Vagabond. 
 
 has been played by several fine actors within a ftw 
 months. It is especially an intellectual r6le one which 
 they say Mr. Forrest has no conception of, which he is 
 utterly unfit for, and unable to render. I saw Mr. 
 Wallack, Mr. Davenport and Mr. Forrest play the part 
 within a short while of each other. Mr. Wallack was a 
 rhetorician, an actor. He read beautifully, he threw 
 himself into graceful attitudes, he convinced you that 
 he was an accomplished scholar and a gentleman ; but he- 
 never evoked one spark of sympathy with the great crea 
 tion of Shakspeare, he never let you forget Mr. Wallack, 
 he never identified himself with the part. Mr. Daven 
 port played in a gentlemanly, quiet style, with much 
 less elegance than Wallack, and much more feeling. 
 I regard his performance as decidedly the superior 
 of the two. It showed deeper thought, it was less 
 stagey and tricky, more manly and natural ; but still 
 it was tame, and at times uninteresting. It never once 
 excited any real emotion in the audience ; it never made 
 us feel. Mr. Forrest s personation, howevei , was full of 
 life and spirit. It may not have answered exactly the 
 idea of an intellectual man ; it may not have been suffi 
 ciently refined, sufficiently subtile, sufficiently elaborate; 
 but I could not see it without emotion. I could not wit 
 ness his interview with the ghost, without terror, or listen 
 unmoved to his appeals to a guilty mother. I could not 
 watch him during the intense interest of the mimic play, 
 and finally observe his terrific joy at the climax, without 
 confessing his genius. In what is universal, human, 
 sympathetic, Mr. Forrest excels. 
 
 His art is not equal to that of some ; but all the art 
 in the world could not produce the effect of his wild
 
 Edwin Forrest. 75 
 
 rush upon the stage, panting, eager, full of rage, in the 
 last scene of Damon. Your carefully-modelled men, 
 your elocutionists and rhetoricians, could never rival 
 his few simple touches of pathos in Metamora, at the 
 death of his child. One or two words suffice to set a 
 whole house in tears. 
 
 This reminds me that Mr. Forrest is really and truly 
 greatest in his quieter acting. The horror of his death 
 scenes, the physical contortions which excite so much dis 
 gust, display only a curious talent that he possesses, are 
 indeed unnatural and monstrous. The rant in which lie 
 frequently indulges, especially in declamatory roles, is 
 overdone and fails of its effect ; but his play in some ten 
 der scene, some little bit of domestic fondling, some gen 
 tle adieu to a friend, has frequently unmanned many a 
 stern admirer. It is common, I know, to say that Mr. 
 Forrest cannot do such things well, that he cannot play 
 tenderly ; but I think this a mistake. Who that recol 
 lects the parting with his wife in " Damon and Pythias," 
 or the family scene in the " Gladiator," but will admit 
 his possession of this excellence. 
 
 His tones, too, when restrained, affect me more than 
 in the very whirlwind of passion. They seem then 
 brimful of pent-up feeling, which is always more awful 
 than these gusts of unrestrained rage. Some hurried 
 sentence, some half-suppressed exclamation, has often 
 times more meaning than a world of violence. A quiet 
 tone may speak volumes, when tearing the passion to 
 tatters, though it split the ears of the groundlings, 
 comes not near their hearts. 
 
 Mr. Forrest s physical qualifications are peculiar. His 
 form is massive and well-developed; though almost
 
 76 The Vagabond. 
 
 gigantic, its proportions are preserved. His appearance 
 is always imposing, and has frequently a barbaric ma 
 jesty, suitable to the parts he most often plays. A cer 
 tain dignity of demeanor is generally maintained, though 
 it must be remarked that this is utterly lost in the 
 fiercest fits of Jack Cade and Metamora. His face is 
 eminently expressive of the harsher emotions, and can 
 certainly assume the most horrid aspect of any human 
 countenance I ever gazed upon. He apparently possesses 
 the power of foaming at the mouth, can swell the veins 
 and muscles of his head and neck at will, call the blood 
 to his temples, perspire, laugh, cry, just as he lists. 
 His face can also at times express a vast deal of rough 
 tenderness, all the more touching from the sterner guise 
 it generally wears. 
 
 His voice is tremendous in power, but not remarkable 
 for compass. It descends to a most cavernous and 
 guttural or subter-guttural bass, but contains no shrill 
 or tenor notes in its register. Still, he can modulate it 
 with skill and effect. It is at times terrible, and at 
 times touching. His growls rival those of the hyena in 
 hideousness, and resemble them in roughness ; his bursts 
 of passion never fail for lack of force, and are often 
 inexpressibly fine. He can give vent to all the sterner 
 emotions without words. Of inarticulate sounds he has 
 a whole vocabulary at his command ; one, too, under 
 stood by all. 
 
 He has studied, too ; but rather the execution than 
 the conception of his parts. He is not an intellectual 
 player ; he is rough, he is coarse, but withal he is great, 
 he is human. Shall we, then, because of his faults, debar 
 ourselves from witnessing his excellences ? Says Horace :
 
 Edwin Forrest. 77 
 
 " Ille poeta qui pectus inanitus angit, 
 Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet." 
 
 According to this rule, Forrest has the true poetic fire, 
 the real inspiration of genius that rarest of gifts. 
 Any of us can acquire scholarship : genius never is ac 
 quired. A Wallack is the product of the schools : a 
 Forrest is never made. But he is adopted by the mil 
 lion ; he is the pet of the masses ; and those who 
 belong to the ten thousand will not admire him. 
 
 " So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng 
 By chance go right, they purposely go wrong."
 
 LA GRANGE. 
 
 "Nightly she sings." 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, 
 
 LA GRANGE is an artist in the best sense of the word ; 
 she ib devoted to her art. None of the lyric queens 
 who at different times have visited America ever 
 equalled her in this respect. Her own fame, and what 
 to a woman is more, her own appearance, are always 
 made secondary to the interests of music. Thus, she 
 often sings a part manifestly and utterly unsuited to 
 her ability, because, if she refused, the opera could not 
 be given. Thus, she plays in " La Spin," where her 
 person is entirely disguised, and sacrifices her looks in 
 " Le Prophete," so that the most ardent admirer can 
 not extol her charms. Thus, for the sake of a new 
 composer, or a new artist, she is always ready to be 
 come less prominent before the public. True, her 
 gauge has been taken, her name is mad#, her position 
 is ascertained and appreciated ; she can lose nothing 
 in reality by this obliging spirit ; but, nevertheless, 
 prima donnas are notoriously the most capricious and 
 exacting, the vainest of God s creatures ; and when one 
 of this most petted and most spoiled class possesses 
 some of the worthiest and noblest attributes of woman, 
 and manifests them in her art, it is a wonder worth 
 chronicling.
 
 La Grange. 79 
 
 This utter abnegation of self is rare among any, 
 among all artists. Heart-burnings and squabbles are 
 common in schools of painting and in cliques of littera 
 teurs, and disgrace people of talent all the world over ; 
 but especially is this true of musicians. Have AVC, New 
 Yorkers, not had sad experience of their trifling vani 
 ties and ridiculous rivalries ? Does not the cause of 
 music languish because of the soprano s Avhims and the 
 contralto s spite ? because the tenor quarrels with the 
 bass, and the orchestra is not of the same politics with 
 the chorus ? All honor, then, to La Grange, who is ab 
 solutely religious in her devotion to art ! I really con 
 sider the dedication of all her faculties and time to this 
 one purpose as approaching the heroic. She has done 
 raore to elevate art and its consideration among Ameri 
 cans, than any artist who has ever visited us. She has 
 shown us that it may be made the object of a lifetime ; 
 that its professors may be pure, and lovely, and of good 
 report ; that they may be people of education, and 
 taste, and breeding. She exemplifies the refining and 
 exalting influence that the prosecution of such studies 
 should have. She makes us recognise the legitimate 
 object and effect of art. She realizes the desire and be 
 lief of great European writers and thinkers, who ascribe 
 to art an influence over life, a real and tangible influence, 
 extending beyond emotions to purposes and deeds. 
 
 But apart from the general character of this fine 
 artist, she has individual and particular traits to be 
 discussed. And first of all is her earnestness ; a 
 faculty of throwing all her energies into the work in 
 hand. Whether she sings in " Guillaume Tell" an en 
 tirely secondary part, or in " Norina," where nearly the
 
 8o The Vagabond. 
 
 whole opera falls to her share, tis all the same. Whether 
 she is subordinate to the composer, or assists at the debut 
 of a second-rate contralto or a spunky tenor, she shows 
 the same alacrity to aid another, the same anxiety to 
 do well whatsoever her hands find to do. Her talent is 
 manifest, however, in this : others might be as desirous 
 as she to do well, and yet not succeed. Now it is im 
 possible to hear La Grange in anything and not receive 
 some pleasure. The sparkling brilliancy of Rossini, the 
 magnificent pathos of Meyerbeer, and the eternal fresh 
 ness of Mozart, are all delightfully rendered. To be 
 sure, she, as every one else, has her specialties. There 
 are different degrees of success meted out to her in dif 
 ferent rdles. Her Lucia is admirable, but her Norma to 
 me is painful ; however, she always does her best, and al 
 ways aifords some pleasure. Versatility is a remarkable 
 peculiarity of her talent. I have heard her in every 
 opera she has sung in America, from the " Barber of 
 Seville," at Niblo s, where she first exhibited her mar 
 vellous powers of vocalization to an American audi 
 ence, to the "Trovatore" of last week, in which she has 
 performed perhaps forty times at the Academy. No 
 thing could possibly be greater than the difference in 
 style and method between Verdi and Rossini, between 
 "II Barbiere" and "II Trovatore" the one elaborate 
 and finished, exquisite in ornament and delicious in 
 melody; the other, dramatic, wild, passionate. Rosina 
 is arch and captivating, Leonora always sad and splen 
 did ; yet I know not in which La Grange excels. In the 
 one, her great dramatic talent is displayed ; in the 
 other, her marvellous execution ; in both, her fidelity 
 to the spirit of the composer.
 
 La Grange. 81 
 
 This leads me to speak of her great powers of inter 
 pretation. It is these which make her more than a vo 
 calist, which elevate her to the rank of a great lyric 
 artist. Music, and especially opera, is more than sweet 
 sounds ; it is the expression of the subtlest and loftiest 
 sentiment, the rendering of the profoundest and in- 
 tensest passion. More completely than painting or even 
 poetry, does it catch and cage the most refined emotions 
 of the human soul : it gives an utterance to the inner 
 most yearnings of our nature, and wreaks upon expres 
 sion the most terrific outbursts of feeling of which we 
 are capable. It is one thing to sing mechanically the 
 notes of a composer ; it is quite another and different 
 matter to understand and appreciate, to embody the 
 meaning of a great soul like Beethoven or Mozart ; it 
 needs a sympathizing greatness in the artist to translate 
 Meyerbeer. One must seize the thought of the master, 
 one must feel it in all its depth and force, before he can 
 interpret it to the hearer. This La Grange does. Other 
 great singers have the passion that makes them feel 
 Italian music, but are capable of nothing more or else. 
 La Grange is not of an enthusiastic nature, and for that 
 reason does not sing Norma or Lucrezia as Grisi did, but 
 she makes music, such as the composer intended ; she 
 interprets the feeling or the thought that prompted every 
 note ; so her greatness is really more apparent in an 
 opera that contains more than passion. New Yorkers 
 like only music that expresses passion. The stormy 
 interest of Verdi, the dramatic splendor of Donizetti, 
 and. the tender sweetness of Bellini, only are appreci 
 ated. But though these are great, they are not all. The 
 wild unearthly grotesqueness of Von Weber, the charm
 
 82 The Vagabond. 
 
 of Mozart, and the splendid science of Meyerbeer are 
 equally worthy of study. And all these La Grange 
 expresses worthily. 
 
 I think her essentially French in feeling and in her art. 
 She frequently reminds me of Rachel, and in many 
 things is not unworthy of a comparison with that 
 magnificent and marvellous artist. Neither has one of 
 those passionate, impulsive natures like Ristori or Sid- 
 dons, who feel their parts so intensely. Mrs. Siddons 
 was said to sob for an hour after playing one of her 
 great characters, and Talma had to be wrapped in a 
 cloak and carried from the theatre. Rachel and La 
 Grange are never carried away by a divine enthusiasm, 
 never forget themselves, always know what they are 
 about and do it. Nobody admires Rachel more than I; 
 none was more alive to the beauties of her acting, 
 more keenly susceptible to its effects. I have shud 
 dered at the death scene of Adrienne, and been unwil 
 ling to speak for an hour after witnessing Camille. I 
 have been awe-struck by the transformation of Pauline, 
 and the " J^aime /" of Phedre still rings in my ears ; 
 and yet I think Rachel has no genius. It was talent as 
 marvellous as any genius ; it was art such as I believe 
 the world never saw before ; but it was art. 
 
 So is it in some degree with La Grange. She has not 
 attained (who but Rachel can attain ?) that prodigious 
 power of representing passion. She gives an entire 
 character admirably ; better than the passionate Steffa- 
 nones and Parodis ; but when the intense moment comes, 
 she lacks the elan. Her Norma and her Lucrezia never 
 move me ; I admire only. Her Semiramide makes 
 me regret Grisi. Only twice have I known her seem
 
 La Grange. 83 
 
 inspired : in the last act of " Ernani," when she snatches 
 the dagger from the hand of Gomez, and cries out in 
 an agony of terror ; and in the coronation scene of " Le 
 Prophete" her entire acting and singing are electric. 
 But her Norma is cold ; the effort to work herself up 
 is tremendous, but apparent; the effect is wonderful 
 with her means, but the means are inadequate ; she is 
 physically incapable of doing or looking the part. So 
 in " Semiramide." She sings the floi id music incompara 
 bly, but the grand scenes are unequal ; you feel that it 
 is acting ; you remember the royal dignity and mag 
 nificent horror of Grisi, and La Grange is tame by com 
 parison. Again, I say, in the general and complete 
 representation of character, La Grange is fine, is great ; 
 but at the tremendous moments of the grandest parts 
 she fails. From this remark must ever be excepted her 
 Fides. The part I regard as equal in grandeur of con 
 ception to any on the lyric stage ; and La Grange s 
 rendering is quite equal to the composer s idea. The 
 intensity here is, however, of another sort from that 
 of "Norma" or " La Favorita." Yet one scene equals 
 anything in those operas, and the music of the "Ah, 
 mon fils" is sublime. I don t wonder that Meyer 
 beer would not allow the opera to be performed until La 
 Grange could be engaged to sing it. I was at the Academy 
 last winter, with some friends who cared not for music, 
 and ridiculed my rhapsodies. They laughed and talked 
 through half the opera ; but the first notes of the " Ah, 
 monfils^ hushed them, and when I turned round at its 
 chpse, they were in tears. 
 
 It is time, however, for me to speak more particularly 
 of her singing. This has been so often and so admira-
 
 84 The Vagabond. 
 
 bly discussed that the attempt Avill be almost a work of 
 supererogation in me. Nature has not gifted her so 
 lavishly as she has many of the great queens of song ; 
 La Grange has no wonderful sweetness of voice, no mar 
 vellous volume, and I have even fancied that she some 
 times sang sharp. Neither is her voice at all sympathetic. 
 It is, however, flexible in an extraordinary degree, and 
 for compass absolutely unsurpassed. It is a mezzo so 
 prano of very delicate quality, somewhat worn, but 
 clear as a bird s. For cultivation, it is unequalled in 
 the world ; certainly no artist living can compete with 
 La Grange in execution. Her facility in the performance 
 of musical difficulties is little less than miraculous, and 
 stamps her unrivalled. Several songs, written expressly 
 for her, would puzzle any prima donna in Europe even 
 Bosio or Cruvelli, probably the most finished singers liv 
 ing, after La Grange. Thus the same qualities are appa 
 rent in her vocalism as in her acting ; the same perfection 
 of manner and method, the same scrupulous attention to 
 minutiae, the same exquisite taste, the same feeling for 
 her art. 
 
 It seems almost superfluous to speak of La Grange s 
 taste in dressing, which is at once correct, scrupulous, 
 and superb ; witness Linda, Fides, and Lucia. Her 
 manners are those of a refined gentlewoman. Her 
 attention to stage business, her graceful and modest 
 reception of applause, her undeviating fidelity to her 
 engagements, are all known to New York, and appre 
 ciated. No artist was ever more beloved, none ever 
 earned her laurels more fairly, or wore them more 
 gracefully.
 
 "THE WORLD S OWN." 
 
 " The play s the thing." 
 
 Hamlet, 
 
 " LEONORE, or the World s Own ;" is a tragedy in five 
 acts, by Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, of which the plot is 
 as follows : An Italian peasant girl, guiltily in love with 
 a stranger nobleman, is deserted by him, but follows 
 and finds him with his wife and child ; she is repulsed 
 cruelly and coarsely, and devotes her life to revenge. 
 To accomplish this, she becomes the mistress of her 
 sovereign, plots and obtains her lover s ruin, and finally, 
 glutted with vengeance, is overcome with remorse, and 
 kills herself. 
 
 This production has been the target of much bitter 
 criticism and unmerited censure. It has been called 
 immoral in tendency, unnatural and improbable in plot 
 and incident, monstrous in character, and utterly unin 
 teresting. Yet it is the fruit of long and laborious 
 effort by a fine mind, had been subjected previous to its 
 performance to some of the best cultured intellects of 
 the country, and to some of those best calculated to 
 judge of, its fitness for the stage. It is to be presumed 
 that the objections which are now alleged against it, if 
 they have any foundation, were at least considered 
 before it was presented to the public. 
 
 " The World s Own " is pronounced by some immoral,
 
 86 The Vagabond. 
 
 because its story is one of seduction, because the 
 heroine is a murderess and the mistress of a prince. 
 But if the wrongs of woman and her revenge are to be 
 excluded from the drama, a new canon of criticism 
 must be invented to accomplish it. The same strictures 
 can be applied to the masterpieces of literature in 
 every age and country. Lady Macbeth is a hideous 
 portraiture in some respects, and quite as unnatural 
 in her wickedness as Leonore ; Cleopatra is as voluptu 
 ous, Beatrice di Cenci as revengeful as Mrs. Howe s 
 heroine. The great tragedies of antiquity, which have 
 for three thousand years extorted the admiration and 
 enlisted the sympathies of the learned, turn on plots as 
 objectionable as this of " The World s Own :" represent 
 passions quite as fierce and implacable. What is the 
 theme of " Phaedra," of the " Medea," either of Euripides 
 or of Seneca; or inmodei-n literature, of the "Myrrha" 
 of Alfieri, the "Andromaque" of Racine, or the "An- 
 gelo " of Victor Hugo, but the story of spurned and in 
 jured women, of infuriated, erring, exceptional beings? 
 The greatest poems and plays in every literature must 
 be tabooed, if dramatists are debarred from selecting 
 topics that treat of crime. Besides, the tragic stage 
 only aims at representing passion ; it does not hold up 
 its portraitures as worthy of imitation. Mrs. Howe 
 does not offer Leonore as a model for the women 
 who witness her play ; she gives a superb creation ; a 
 truthful representation of the fury of an Italian woman, 
 no more immoral than a picture of the Crucifixion 
 is immoral because it represents wickedness triumphant, 
 or than the description of Satan in " Paradise Lost." 
 As to naturnlness and improbability, if Mrs. Howe
 
 The World s Own. 87 
 
 sins here, she sins again in good company. The same 
 names already mentioned might be adduced again in 
 her support ; the poets who invented the horrid stories 
 that have always been favorites on both the ancient and 
 modern stage, that are the staple of the classic and the 
 romantic drama, are in the same category. Is " The 
 World s Own " more improbable than " Lear," or more 
 unnatural than " Othello ?" Will it compare in these re 
 spects with the " Wallenstein " of Schiller, or the " Re 
 morse " of Coleridge, with the heaped up impossibilities 
 of the Elizabethan dramatists, or the inventions of Scribe 
 in the modern French theatre ? Yet all these works are 
 pronounced admirable in their degree; many of them, 
 and those the most unlike ordinary life, not only retain 
 possession of the stage, but invariably attract crowded 
 audiences. The truth is, this new play is no more of a 
 sensation*piece than any great tragedy that ever was 
 written. Is it supposed that men now for the first 
 time weep or shudder over intense scenes or harrowing 
 pages? The crow r ds that filled the Grecian amphithea 
 tre when the dramas of JEschylus were performed, 
 were quite as eager as those that throng Wallack s 
 boxes and parquet. Children died of fright, women 
 miscarried, and whole audiences were subdued at the 
 representation of Clytemnestra and Orestes sensation- 
 characters, which doubtless were decried in the circles 
 of Athens as too intense, as unnatural and immoral. 
 
 If the portraiture of passion is immoral ; if the dis 
 play of its effects is improper ; if the selection of events 
 Mich as history is filled with; if the development of 
 characters like Lucretia Borgia, like Catharine de 
 Medicis or Semiramis, is unnatural; if the working-
 
 88 The Vagabond. 
 
 out of a plot as truthful as the stories of Messalina, of 
 Charlotte Corday, of Catharine of Russia, of Olyinpe 
 de Gourges, of Mrs. Cunningham, of Polly Bodine, ia 
 improbable and unnatural, then " The World s Own " is 
 improbable, is unnatural, is immoral. But censure that 
 applies to Mrs. Howe must reach the drama itself; if 
 she is wrong, the stage is wrong; human nature is 
 untrue to itself; its tastes have never been correct; 
 genius has always been distorted; plays have always 
 been written to pander to a vicious tendency; the 
 inclination implanted by the Creator in us all to delight 
 in the theatre is also wrong; the poets, the artists, the 
 dramatists of all ages and countries have erred in por 
 traying highly wrought scenes ; the whole race that has 
 admired their productions is to be blamed. 
 
 Faults the play has, like all human productions ; unity 
 is lacking, incidents are intruded which certaiftly might 
 have been omitted, characters come and go that at 
 least delay the development of the plot. Some of the 
 ideas, especially towards the conclusion, are not new, or 
 fine ; the gipsy, the secret tribunal, and the child stealing, 
 though they furnish occasions for much good writing, 
 contribute not materially to the progress of the story ; 
 but how many such faults may be found even in the dra 
 mas of him who might have blotted a thousand lines with 
 justice, and yet whom we would not wish to have blotted 
 one. The action of every one of Shakspeare s plays 
 is obstructed by scenes and characters that no one 
 would be willing to lose. How does Mercutio assist in 
 the development of " Romeo and Juliet ?" How does 
 the advice to the players in "Hamlet contribute to the 
 discovery of Gertrude s t guilt ? If " The World s Own "
 
 The World s Own. 89 
 
 is to be judged by the rules of the French stage, every 
 thing to be eliminated that does not manifestly aid the 
 progress of the piece, there are portions which need 
 emendation. And I confess I like the French doctrine 
 when applied to new writers. Those who have now to 
 make our plays may as well conform to these rules ; may 
 as well introduce no extraneous matter for representa 
 tion at least. What is suitable for the closet, what may 
 there afford exquisite delight, is often absolutely unwel 
 come on the stage. In this light, then, the " The World s 
 Own " lacks the requisite unity in the concluding part. 
 
 But there are other matters worthy of commendation : 
 the situations are some of them surpassingly fine ; the 
 meeting of Leonore with her betrayer and his wife and 
 child is admirably managed, is most effective on the 
 stage, and gives occasion for some nervous writing. 
 The jeering of the peasant companions is also fine, and 
 reminds me of the railing at Gretchen, in " Faust ;" 
 yet is not sufficiently like to suggest the charge of 
 plagiarism. The scene between Leonore and the prince 
 is masterly both in conception and treatment ; and 
 though we may deny the merit of naturalness to the 
 masked interview, it is impossible not to acknowledge 
 its effectiveness in a dramatic light. 
 
 In characters strongly marked and interesting, the 
 new play is deficient. Lothair is common-place ; Ed 
 ward almost insipid ; the wife not sufficiently prominent 
 to awaken much feeling, although the sketch is carefully 
 drawn ; as is also that of the malignant little peasant in 
 the second act. But there is character enough in Leo 
 nore herself; and I am not so sure but that it is better 
 thus to concentrate the interest in one, than to scatter
 
 QO The Vagabond. 
 
 it upon a dozen. Certainly when we are to have a 
 woman of surpassing genius to play the heroine, I pre 
 fer to be absorbed in her. Leonore is a great creation : 
 it is original, it is slowly developed, assumes many 
 phases, but under each retains the distinctive features 
 the Italian passion, whether manifested in love or 
 hate, the intensity whether of remorse or anxiety, 
 the same fierce soul beaming out in the raptures of 
 the first act, or the sardonic exultation of the fourth. 
 I regard the character of Leonore a triumph, and as 
 such sufficient alone to stamp the play. The delicious 
 lover of the opening scenes ; the startled girl waking 
 from her dream to the realities of desertion and igno 
 miny, the woman eager as Evangeline after Gabriel, 
 but metamorphosed into a fiend when she is spurned; the 
 terrific portraiture of the prince s mistress, and the proud 
 Ate-like creature of the close, the very goddess of evil, 
 fallen yet unmoved, till recollections of early purity are 
 evoked, and then the stormy remorseful woman surely 
 these constitute a great character, a great work of art. 
 
 The language is throughout the play exquisitely felici 
 tous ; the rhythm melodic and constantly preserved ; the 
 images charming, and sometimes spirited ; the dialogue 
 flows easily. The diction is not, however, except in the 
 language of Leonore, individualized or characteristic : it is 
 everywhere the poet s, not Helen s, or Lothair s, or Ed 
 ward s, and only occasionally does it rise to nervous 
 ness ; only here and there is the real language of passion 
 employed, that terse intensity used in real life when the 
 feelings are excited. The use of imagery in passionate 
 scenes is too profuse ; for instance, in the last act, there 
 is some charming poetry entirely misplaced ; no Leo-
 
 The World s Own. 91 
 
 nore, in the situation represented, would stop to utter 
 those exquisite thoughts. Feeling, too, is often de 
 scribed when it should be expressed ; still, this common 
 est of faults in dramatic writers is rare in " The World s 
 Own" by comparison with others. Although, then, I 
 see more blemishes in the language (but only in its 
 lack of fitness, not in the language itself) than in any 
 other feature of the piece, the author is still far beyond 
 most playwrights in this very respect. Frequently the 
 words are full of emotion. 
 
 . When Lamartine was a young and eager poet, he 
 took a play to Talma, who considered it carefully and 
 thoughtfully, and finally exclaimed : " Wriiing for the 
 stage may be either tragedy, poetry, or the drama 
 Corneille, Racine, Shakspeare ; but the drama bears the 
 palm ; the drama is natural, the others artistic. I have 
 become what I am by following nature rather than art, 
 by studying Shakspeare rather than the French writers." 
 This remarkable admission from the greatest of all 
 French actors, is an epitome of criticism. Tragedy is 
 the stilted style- in which the ancients delighted, which 
 is indeed awful, impressive, and sublime ; which even 
 contains a fire and spirit, that occasionally startle us, 
 as in the "Cid" of Corneille or the "Hippolytus Stepha- 
 nophorus" of Euripides. Poetry (for the stage) is the ex 
 quisite description of events, combined with ornaments 
 of figure and language, with the music of words, and 
 the delicate graces of thought : like the flow of Racine, 
 or the fancy of Addison, but cold and unimpassioned 
 for all its beauty. The Shakspearean, romantic drama, 
 alone represents life, nature, humanity. This speaks 
 right home to every heart ; this is what we imperiously
 
 92 The Vagabond. 
 
 demand upon the stage. All else is impertinent, and in 
 effective by comparison. Poetry has no business in the 
 theatre at all ; it is meant" for the closet, for reading, 
 not for acting. The true classic tragedy is different. 
 I should be sorry to have it banished from the stage ; 
 but it needs superlative histrionic genius to make it en 
 durable ; and even then, in absolute power it must yield 
 to the drama, of which, of course, Shakspeare is king 
 unapproachable and alone. Still, others may attempt 
 what only he could achieve ; they may wander round 
 the sides of that Parnassus on whose summit he sits 
 serene. 
 
 Applying this test to "The World s Own," it must be 
 pronounced unequal ; with striking beauties it also has 
 striking faults ; it cannot be reckoned a complete drama, 
 because of its great lack of unity, and the infusion, or 
 intrusion rather, of poetic sentiment ; and yet it is 
 much more than a poem. Its passion, its one great cha 
 racter, its dramatic situations give it a claim to another 
 title. In the closet it will bear closer study ; you will 
 there be willing to spare no splendid sentiment or ex 
 pression. Enjoy it there as it first came from the woman s 
 heart ; her truest offspring, for it is all her own.
 
 THE AMATEURS. 
 
 "Will my daughter prove a good musician?" 
 
 Timon of Athens. 
 
 SOME of the amateurs are amateurs no longer; some 
 have gone to Constantinople and some to convents; 
 some have renounced all further publicity, and one is a 
 prima donna. The rage for amateur performances has 
 culminated in the d&bdt of Mrs. de Wilhorst, and we 
 may now expect to witness a subsidence. The papas 
 will be frightened at the result which in one instance 
 has followed upon these musical pastimes ; and even the 
 charmers charming never so wisely, will shrink from 
 the prospect of such a finale as the stage ! What rich 
 father, indeed, wouldn t be frightened at the veracious 
 history which is vouched for by all the belles in town? 
 Listen, ye fathers with singing daughters! 
 
 A handsome tenor captivates the fancy of a young 
 heiress, and demands her hand ; whereupon papa in 
 forms him that there is no objection to the person or 
 character of Almaviva, but a decided prejudice against 
 his occupation. Tenor then very obligingly offers to 
 relinquish his position, and deprive all the infatuated 
 fair ones of an opportunity to hear him at St. Stephen s 
 or the opera, if papa will settle two hundred thousand 
 dollars upon his daughter. The very handsome propo-
 
 94 The Vagabond. 
 
 sition is respectfully declined; then, gossip declares 
 (how truly, who can say?) that he, so used to romantic 
 adventures on the stage, endeavors to get up one off. 
 An elopement is planned, but just as Norina is making 
 off with Almaviva ; in comes old Bartolo ; and the 
 denouement is altogether different from that set down 
 in the libretto, but quite as comic. Other stories have 
 sadder endings. N en parlous plus. 
 
 In the course of my vagabondage within the last 1 
 shan t say how many years, I have wandered into 
 churches and parlors innumerable, opera-boxes and 
 choirs, coulisses and vestries. To all I have the open 
 sesame, and everywhere the worship of Euterpe is cele 
 brated. Newport is as musical as the Fifth avenue: 
 Catholic priests and Baptist preachers alike bow at the 
 shrine of St. Cecilia. Those in the innermost pene 
 tralia of society are afflicted by the same vertigo which 
 whirls still faster the circles of the outside courts. So 
 long ago as when the Astor Place opera-house was 
 flourishing, young ladies were sent to convents because 
 they would fall in love with tenors, and Mr. Willis had 
 to exclude artists from society. ( Vide Home Journal, 
 de Maretzek.) 
 
 In the course of tune, the Academy was opened, 
 and after Grisi and Mario had gone home disappointed, 
 and Mirate unappreciated, Brignoli, who sings through 
 his nose, took the town by storm. He and his fat 
 friend, who needed not Patania to caricature him, 
 were invited everywhere. First, they sang at private 
 parties with young ladies who had good voices, 
 and the young ladies of course went to the opera 
 on benefit nights. So Amodio and Brignoli were
 
 The Amateurs. 95 
 
 the rage. All sorts of funny and piquant stories were 
 current about their triumphs and escapades. If Amodio 
 entered a room, everybody was expected to get out of 
 his way ; and I heard a lady say to her daughter, when 
 the tenor was presented: " Rise, my dear, tis Mr. Brig- 
 noli !" About this time, it was the fashion to go to 
 vespers either at St. Stephen s or at St. Francis de 
 Xavier s; so -the opera singers must perform there; 
 and occasionally a programme was issued at Grace 
 church to celebrate the debut of a new performer, or 
 the passion of our Lord. 
 
 By degrees, the belles who had voices began to culti 
 vate them. They had the same masters who taught the 
 tenors ; they discovered that they could sing as well as 
 Yestvali, or, at least, as Ventaldi ; they tried " Stride la 
 Vampa" and "Tacea la Notte," and rather liked the 
 Cifect. At receptions they were applauded : morning 
 visits happened on the days when they took lessons, and 
 were converted into charming occasions. By and by, their 
 progress becoming considerable, it was determined to 
 give a charity concert, at which, of course, no names 
 should be announced, and the performers were to sing 
 behind a screen. The tickets were sold only to friends, 
 and not to be had at all in the shops. This was 
 extremely agreeable, and exclusive and charitable. The 
 benevolent songstresses were listened to respectfully, 
 .and afterwards complimented ; but no vulgar applause 
 was allowed in the churches. However, the importance 
 of the aforementioned opera singers was magnified by 
 this new fantasy. Few men in society can sing. There 
 is one young person who takes his notes falsely, and is 
 always in the bills of every private performance ; but
 
 96 The Vagabond. 
 
 he is the sole exception ; and he is only tolerated (musi 
 cally) because he is alone. If anybody with a good 
 voice and any manners at all wishes a social success, it 
 can be assured him in New York. The belles say 
 "Can he sing? Oh, introduce him immediately: any 
 man who can sing is such an acquisition !" We should 
 have had private operas long ago had there been culti 
 vated male voices ; for the public performers are shy of 
 disposing of their wares in private. I was once at a 
 concert where the tickets were disposed of only by in 
 vitation, and at which Brignoli assisted. He was 
 applauded, and an encore demanded ; but he caused it 
 to be announced to the audience that if they wished to 
 hear his song again, they could do so the next night at 
 the opera. I don t wonder at Mr. Willis, myself. But 
 about that concert : it was extremely brilliant, and as it 
 was not in a church, and no tickets were sold, it was 
 thought admissible to applaud; this was an onward 
 step in the march of musical improvement. 
 
 Then another feature became apparent. Cards of 
 invitation were issued for a performance at a Catholic 
 church, to take the place of vespers, which were found to 
 be rather tame, though for a long while the psalms had 
 been sung to the music of "La Favorita" and " I Puri- 
 tani." But this performance was to be peculiar : no money 
 was to be taken at the door, but no entrance allowed 
 without a ticket ; so all the fashion and taste of the town 
 went. I know how hard I tried to get a card, for they 
 were in demand ; but a belle of my acquaintance took 
 pity on me, and carried me in under her wing. Well, 
 the music was superb : priests and fine ladies and artists 
 made a delightful ensemble. The programme was an-
 
 The Amateurs. 
 
 97 
 
 nounced from the altar ; and one of the performers being 
 indisposed, a popular ballad singer kindly offered his 
 valuable services, for this occasion only. But the arch 
 bishop thought such proceedings scarcely proper for the 
 place, and put a stop to them. However, they were 
 resumed, shortly after, at a Baptist place of worship; 
 and as the ministers of that persuasion have no fear of 
 archbishops before their eyes, morceaux from " La Tra- 
 viata " and other high-toned operas were offered to the 
 ears polite, sooth to say, not unaccustomed to the 
 strains. 
 
 I don t know whether my history is in exact chrono 
 logical order ; but about this time the young ladies 
 began to sing on the outside of the screen, and in com 
 pany with the tenors. Then, during the summer, there 
 were triumphs at the watering-places, and some of them 
 mentioned in the newspapers. It was not till last fall, 
 however, that people in society performed at public con 
 certs, for which placards were stuck up around the 
 streets, and tickets for sale at the music-shops. We 
 all know of these occasions : we know how names 
 were ferreted out and published in the prints, and criti 
 cisms freely passed on the amateurs. Then, too, during 
 the season, concerts have been given in private houses 
 not a few, where the tickets, though bought, were 
 yet bought only by friends to whom they had been sent. 
 Still, friends sometimes were anything but obliged by 
 the compliment. Patronesses sent parcels of cards to 
 their acquaintances, expecting them to take twenty-five 
 at two dollars a card forcing charity upon one at a 
 prodigious rate. One woman of fashion waylaid me in 
 her carriage. As I was passing Stewart s, she bowed so 
 
 5
 
 98 The Vagabond. 
 
 graciously that I ran up uncovered, and on the frcnl 
 seat she had a pile of concert cards. She secured me, 
 by politely bestowing one with her compliments, and 
 of course, what had I to do? "Well, she was in the 
 fashion ; they all did so ; it was for charity. She would 
 no more have done it for another purpose than she would 
 have garrotcd me. 
 
 All the world has heard of the last of these entertain 
 ments, which, though given at a gorgeous mansion, was 
 not so successful. The town had got surfeited, and some 
 of the sweetest of the syrens were not willing to risk 
 any further publicity. Those, in fact, who got the rich 
 est laurels were the first to shrink back into private 
 parties and morning visits, where only lucky Vaga 
 bonds can hear them. But these amateurs are really 
 accomplished musicians. More than one of them have 
 voices naturally as fine as those of the great prima 
 donnas ; more than one have cultivation that would put 
 to shame that of artists who have sung with acceptance 
 at the Academy of Music. But they are frightened ; 
 the paying public will hear them no more. 
 
 And it is scarcely to be desired that they should. 
 When they are tempted to the stage or to Constanti 
 nople, it is time the curtain should fall. To be sure la 
 haute societe abroad indulges in just such freaks. Fashion 
 is the same everywhere : Piccolomini is the De Wilhorst 
 of Italy ; but brilliant as may be the career of both 
 these artists, not many families are envious of such suc 
 cess for their own members. All the Avorld went to see 
 the American prima donna in " Lucia." She looked 
 beautiful and sang delightfully ; yet there are better 
 singers in New York to-day than she. But who would
 
 The Amateurs. * 99 
 
 desire for them to share her triumphs ? And for my 
 part, though I applauded too, and went every night to see 
 her, and shall go again when she sings in the " Sonnam- 
 bula," I am sorry for her. I admire her grace and her 
 beauty. I think her acting and her singing delightful ; 
 but I desire no such career for any friend of mine : I 
 trust this climax of amateur singing may hinder any fur 
 ther publicity. Let the charming Cecilias keep their 
 gifts for their friends and for society. Strangers have 
 no right to hear them ; will hear them coldly, and are 
 more likely to be harsh than kind in their comments. 
 To be sure, tis piquante to criticise the performances 
 of belles and heiresses ; but this is a dainty. I would 
 not offer the jaded palates of the general public. Such 
 entertainments should be kept for choicer friends. 
 
 However, since Mrs. De Wilhorst has deliberately 
 adopted the stage, I wish her all success. I am proud 
 that an American should step at once to such a position 
 as that she has received and deserves. I am proud that 
 New York pronounces judgment so righteously, so fear 
 lessly, without awaiting European sanction ; elevating 
 one of the fairest of its daughters to a high place on the 
 lyric stage. I bid the debutante, with all my heart, 
 God speed.
 
 VERDI. 
 
 "By r lady, he s a good musician." 
 
 1 Henry IV. 
 
 THE best-abused and most admired composer of our 
 time is Giuseppe Verdi. His music is rendered in Mex 
 ico and St. Petersburg with equal success; it sets on 
 fire the phlegmatic English fashionables, and is the rage, 
 at the same time, in the capitals of Europe and America, 
 Paris and New York. The outside barbarians, as Jules 
 Janin is pleased to call us, and the acknowledged sove 
 reigns and arbiters of taste, alike pay him homage, 
 while his own excitable countrymen go wild over " Erna- 
 ni" and "I Lombardi," over "Louisa Miller" and 
 " Rigoletto." Every other master is dethroned in his 
 favor ; Meyerbeer is tumbled into the dust like Dagon, 
 and Rossini almost forgotten. Even the Quakers of Phi 
 ladelphia own his unquiet sway, and at the first opportu 
 nity rushed, last Lent, thirteen times to hear Verdi, for 
 once that they listened to Bellini and three times to Doni 
 zetti. Yet there is a set-off to these triumphs ; there are 
 those whose hearts cling to their old idols, who cannot give 
 tip Mozart and Von Weber, who will not swear by the 
 ne\* divinity. These prate of the noise of Verdi ; they 
 declaim about his declamation; they laugh at the 
 "Anvil Chorus," and hold up their hands in horror at " La
 
 Verdi. 101 
 
 Traviata." But I notice that they never stay away on 
 " II Trovatore " nights, while when even " Guillaume 
 Tell " or " Don Giovanni " is given, their places are some 
 times empty. Still, there is a certain force in the censure 
 that the severely critical often pass upon Vei di. He is 
 human, and therefore unequal. There is a degree of truth 
 in the strictures of those educated to like other masters ; 
 only I am tired of this wholesale abuse. When a new 
 king of music shall arise, then how the cavillers will talk 
 of Verdi ; then, when the fickle crowd fills the Academy 
 at the production of the latest opera, and every prima 
 donna selects the newest work for her debUt, then how 
 the old people will look back lingeringly at the times 
 when Verdi was the rage ! They will tell of " Trovatore" 
 sung oftener in a year than all other operas together, of the 
 hurdy-gurdies that taught the poorest to admire "Stride 
 la Vampa " and " Tacea la Notte," of the nightly ova 
 tions paid to genius when " La Traviata" made the prud 
 ish English Queen forget her prudery, and " Ernani " 
 forced the most bigoted Bostonians to neglect Beethoven. 
 Yet these are the people who now enlighten us on Verdi s 
 faults. They cannot forgive him that he is popular; 
 they will not discover that his passion is the secret of 
 his power ; they will not acknowledge the genius which 
 subdues all hearts, the fire that stirs us all, the sympa 
 thetic influence that reaches to every nature, that pene 
 trates beneath the crust of fashion and form, down to the 
 volcanic bosoms so often hidden beneath. 
 
 Verdi is noisy, he is unfinished, he is fitful, he is fever 
 ish. The "Anvil Chorus" is of the adcaptandum order, 
 and the masking music of the " Traviata" cannot be called 
 first-rate. He repeats himself, too ; you can here and
 
 1O2 The Vagabond. 
 
 there trace the same ideas in "Ernani" and "II Trova- 
 tore;" you will notice bars, and strains, and motifs, almost 
 identical, in his different works. Then his mannerisms 
 are undoubted ; more than an individuality, more than 
 intense characterization is seen in his productions ; 
 real, petty affectations cling to him, unworthy of so 
 great a master. I own that some of his works are 
 unequal and almost tame. I own that harsh passages 
 too often occur in all his music ; that the exquisite finish 
 of Rossini and the splendid science of Meyerbeer are 
 everywhere lacking ; that noisy choruses and orchestral 
 crashes are sometimes made to cover over bare thoughts, 
 or hide the w r ants of Beethoven s spirituality and 
 Mozart s grandeur. But I will own nothing more. 
 
 If Verdi is not spiritual, he is intensely human ; 
 if he is not religious, he is passionate beyond all 
 composers ; if he has not the profundity of the Germans, 
 the tender sweetness of Bellini, or the light, exquisite 
 grace of the French opera, he has merits all his own, 
 which none can claim but he ; which are striking ; 
 which speak to us all; which secure his triumphs; 
 which have placed him rightly where he is ; which have 
 made him absolute king of all the opera houses in the 
 world. I venture to say that, within the last two years, 
 his operas have been sung in every great city of Europe 
 or America oftener than the operas of all other compo 
 sers. I venture to say that the airs from " II Trovatore " 
 were familiar to more people within a year after the 
 production of that work than ever happened before to 
 any work of any musical writer. Now, when a man 
 obtains such a popularity as this, there is no blinking 
 the fact; no amount of carping criticism can do away
 
 Verdi. j 03 
 
 with it ; no shrugging of shoulders or raising of eye-brows 
 can affect it ; no sneering silence can answer why his works 
 will crowd a theatre in any capital in the world, at times 
 when any other opera would be sung to empty benches. 
 Nothing but genius could accomplish this ; noise alone 
 is not competent to such a task ; and not genius alone, 
 but a genius eminently suited to the genius of the age. 
 And herein I believe lies the secret of Verdi s power: 
 he expresses, he embodies the fitful vehemence, the mate 
 rial character even, the rushing, headstrong impetuous- 
 ness, the stormy demonstrations of this demonstrative 
 age. He is the most material of musicians. He is the 
 Miss Heron of composers. His merits are of that ap 
 parent sort which all can feel. Not only, however, the 
 most uneducated share the emotions which he excites : 
 these feelings are common to us all ; the high and low 
 alike love and hate; the most careful critic and the 
 most sensuous poet come beneath this sway ; the cra 
 ziest lover and the coldest banker are stirred by the 
 rush of feeling that speaks in Verdi s strains. To be 
 sure, the impetuous, the young, the emotional feel it 
 the most keenly ; those brimful of passion themselves 
 are excited most by this exciting music ; but others, 
 outwardly calm, are also affected by it. These appa 
 rently phlegmatic people, who conceal such a wealth of 
 intensity under their cold exteriors, these Jane Eyres 
 and John Halifaxes all like Verdi s music. Who can 
 not see the connexion, the similarity rather, between 
 such geniuses as the author of Jane Eyre and Verdi, 
 between Madame Dudevant, between De la Roche, and 
 the passionate composer ? He does not at all represent 
 the thinking, doubting phase of our age ; he has not the
 
 104 The Vagabond. 
 
 profound meaning, the subtle ideas of Meyerbeer, or of 
 many of the writers of this day. He aspires not to the 
 infinite and superhuman ; but he searches the depth of 
 mortal feeling ; he shares the most violent emotions ; 
 he expresses in the most absolute manner the unrest, 
 the eagerness, the mad torrent of feeling characteristic 
 of the nineteenth century. The agonizing wail of the 
 " Miserere," the wild leaping into song of the Di tale 
 amor, the sad plaint of the finale of " II Trovatore," 
 what can there be in words to equal these ? What has 
 there been in music to surpass them ? 
 
 Then all this is done in melody. It is impossible for 
 a composer to seize hold of the hearts of men without 
 the aid of melody. The most elaborate ornamentation, 
 the most admirable combinations, the most perfect har 
 mony gratify indeed a cultured ear and satisfy a cultured 
 taste, but do not touch the nerve and never rouse the 
 feelings. We can listen calmly to the music that evi 
 dences the completest science, when some snatch of 
 singular or sweet melody shall bring tears to the dryest 
 eyes, and effect the sternest man. Verdi has this gift 
 of melody in as great a degree as any composer the 
 gift of expressing passion in melody. There is not a 
 strain in the " Trovatore," from beginning to end, that is 
 not at once beautiful and full of meaning, that lingers 
 not in the memory ; and several pieces in " Ernani " are 
 among the most wonderful Teachings out, the most tre 
 mendous utterances of earthly passion that I have ever 
 heard. The two great things of Meyerbeer, the JKobert, 
 toi que j aime and the Ah, monfils, only can compare 
 with them ; and of these, the latter is a mother s holy 
 feeling, rather subdued and religious in character, and
 
 Verdi. 105 
 
 the former partakes in some measure of the unhumau 
 nature of the " Robert le Diable." 
 
 Donizetti, too, resembles Verdi in this extraordinary 
 intensity ; his music is certainly smoother, and at times 
 as dramatically powerful; but there are declamatory 
 bursts in Verdi which surpass any similar attempts of 
 the older master ; there are one or two notes in the finale 
 of the third act of " Ernani," and in the soprano and 
 tenor writing of the fourth act of the same opera, that 
 transcend, in this respect, any single thing that Doni 
 zetti has done. Verdi has more of this one peculiar 
 quality that constitutes his greatness than Donizetti, 
 and so is better liked than the other. When Donizetti 
 approaches the intensity of Verdi, he is in more demand. 
 The " Lucrezia," the " Lucia," the fourth act of the 
 " Favorita," are of this character, but still not so wildly, 
 uncontrollably passionate as Verdi s greatest efforts. 
 
 I do not call Verdi the greatest of composers, but I 
 do call him the most effective ; I do not claim for him 
 an absolute superiority to all others in all respects, but 
 I claim that he who seizes and expresses the spirit of 
 the age in which he lives, is a man of undoubted genius ; 
 that he who so makes his mark, who can so affect a ma 
 terial age, who can so triumph when the art he worships 
 is at its culmination, when music is of all arts the best 
 appreciated and most loved, at the moment of its his 
 tory when it has reached the highest point of excellence, 
 he who triumphs then, triumphs indeed. Success must 
 be the test; and this usurper, this Napoleon, this par 
 venu, has got the better of the legitimates ; there is no 
 shaking his throne, no disturbing his empire. I aiy 
 willing to take the oath of allegiance. 
 
 5* ^
 
 MYSELF. 
 
 And must I ravel out 
 
 My weaved-up follies?" 
 
 Richard II. 
 
 WHO wouldn t be a Vagabond ? Here am I, enjcy- 
 irg myself amazingly under my invisible cap. I go 
 aiound, like the prince in the fairy tale, and hear what 
 my friends think of me, or of my other self. I get the 
 benefit of some very impartial criticism, am censured to 
 my face by the best bred people, and sometimes rated 
 soundly by those who would not offend me wittingly or 
 willingly, for the world. I paid a visit the other morn 
 ing, and one of my most charming acquaintances asked 
 me if I read " The Vagabond" papers. I felt my heart 
 in my throat, for I was particularly anxious for the god 
 dess s good opinion, but repressed my agitation, and 
 said inquiringly : " The Vagabond ? The Vaga 
 bond ? " " Yes, in the Sunday Times." I thought I 
 had seen such articles ; and this most delightful of 
 maidens refreshed my memory by mentioning the titles 
 of several. She absolutely recollected what I had writ 
 ten about : I was willing to fall down and worship her 
 on the spot. But more, she remembered what I had 
 said : she commented upon the style, she criticised the 
 criticisms, she praised several papers, and lifted me up
 
 Myself. 107 
 
 into the seventh heaven, and then, alas ! she recollected 
 that I had dispraised one of her favorites. And then the 
 poor Vagabond, who had been swelling with pride, who 
 had fancied himself an Addison or a Steele, who was 
 putting on airs, and smiling so graciously, and listening 
 so attentively, drew back in his shell. The malignant, 
 shrewish young woman, whose tongue it must be owned 
 is severe and of all things a caustic tongue is most un 
 seemly in a young female ; this virago, this Xantippe, 
 this Katharine, this Beatrice let loose her arrows at an 
 unarmed, defenceless, and, as she thought, absent Vaga 
 bond. He was unfair, he was unjust, he was ungen- 
 tlemanly (the unkindest cut of all). He was pedantic, 
 he was ignorant, he was affected, he was ridiculously na 
 tural. Oh ! the vocabulary of censure, the storm of 
 words that she rattled down on me ! Hailstones and 
 coals of fire ! And I, who had been on the point of 
 raising my visor, of bowing my head, like Ivanhoe, to 
 receive the laurel crown from Rowena s hand, I took 
 my beaver instead, and wished Rowena a good morn 
 ing. 
 
 But I grow philosophical and tough : I begin to re 
 semble eels. Several such scorchings have enabled 
 me to endure the flames of martyrdom as calmly as 
 St. Lawrence in the picture of Domenichino, at Mr. 
 Goupil s. Apropos of pictures ! Another of my ad 
 ventures I must tell the story of. Don t every hero like 
 to fight his battles o er again ? Don t every vagabond 
 relate his escapades, especially if they are connected with 
 the sex ? What if it is vanity of vanities, I talk under 
 a veil. What if it is presuming to suppose that my 
 readers want to know the story ! I am sure some of
 
 108 The Vagabond, 
 
 them are curious about my identity, because one of my 
 own acquaintances asked me whether I knew who wrote 
 " The Vagabond," and I flatly told her " oSTo." Sir 
 Walter Scott denied the authorship of the Waverley 
 novels, and so you ses. The countenance I have in 
 this respect reminds me, too, how vain Cicero was ; how 
 he prated of his services to the state ; how Lamartine 
 twaddled about the pictures in his old Bible ; how 
 George Sand inflicts whole volumes of her infantile 
 
 ~ 
 
 memoirs on the public ; how delightful Franklin s auto 
 biography is acknowledged to be, and persuades me 
 
 that the Vagabond 1 leave others to pursue the 
 
 parallel. But, apropos of pictures! 
 
 A Aveek or two ago, I received the most charming of 
 letters, written in the daintiest of hands, directed to 
 " The Vagabond," and signed " Norah" a very pretty 
 name, by the way. Irish, too, suggestive of Moore and 
 Norah Creina. This delicate epistle began with the 
 most delicate of flatteries, and was couched throughout 
 in the dearest and delightfulest of language, and begged 
 me to write more about pictures, and to speak of the 
 artists. Thus inspired, what Vagabond could refuse. 
 Not I, certainly. I studied the letter carefully, and de 
 termined which of the artists mentioned I thought Norah 
 cared most about ; some lover, or brother, or father I 
 supposed. I went to the studio with a friend, saw the pic 
 tures she had told of, and wrote something for the sake 
 of Norah, which I hope she has seen. If not, I will 
 leave a copy of my criticism at this office, and she can 
 have it by proving property, as the advertisements say. 
 However, I have no doubt that I hit the mark, for I have 
 since received a note of thanks, signed by another name,
 
 Myself. 1 09 
 
 but expressed in the same felicitous and flattering phra 
 seology, impossible to be counterfeited ; and if my 
 critical acumen is not sadly at fault, I know Norah, 
 though Norah doesn t know the Vagabond. In the 
 games of the carnival, if the mask falls, one is entitled to 
 look at the black eyes it concealed. 
 
 But I have another correspondent, one of those bewitch 
 ing creatures, who in disguise are so daring ; who for 
 get the story of Tancred and Clorinda ; who tantalize, 
 and delight, and provoke by turns. This unknown, like 
 the lady of the Green Mantle in " Redgauntlet," veils 
 herself under an initial, and in a style more individual 
 ized, but different entirely from Norah characteristic, 
 too, I am sure, often saying some civil things, but curtly 
 and piquantly, and so of course with a seasoning that 
 adds vastly to their gout; she wants me to write on 
 woman s influence and woman s sphere. You darling 
 incognito, I think woman s right and duty are to charm 
 the men, to write lively letters to Vagabonds. I think 
 she adorns her sex when she captivates ours with mys 
 tery ; (what god was it, was blind ?) that she is irresis 
 tible when she makes no attacks ; that when Eve said to 
 Adam, " God thy law, thou mine," they were both in 
 Paradise ; and if the head of the woman is the man, the 
 heart of man always belongs to woman. 
 
 But, my gracious correspondents, don t be angry ; I 
 am not violating any decorum by talking Avith you in 
 public : your secret is known, but not you. I wanted to 
 answer your charming selves, and how could I do it but 
 in character and in print ? I hope you don t think I 
 have been no chevalier sans reproche in thus telling 
 my triumphs ; for is it not a triumph to gain an interest
 
 lio The Vagabond. 
 
 in the imagination of two such fair ones ? I was sure 
 to preserve that interest only while the mystery was 
 preserved. Why not let me heighten it ; why not let 
 me intensify my personality ; why not let me gloat over 
 my good luck to my friends who read these papers ? If 
 two have felt so kindly towards the Vagabond, may not 
 others have a sufficient concern to read the story with a 
 sparkling eye ? Pray don t let your own glisten into 
 spite, or those favorable sentiments turn to indignation. 
 I wouldn t for the world incur your wrath. 
 
 I said one of my correspondents gave me an initial : 
 it is X. Now I don t know any X. family hi which 
 there is a daughter who could write that letter. Per 
 haps she thinks she has detected me as Juliet did 
 Romeo at the ball, "too early -seen unknown, and 
 known too late ;" but I fear me tis a mistake. As for 
 the Vagabond, every time he is presented to a Miss X., 
 he will flutter until he discovers whether or not tis his 
 X. So beware, my unknown ; be chary of the introduc 
 tions you grant. The Vagabond is not now among 
 your avowed admirers ; you need not try your powers 
 of penetration upon the crowd who now strive for a 
 smile, or, sweeter yet, a sigh ; but every time a new 
 adorer bows at the shrine, it may be he who possesses 
 your secret. I shall recognise you, and you not me. 
 
 For you don t know whether I m an Adonis or a Blue 
 beard : one lady thought me an old man, another con 
 cluded I was a hunchback. However, you may take it 
 for granted that I resemble in form the Apollo Belvidere 
 (which the women all prefer to the Venus of the Tribune), 
 and in face, the youth whose beauty was so super-emi 
 nent that the nymphs pursued him in the stream and
 
 Myself. 1 1 1 
 
 grove, until he finally sought refuge on the banks of a 
 secluded lake, and, contemplating his own image, waa 
 by compassionate divinities transformed to a plant, 
 which has ever since borne his name, Narcissus. I, 
 radiant in charms of person, found no rest in society, at 
 any rate where they dance the German, but sought 
 refuge in these columns, where I am hidden under the 
 Protean type, and the Vagabond is perchance an object 
 of interest to Xes and Norahs, who, if they knew the 
 original, could trace no resemblance to the flower. Cruel 
 ones, do not say he also liked to contemplate himself, 
 although this paper give you cause. 
 
 Victor Hugo says somewhere, in reply to those who 
 had accused him of egotism : " Do not those who com 
 plain of the writers that constantly say I, I, see that when 
 I write of myself, I write of you ; that showing my own 
 opinions and personality, I disclose yours ; that this I, I, 
 really means * you, you ? "
 
 HENRY W. BELLOWS. 
 
 "I know you wise, religious." 
 
 Henry VIII. 
 
 OUTSPOKENNESS is a virtue. Who is there that appre 
 ciates not a frank, manly expression of opinion, a fearless 
 maintenance of doctrines sure to bring upon their advo 
 cate somewhat of censure and even of reproach ? Who 
 feels not a genuine sympathy with any attempt at inde 
 pendence, with the struggle to get free from any tram 
 mels ? Who admires not the courage that dares in 
 behalf of others, that speaks in favor of a caste to those 
 whose disfavor only that caste has received, that flings it 
 self into the breach, sure to become the mark of many a 
 bitter sarcasm and cruel criticism ; but careless of these 
 if it can but say a good word for a great cause, can but 
 relieve a great public interest from unjust odium? The 
 very importance of the aid which Dr. Bellows brings to 
 the stage, arises more from his position than from his 
 talents, undoubted though they be ; and this very posi 
 tion exposes him in a peculiar manner to the harshest 
 strictures, the unkindest misconstructions. All honor, 
 then, to his boldness ! He believes himself to be 
 right ; and, whatever men may think or say of the force 
 or justice of his arguments, they must admire the 
 abstract courage that prompts his conduct.
 
 Henry W. Bellows. 113 
 
 His courage in this instance, however, is of a piece 
 with his general character. I have heard a number of 
 his discourses at different times and at various intervals ; 
 and the first characteristic to force itself upon my obser 
 vation has invariably been the outspokenness of the man. 
 Many a preacher of peculiar doctrines in this metropolis 
 hides them for the sake of popularity. The Calvinists 
 are said to reserve their sermons on predestination for 
 rainy Sundays, when only the faithful are likely to per 
 sist in their attendance ; a Unitarian scarcely alludes to 
 the distinctive tenets of his sect ; and I have even 
 heard a Roman Catholic priest, in all his robes, pro 
 mise to say nothing that could reasonably offend the 
 prejudices of his heretic hearers. Not so with Dr. Bel 
 lows : he holds unpopular doctrines, he arrives at con 
 clusions entirely dissimilar from those generally enter 
 tained ; but he never shirks their utterance, he never 
 swerves from what seems to him the line of duty, he 
 never scruples to avow openly, and in the face of the 
 world, what he learns in his closet, in contemplation or 
 study. What he learns in darkness, that speaks he in 
 light ; and what he hears in the ear, that preaches he 
 upon the house-top. Frequently his notions come into 
 contact with those of even his habitual hearers ; but he 
 believes in a free interchange of ideas ; he promulgates 
 his own, upholds them with all the skill and ability of 
 which he is possessed, and leaves the result to take care 
 of itself. 
 
 Akin to this courage a part, indeed, a cause of it 
 is earnestness, sincerity, an abiding conviction of the 
 correctness of his opinion and the justice of his course. 
 A man can never fight boldly in a cause of which he is
 
 114 1h e Vagabond. 
 
 ashamed, and certainly not so well for a cause in which 
 his heart is not enlisted. The deep conviction of his 
 being right makes him careless of consequences, while 
 zeal, we all know, is better at times than skill or strength. 
 And, whatever may be said or thought of other traits 
 of Dr. Bellows, his earnestness is seldom questioned. 
 Thus, character rather than talent is uppermost in him ; 
 traits that make and mark the man seem to me more 
 prominent than those which distinguish the preacher 
 or the orator. I speak, of course, of those traits as 
 they are unfolded in his public career, and especially 
 in his public speeches. 
 
 He belongs to a class peculiar to our time of serious, 
 earnest, thoughtful, yet practical men ; men whom I 
 respect most profoundly, though I do not always nor 
 altogether concur with them ; men who think they have 
 a mission, and speak it ; who have a work to do, and do 
 it ; who have a doctrine to preach, and preach it ; a 
 class as different as may be from the ordinary orthodox 
 ministers, and from the ordinary popular preachers. 
 They are as much unlike the prosy, long-winded, nar 
 row-minded, bigoted sermonizer, as to the shallow, 
 selfish, flashy orator. They differ, too, from the talented 
 and learned upholders of present ideas and present 
 systems ; they are reformers, or at least progressive in 
 their tendencies ; they preach of this life, but forget 
 not the next ; they scorn not the concerns of this world, 
 they believe in a religion which affects man s doings 
 here, they care for his present well-being for his 
 advancement for his comfort for his amusement ; but 
 fail not to consider and teach him to consider, earnestly 
 and anxiously, his future destiny. Whether they take
 
 Henry W. Bellows. 115 
 
 the right course, whether they direct our thoughts into 
 the proper channel, whether they teach true doctrines 
 in relation to religion itself is not the question to dis 
 cuss here ; but I believe they are right in combining 
 thus the interests of two worlds ; in looking to and 
 caring for a complex nature ; in regarding the present 
 as well as the future. They are scarcely, it seems to me, 
 preachers in the technical meaning we attach to the 
 word, but they preach and teach in reality. They cer 
 tainly depart from the conventional rules and the con 
 ventional idea of the pulpit; but do they swerve 
 from the rules dictated either by sound judgment or 
 enlightened taste ? I confess I admire in them this 
 double sympathy for the interests of here and hereafter; 
 this recognition of both the soul and body of man; this 
 Consideration for material and immaterial concerns; 
 this acceptance of fact and this endeavor after abstract 
 good; this realism and idealism combined. 
 
 At the head of these men stands Henry W. Bellows. 
 At the head, by force of character, by boldness of 
 deed, by outspokenness of language, by his talent and 
 learning, by his position as the teacher of a metropo 
 litan aggregation, distinguished for wealth, refinement, 
 and social influence. His talent and learning, let me 
 add his taste, are more than considerable, are dis 
 tinguished. As he seems to many to have attained a 
 just medium in matters of higher moment, so in the 
 culture of his intellect and the practice of his art. He 
 is profoundly philosophical in the cast of his mind, and 
 yet eminently practical in the application of his infer 
 ences. An original thinker, he has enriched himself 
 with stores of the soundest learning and most generous
 
 li6 The Vagabond. 
 
 culture. Logic holds a higher place in his esteem than 
 rhetoric, and his first care is to convince; but he dis 
 dains not to persuade and please. He is, however, more 
 anxious to affect your reason than your other powers. It 
 is the sound deductions of his fine intellect that compel 
 your assent ; it is the exact appreciation of events and 
 character that extorts your concurrence; it is the well- 
 balanced mind that advances his ideas with vigor, that 
 sets them forth with effect, that provides him with argu 
 ments often incontrovertible, and enables him to arrive at 
 conclusions from which it is impossible for his hearers to 
 recede. A scholar, versed in the lore of ancient and of 
 modern schools, he is yet free from prejudice or pe 
 dantry; a philosopher, he is willing to examine the 
 systems of others, and find good in all, though not the 
 good he is in search of. Though heartily convinced of 
 the truth of his doctrine, and earnestly desirous to set 
 forth its merits, he extends a Christian and courteous 
 f )rbearance to all, and is the farthest possible from dog 
 matism or arrogance in the enunciation of what he be 
 lieves to be true. 
 
 But he is also far from neglecting the graces of style. 
 His taste is as cultivated as his profounder powers ; 
 his rhetoric at once chaste and ornate, correct and ele 
 gant, his command of language ample and exceedingly 
 felicitous, he unites the so often opposite qualities of 
 strength and beauty. Lectorem delectando, pariterque 
 monendo. His style must at once engage the attention 
 of the indifferent and secure the approbation of dis 
 criminating listeners ; he frequently rises to the splendid, 
 both in thought and expression, and knows how to 
 descend without shocking the most fastidious. Touches
 
 Henry W. Bellows. 117 
 
 of true and tender pathos, though rare, are not al 
 together wanting in his sermons, and contrast finely 
 with occasional bursts of elaborate oratory. However, 
 he uses with a sparing hand these shining gifts. 
 
 If there is any lack felt in his discourse, it is that of 
 a burning, passionate, overwhelming eloquence. He 
 never is inspired ; he never carries you away ; he is not 
 of the impetuous, emotional order. There are times 
 and places when a torrent of living, breathing words, 
 or a soul-stirring, trumpet-like appeal to the conscience 
 or heart, would be more effective than all his calmly 
 considered and carefully expressed deductions. Though 
 such emotions as eloquence excites are, with me, more 
 transitory at least in their effects, they are, for the time, 
 more exquisite than the approving interest which my 
 judgment always dictates in Dr. Bellows s discourses. 
 The ecstasy which superlative eloquence awakens, the 
 magnetic thrill, the spell-bound attention, are effects 
 unknown to his audiences. Once or twice I have known 
 him touch nerves that go close to the heart ; but gene 
 rally, he is no master of the feelings. He speaks to 
 the intellect and taste. Whether the preacher should 
 not rather address these than the heart, one might 
 doubt, did we not know how powerful a motive passion 
 is in influencing human character. Now Dr. Bel 
 lows is the most convincing of orators, because the 
 most dispassionate. 
 
 On the whole, few speakers give me more unalloyed 
 pleasure : some of those more highly gifted, at least 
 gifted with the more striking talents which subdue and 
 move the masses, educated and uneducated, some of 
 these frequently err in matters of taste, occasionally
 
 ll8 The Vagabond. 
 
 shock your notions of propriety, or offend you by the 
 appearance of insincerity. But if Dr. Bellows never 
 reaches the heights of the true sublime, neither does 
 he ever sink to the depths of affectation, showy rant, or 
 stupid insipidity. If there were more orthodox preach 
 ers of his stamp, the number of those who dissent from 
 their teachings would diminish, though not perhaps 
 disappear. If all the advocates of other doctrines were 
 like him, the ineffectual fires of orthodoxy might pale. 
 Yet truth does not depend for a lasting triumph upon 
 the efforts of friends or foes ; and though in the din of 
 the contest her voice be lost, it is never stilled though 
 " crushed to earth, the eternal years of God are hers." 
 The recent address of Dr. Bellows before the Ameri 
 can Dramatic Fund Society illustrates at once his talent 
 and his character. It is marked by the peculiarities of 
 the man ; but it has a further significance when consi 
 dered in reference to the times. Its author is a representa 
 tive man ; he has done an unusual thing ; he, the ecclesi 
 astical descendant of the Puritans, has preached in a play 
 house and to players, on the stage in behalf of the stage. 
 He has said severe things aboxit the profession, plainly 
 and to their faces, and members of it have gone up to 
 him and congratulated him afterwards ; he has stretched 
 a kindly hand to those with whom his own calling 
 has been at war so long, and that hand is quickly and 
 warmly grasped, showing that there is no need for the 
 fancied antagonism. He has perhaps inaugurated a 
 revolution ; he has taken the first step which costs so 
 much ; St. Denis can now walk with his head in his 
 hand. He has recognised the theatre as a fact ; he has 
 treated the drama as a practical man should, as a politic
 
 Henry W. Bellows. 119 
 
 preacher should, as a real philanthropist should. It 
 exists, and centuries of abuse and enmity from the 
 " unco guid " have availed nothing against it ; it flaunts 
 itself in their faces to-day as proudly as ever. What 
 they cannot ignore or destroy, Dr. Bellows proposes to 
 reform ; to praise where praise is due, to censure where 
 censure should be bestowed. An instinct so ineradica 
 ble, a passion so lasting, a taste so universal as that of 
 the race for the drama, must be intended by God for 
 good. Let us get the good out of it. 
 
 I call him a wise man. I am willing to fight under 
 his banners in this crusade.
 
 AMERICAN ART. 
 
 "The Art itself is Nature." 
 
 Winter s Tale. 
 
 I HAVE been several times, of late, to see the young 
 genius who is playing at Burton s theatre, and have 
 recognised in his performances the indescribable and 
 unattainable influence, which I confess I seek for in life 
 and art under their various phases ; that alone which 
 subdues the educated and the illiterate, the old and the 
 young, the cold and the impulsive. I have felt the 
 power of genius. To be sure, you sometimes have to 
 sit through an act for the sake of one touch, or one 
 point ; but when the time comes it is transcendant, it 
 goes straight home, it compensates. Young Booth has 
 the unmistakable fire, the electric spark, the god-like 
 quality, which mankind have agreed to worship. The 
 vein is with him just struck, but there is a mine behind ; 
 the workman is raw, and his tools unwonted, but he is 
 young, and all the more interesting just now from his 
 faults ; they so evidently spring from inexperience, they 
 are so palpably negative, they are so curable, that they 
 enlist your sympathies, while four or five times in an 
 evening he does something that requires no sympathy, 
 no allowance, no toleration ; that commands, controls, 
 overwhelms.
 
 American Art. 121 
 
 The young man is but twenty-three, handsome, grace 
 ful, with a countenance full of a higher beauty than that 
 of outline, full of expression, and mobile as any that I 
 have ever watched ; with an eye, fitting window to the 
 soul that looks out through it ; a voice musical and 
 powerful and manageable ; with an impulsive, soul-full 
 nature, that prompts such strokes as the rendering of 
 the line in "Richard III.:" 
 
 " What do they in the north, 
 "When they should serve their sovereign in the west ? ;1 
 
 or the tone in which he calls the ghost in " Hamlet," 
 " Father !" or the look that comes over his face in 
 " Romeo," after he has killed Tybalt. These things are 
 alone enough to stamp his mettle, are such as no amount 
 of labor and pains would enable an actor to do, as mark 
 the great and impassable gulf for ever fixed between such 
 as Booth and the clever, careful students, even (I dare 
 say it) like Wallack and Davenport. Of course, he 
 slurs over lines that they read elegantly ; of course, he 
 is unequal Avhile they are finished ; of course, he is 
 rough and they are smooth ; but give me one touch of 
 real feeling, one breath of absolute genius, one spark of 
 enthusiasm before all the finish, all the elaboration, all 
 the study in the world. I do not, I am sure, inappre- 
 ciate or undervalue culture, but there is something 
 higher, truer, realler. I certainly am far from con 
 temning care or study, but some things these cannot 
 accomplish ; something says to them : " So far shall ye 
 go, and no farther." This is not said to Edwin Booth ; 
 there is no Rubicon he may not pass ; there are, how- 
 
 6
 
 122 The Vagabond. 
 
 ever, many for him yet to cross. He is undeveloped, 
 chaotic, plastic. 
 
 He is the type of American art ; he symbolizes the 
 dawn, whose first streaks appear in the horizon. Every 
 thing in art, here, is yet unformed, but the spirit of 
 God has moved on the waters ; and there is a struggle, 
 a quickening in the womb, that betokens life, a faint 
 cry that shall yet grow into an aspiration, a few signifi 
 cant attempts that shall yet be successes. All American 
 art is of this nature, is impulsive, erratic, irregular, but 
 yet full of promise and undeveloped power. I confess, 
 I do not agree with those who see nothing to hope for 
 in American art, because it has not received the last 
 degree of polish, or the final touch of the master. I am 
 not so disheartened as those who seek for evenness of 
 elaboration, but will not discern true touches of nature. 
 Of course, America has yet produced no Rachel, no 
 Milton, no Mozart, nor is she likely soon to do so ; but 
 the stammerings of the infant muses are heard ; not 
 unlike those that whispered centuries ago in Greece, as 
 unmistakable as the numbers that preceded Homer, as 
 the strivings of Perugino who preceded Raphael, as 
 musical as the utterings of Cimarosa, who came before 
 Mozart. 
 
 Neither do I think that American art will ever 
 assume the form which some are looking for, and 
 because they do not find, declare it has no form : it will 
 be turbulent and impassioned, even when developed ; 
 not divinely calm, but intensely human ; not the divinity 
 enthroned on Olympus, but the incarnate one that suf 
 fers, ajid feels, and is tempted. The intimations already 
 given assure us of this : the artists whom America has
 
 American Art. 123 
 
 already produced, the most individualized, tho most 
 generally recognised, the most powerful, Lave been 
 emotional, brimful of earnestness, perhaps even stormy. 
 In music, Gottschalk indicates the difference between 
 European art, the digest of centuries, and American, the 
 product of a young people. Thalberg and Gottschalk, 
 both as composers and artists, fitly symbolize the cha 
 racters of foreign and native genius : the one calm, 
 collected, Jove-like, the other stirring, electric, Apollo. 
 So, too, Miss Heron, the genius who crushes out criti 
 cism, and sets coldness itself on fire, who forces you to 
 feel though you may not admire, who gathers up all the 
 strings of your nature in her grasp, and tightens or 
 sweeps them at once, is certainly American in her enthu 
 siastic, excitable style. Even our painters catch the 
 spirit, and Mr. Church has embodied it in his " Niagara," 
 perhaps the finest picture yet done by an American; 
 at least, that which is fullest of feeling. The idea of 
 motion he has imparted to his canvass, the actual feeling 
 you have of the tremble of the fall, of the glancing of 
 the sunbeam, of the tossing of the rapids, of the waving 
 of the rainbow, of the whirling of the foam, of the mad 
 rush of the cataract, I take to be the great excellence 
 of his production ; and surely this is akin to the in 
 fluence which I describe as paramount in American 
 art. 
 
 Neither is this influence to be decried as altogether 
 hasty and uneducated, or unformed. It is not only the 
 fruit of ill-digested thought, it is not only the rapid 
 utterance of youth, the boastful, coarse excitement of 
 ignorance. If it is inspired by Niagara, it is grand and 
 sublime ; it is natural to the nation, since nature herself
 
 124 The Vagabond. 
 
 lias given us such a type ; it is wild and ungovernable, 
 mad at times, but all power is terrible at times. It is 
 the effect of various causes ; it is a true development of 
 American mind ; the result of democracy, of individu 
 ality, of the expansion of each, of the liberty allowed 
 to all ; of ineradicable and lofty qualities in human na 
 ture. It is inspired not only by the irresistible cataract, 
 but by the mighty forest, by the thousand miles of 
 river, by the broad continent we call our own, by the 
 onward march of civilization, by the conquering of 
 savage areas ; characteristic alike of the western back 
 woodsman, of the Arctic explorer, the souther* 
 fillibuster, and the northern merchant. So, of course, it 
 gets expression in our art. 
 
 Not in ours only. Let those who utterly condemn it 
 look abroad : see how Verdi s music has usurped a place 
 in the opera-houses of Europe, and holds sway over the 
 universal musical taste of the world. Let them bethink 
 them of Turner s pictures, undoubtedly stamped with the 
 same impress, burning, speaking, instinct with this same 
 feeling which I strive to indicate. Let them acknow 
 ledge in the intensity of modern fiction, in the dramas 
 of Dumas and the novels of Dudevant, in the terse, 
 vigorous works of Charlotte Bronte and Carlisle, of 
 Kingsley and Tennyson, something of the nineteenth 
 century spirit, directed and guided, perhaps, to better 
 advantage by those who have been at school for ages, 
 but more unmistakably uttered here, more openly 
 avowed, more absolutely expressed. What if our art, 
 then, is in its infancy : it is at least born into the world. 
 We way wish it had already attained perfection ; we 
 may relish with a more delicate taste the exquisite pro-
 
 American Art. 125 
 
 ductions of the older world ; but let us not entirely de 
 spise the first fruits of this western Atlantis. 
 
 Instead of decrying whatever has the mark of pecu 
 liarity, the freshness of flavor, the smell of the pine- 
 woods, the raciness, the heartiness of youth and strength, 
 would it not be better to recognise and appreciate what 
 of good there is, and develop, and train, and culture it 
 into perfection ? Instead of being angry with Palmer 
 because he dared deviate from classic models of beauty, 
 let us encourage him to embody the forms of loveliness 
 flitting in his brain ; let us prefer Indian girls to Greek 
 slaves, American originals to copies of old and effete 
 ideas. 
 
 In his profound and interesting volume on America 
 and Europe, Count Gurowski comments upon many of 
 our national peculiarities, but, to my mind, discusses 
 matters of art with more skill than questions of races ; 
 at any rate, arrives at conclusions in those domains with 
 which I can more readily concur, and in particular enun 
 ciates this idea, that the accord with culture and study 
 of the inspiration conferred by genius is the problem of 
 our epoch. Kingsley also, in " Two Years Ago," declares 
 that art is not only imitation, not only the fruit of labor, 
 neither only the plenary inspiration, but the union, the 
 marriage of the highest nature with the last results of 
 culture. I accept the dictum, and believe that Ameri 
 can art will solve the problem. It seems to me to pos 
 sess the inspiration : the culture can be attained. 
 
 Here of course is the lack. The genius is not gene 
 rally nor sufficiently appreciated. Materialism has too 
 great weight with us. The beautiful maxim of Goethe 
 is more applicable to us than to any other civilized na-
 
 126 The Vagabond. 
 
 tion : " Take care of the beautiful, for the useful will 
 take care of itself." We do not, as a nation, take care 
 of the beautiful. The artists are not cherished, the arts 
 are not fostered ; but improvement is visible even in 
 these matters. A keener relish, a livelier interest is 
 awakened for art : its influence spreads, the circles widen 
 daily, like the eddies in a pool. I think I detect an in 
 creasing consideration for such things. When I remem 
 ber the kindly feeling evinced for Mrs. de Wilhorst ; when 
 I recall the brilliant crowds that greeted her first at 
 tempts ; when I reflect that the Academy of Music was 
 offered her free of rent for her benefit ; when I hear that 
 the subscription list for her farewell concerts is filled 
 with distinguished names, and that it is in contempla 
 tion to offer her a substantial token of goodwill, in still 
 another fonn, on the eve of her departure, and thus mate 
 rially assist her endeavors, I think that some progress is 
 made or making. When I remember how instantly Miss 
 Heron s genius was recognised, although exclusively 
 American, and, in its excellences, unlike that of foreign 
 schools ; when I remember the audiences that attended 
 the first nights of " Fascination" and " Leonore" last 
 winter ; when I think of the appreciation of Gottschalk, 
 I say that American art will not always languish. I 
 hope for the day when those whose tastes and faculties 
 are cultured by study and travel, by intercourse with 
 the gifted, and opportunities of witnessing the best in 
 the various domains of art, will not unnaturally turn from 
 what is American, because it is not perfect ; when they 
 will blow every spark of genius into a flame ; when they 
 will gladly foster our own art ; when Mr. Fry s " Leo 
 nora" shall be sung at the New York opera-house, and
 
 American Art. 127 
 
 Mr. Jacopi, the American tenor, shall think it better 
 policy not to Italianize his name. Meanwhile, the millen- 
 ium is not yet arrived ; but, as the comet approaches, 
 we must make haste in what we have to do, so I shall 
 go to see Booth every night next week, and visit the 
 Academy of Design every day.
 
 AMERICAN PLAYWRIGHTS. 
 
 " Quid ego, et populus mecum, desideret." 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 AT last we have American plays. Several times, of 
 late, our managers have presented, with commendable 
 care, the productions of American authors, or the repre 
 sentations of American life. The stage seems about to 
 assume its ancient office, to become again the censor 
 of the people, and the picture of the times. Hitherto, 
 our audiences have been content with the performance 
 of English comedies, or tragedies whose tone and 
 coloring were altogether of another date and era from 
 our own. True, indeed, passion is cosmopolite, and all 
 men are akin at one stroke of nature. We weep over 
 the woes of Virginia, or are indignant at the wrongs of 
 Othello, quite as quickly as if the Moor or the Roman 
 were native here and to our manner born. True, too, 
 there is a charm in these pictures of other days and 
 other times, like that of reading Walter Scott s novels 
 or Macaulay s histories. I am no advocate for banish 
 ing Congreve and Sheridan from our modern stage. I, 
 too, delight in classic tragedies. But the theatre has 
 yet another mission ; it has to speak to us of to-day ; 
 to lash our follies, to portray our life, to show us how 
 we of the nineteenth century live and love and hate :
 
 American Playwrights. 129 
 
 for there are traits in modern life as susceptible of 
 humorous portraiture as any that caught the eye of 
 Wicherly or Fielding in the days of merry Charles or 
 stupid Anne ; there are incidents and characters around 
 us as full of passion and pathos as those which engaged 
 the pens of Sophocles or Racine. We are men still, and 
 our nature is unchanged. The harvest is plentiful, but 
 the laborers are few. 
 
 I accept gladly, then, the indications of a new day 
 dawning upon our stage. I am glad to see the first 
 fruits gathered from so rich a field, and to read in the 
 bills " Never before acted," and " Written expressly for 
 this theatre." The very tendency to imitation of 
 French dramas, which has its repulsive features, has 
 also something of good in it. For these French plays 
 are at least modern. They describe modern life phases 
 of modern life, it is true, which are not (here, at any 
 rate, thank God !) the most marked or characteristic ; 
 but still they go not back hundreds of years for their 
 plots, and personages and scenes. 
 
 In this light, then, I see great merit in the play of 
 "Fascination," now or recently acted at Burt m s theatre. 
 Apart from its moral tone, upon which I proffer no 
 comment, it possesses this striking excellence of open 
 ing the way in a new direction. It mirrors real life, 
 holds up no glass that distorts the features reflected in 
 it, presents no caricature, but pictures society of this 
 day. Though the scene is laid in Italy, the people are 
 such as we see around us ; for, in fact, well-bred people 
 are as much alike to day all over the world in manners 
 as they are in dress. The etiquettes of behavior are as 
 widely spread as the fashions of boots and bonnets. 
 
 6*
 
 130 The Vagabond. 
 
 And how delightful to see society pictured, r,ot tra 
 vestied! We are surfeited with the satires of these 
 would-be Juvenals, with the imitations of those who 
 have never seen the original. A picture of modern 
 life, where princesses are not vulgar and artists not 
 sycophants, is a rarity indeed on the New York 
 boards. 
 
 It is indeed a fact that " Fascination " has had prede 
 cessors or pioneers in this path, the success of which is 
 good proof of the demand which exists. How many 
 times has " The Lady of Lyons " been played ! How 
 hackneyed is " The Hunchback !" And yet even these 
 are not so 4 universal in their interest as they might be, 
 but are in some respects provincial. There are manner 
 isms about them, like swaddling clothes entangling the 
 footsteps of the infant drama. Still their popularity 
 shows how quickly any public recognises the attempt to 
 hold the mirror up to its own nature. 
 
 But a play for the children of this generation should 
 not only take the comparatively untrodden field to 
 which I have alluded. It is not merely the province of 
 the modern stage to adapt itself in scenes and characters 
 to modern life, and thus imitate the novel which has so 
 completely dethroned the old-fashioned romance ; for 
 who now reads " Clarissa Harlowe," except as a curiosity 
 or an historical picture ? Even the " Spectator" is set 
 aside by the many for "Jane Eyre" and "The New- 
 comes." None but students penetrate into the literature 
 of a bygone century. Each age has its writers, each 
 age must have its o\yn plays. Our stage is for us ; and 
 as we live intensely, the stage must furnish intense 
 scenes. It must reflect not only our character and tone
 
 American Playwrights. 131 
 
 of mind, but our passions and our manifestations of pas 
 sion. Americans are proverbially excitable and excite 
 ment-loving. They find "The Rivals" slow, and care 
 not to go every week to see " She Stoops to Conquer ;" 
 while " Camille, with all its impropriety, draws for an 
 entire season ; not because of its impropriety, but be 
 cause of its intensity. The interest of " Fascination" is 
 not heightened because its heroine is a wanton. I can 
 conceive alterations in the plot which should obviate 
 the objections which have been urged against its mo 
 rality, and yet leave the excellencies untouched. There 
 is fearful, fascinating intensity enough in life without 
 resorting to purlieus and characters that we blush to 
 name. 
 
 Neither is it your bloody melodramatic pieces which 
 are destined eventually to bear the palm. The " Stran 
 ger" and the "Lady of Lyons" excite as many tears as 
 if they murdered their mistresses, or went mad them 
 selves. The George Barnwells and Jack Sheppards have 
 had their day. Passion seeks other manifestations, now, 
 than it did in the days of the Borgias. Lovers do not 
 carry off beautiful maidens by force and arms, even on 
 the highways of Italy. The poison and the dagger are 
 not among the ordinary furnishings of gentlemen s cup 
 boards and wardrobes. All this sort of thing is as com 
 pletely out of date as the giants and enchanted castles 
 of the troubadours. 
 
 But a drama which should possess the eloquence of 
 George Sand, without her outrageous violations of pro 
 priety ; the admirable character-drawing and the fervor 
 of French fiction generally, with the purity and the pro 
 priety of the English sort, would inaugurate a new
 
 132 The Vagabond. 
 
 school. A modern play, based on modern life, with 
 characters such as can be seen around us; incidents 
 such as are not of unusual occurrence, but placed in 
 felicitous juxtaposition ; an interest that shall not flag 
 for dulness is damnation in theatrical parlance ; and 
 situations where the hideousness of vice may be made 
 apparent, but its fascinations need not be so minutely 
 portrayed such is the ideal of a Vagabond. 
 
 It is hard, doubtless, to discriminate ; to draw the line 
 between proper dulness content to dwell in decencies 
 for ever, and the flashy melodramatic style. But be 
 tween these two lies an unoccupied province. The 
 unusual skill manifested in "Fascination," in the manage 
 ment of incidents, in the portrayal of character, but 
 especially in the passionate dialogue of some scenes, 
 shows plainly enough that there is dramatic talent in 
 our midst. I do not mean to present this piece as perfect 
 in evei-ything but plot ; I think it has other faults. The 
 catastrophe is badly contrived, and there are portions of 
 the play that drag ; but the language is everywhere easy 
 and terse, and the third act is absolutely superb. The 
 excellencies that are prominent are the very ones most 
 desirable in the class of productions that I call for, and 
 that there is a need for. The play itself I regard as a sig 
 nificant attempt, a feeling after the right. Whether the 
 authors are the men destined to fill the vacancy which 
 exists ; to achieve the success that will certainly be 
 attained by some one, remains to be seen. Men some 
 times make one effort, and place themselves near where 
 they would be, but failing of a complete triumph, never 
 attempt again. Men sometimes exhaust themselves in a 
 single endeavor, and their after trials are but repetitions.
 
 American Playwrights. 133 
 
 Others, who do but poorly at the outset, subsequently 
 eclipse all rivals. Many a playwright has failed at first : 
 even Dr. Johnson s "Irene" was damned. Byron was 
 not the only poet whose " Hours of Idleness " was 
 twaddle, nor "Wordsworth the only writer of whom the 
 reviewers declared, " This will never do." 
 
 The critics have united of late I mean the thinking, 
 careful critics in censuring some attempts at portray 
 ing American society ; and I confess these so-called 
 American plays have gross and glaring faults. But still 
 they, too, betoken this necessity ; they, too, strive to 
 answer this call, and are indications of the craving that 
 exists. We are waiting for our Menander and Aristo 
 phanes. We want our Moliere. The pool is troubled, 
 but no man steps in. These writers Avho have carica 
 tured us have done something : Guido di Senna and 
 Perugino came before Raphael. They who have paraded 
 events which have occurred in families, though they 
 made manifest their own barrenness of invention, yet 
 showed observation ; and, in some instances, characters 
 have been drawn nicely and carefully. There is room for 
 comedy as well as for profounder dramas. The sock need 
 not tread upon the buskin s heel ; and I am sure Mr. 
 Burton has pictures of both Tragedy and Comedy over 
 his door. But, in this millennium of the stage for which 
 I am waiting, and which Dr. Bellows will probably pre 
 dict when lie addresses the theatrical profession ; in this 
 dramatic Atlantis, to rise out of the waters, Melpomene 
 will, I fancy, preserve her ancient supremacy, and plays 
 of passion be preferred to plays of manners. These are 
 evanescent in interest as the fashions they portray: 
 those are lasting as the nature of man.
 
 134 The Vagabond. 
 
 But both will be welcome. Meanwhile, let u& appre 
 ciate what of good the gods provide, and not go hungry 
 because we cannot dine on ambrosia, or even on pdte de 
 foie gras.
 
 PARTIES. 
 
 " Fashion and Ceremony." 
 
 Samlet. 
 
 SOME people are never weary of condemning the 
 parties of New York. They are continually talking of 
 the frivolity of fashion, and the dulness of dancing. To 
 hear them, you would suppose they preferred books to 
 belles and beaux, and the armchair to the opera. Yet, 
 I constantly see these critics in the rooms they say are so 
 hot and crowded ; I constantly meet them at the parties 
 they call so stupid, and talk with them at the concerts 
 where the singing is so bad. Those who affect the pro- 
 foundest contempt for American amusements, who 
 declare the Bachelors Ball cannot be compared with 
 Almack s, who ridicule the opera, and think nothing 
 endurable after a winter in Paris these never stay away 
 when they get cards ; they dance the latest at a German, 
 and are out every night in the season. Despite the 
 affectation of not being interested in society, they have 
 been faithful to every little musical soiree during the 
 warm weather, and crowded to every wedding, even if 
 they had to go in the morning, and stay but an hour. 
 Even on Sundays, they go to a reception, and they keep 
 up their parties in June. The truth is, there is scarcely 
 more frivolity in New York society than in any other ; 
 the diary of a person of fashion in Fielding s days would
 
 136 The Vagabond. 
 
 answer for one now; the fine gentleman in Joseph 
 Andrews killed time nearly in the same manner as his 
 modern rival in the new world ; and though Addison s 
 Clorindas and Coquetillas received in bed, and wore 
 patches, both which modes are just now out of vogue, 
 they crowded to the play as ours do to the opera, and 
 wore hoops and fluttered fans exactly in the style that is 
 to-day all the rage. Not only in passing fashions, how 
 ever, can resemblances be traced, but the topics of con 
 versation, the matter as well as the manner, remains 
 the same. English folk of consideration, according to 
 Thackeray, slander their neighbors, and discuss their 
 dearest friends with as much freedom as is ever known 
 in New York drawing-rooms; and if you believe De 
 Sevigne, the marquises of Louis XIV. s time were as 
 devoted to dress, and lived as much with the senses 
 and for the senses, as the shallowest of the newest 
 people up town. 
 
 And it must be always so. You cannot expect very 
 profound remarks at a ball. In a room full of people, 
 where you know fifty, there is neither time nor opportu 
 nity to do more than emulate Belinda in the "Rape 
 of the Lock," or Flutter, in the play. If the Vaga 
 bond should meet Norah at a German, and begin dis 
 cussing pictures or the characteristics of woman, while 
 she was waiting her turn in the dance, she would cer 
 tainly consider him a stupid vagabond, and wish him 
 as far off as the picture gallery at least. I have heard 
 the finest scholars and the profoundest men of the country 
 talk some of the most delightful nonsense imaginable ; 
 gossip with a charmer about the probabilities of a new 
 opera, and even spice a little scandal into their talk of
 
 Parties. 1 37 
 
 the latest marriage d la mode, or the next fortune to be 
 thrown into the market. And I thought they showed 
 their good sense. He who proses in the entr actes of an 
 opera or a quadrille, who discusses phrenology, as I have 
 heard some, at a supper table, or introduces disquisitions 
 on tragedy between the morceaux of the amateurs, may 
 be very wise and very learned, but he scarcely shows 
 his taste in the same degree with his learning. 
 
 Then the chatter and gossip are positively agreeable. 
 One likes to hear who next is to be married, and who last 
 was rejected ; to talk over the last party, with jits con~ 
 tretemps, the merits of the dancers, and the mistakes of 
 the singers. I, at any rate, relish a little raillery ; I pre 
 fer a visit to people who, having eyes, see what is going 
 on around them ; who spy out the ridiculous and laugh at 
 it ; who can criticise their friends without abusing them, 
 and censure their follies, yet own all their merits. I make 
 no doubt that I take my turn ; when I leave a delightful 
 place where we have canvassed our entire acquaintance, 
 and found something severe to say of each, I feel like 
 Sir Peter Teazle, that I d better take my character with 
 me ; it isn t safe from inspection if left behind. But if 
 they treat me well to my face, why not be content ? 
 At any rate, whether I am or not, matters little ; my 
 fate is the same. My friends discuss me ; the world will 
 talk ; they say how poorly I dance, or how stiffly I 
 bow ; what a queer coat that was ; how he blushed 
 when Norah was talking ; how angry he was because 
 she went in to supper with somebody else. Let them 
 talk, so long as they don t absolutely abuse me ; I take 
 my share with the rest, and I assure them, I have my 
 revenge, in kind.
 
 138 The Vagabond. 
 
 There s one charming house where I m always sure 
 of a feast ; where wit and personality make the talk so 
 piquant, that I am content to sit by as a listener ; only 
 when the subject is fairly exhausted I start another, as 
 you poke up the fire that is burning too low. There I 
 always stay too long in the morning, and go too often 
 in the evening ; there I never send a regret, and am 
 always provoked to be left out; and there the talk 
 is not often heavy ; it is refined, and even, after a 
 fashion, intellectual ; that is, it is frivolous, but the fri 
 volity is such as only intellectual people are capable of; 
 trifles are handled by those masters of the art of hand 
 ling them, and, like a French soup, made out of the Lord 
 knows what, your entertainment is delightful and 
 piquant, and tempting enough to the most sated appe 
 tite, but not too heavy to interfere with a digestion of 
 the substantial viands that may be in store. 
 
 But I did not intend to ramble off into a dissertation 
 on fashionable small-talk ; parties are my theme to-day. 
 Conversation belongs to visits; the theatre and the 
 picture-gallery are the places for intellectual gratifica 
 tion ; operas and parties are social occasions where see 
 ing and being seen, meeting those you know, and using 
 your eyes, are the principal objects. Music and dancing, 
 of course, and supper, must not be forgotten ; they con 
 tribute to the sum total ; but what people go for is not 
 for these. At any rate, the opera for the music, the 
 ball for dancing, but a dinner is the only opportu 
 nity for enjoying the pleasures of the table. What jus 
 tice can be done to a pdte defoie gras, standing! How 
 can yon possibly appreciate Clos Vougeot as you swal 
 low do TO a glass hastily between handing ices to Norah
 
 Parties. 139 
 
 and salad to X. ! You might even confound the wines, 
 and in your hurry take Hock for Heidsick, or pour out 
 Chablis into a champagne glass. Those who understand 
 these things, never attempt to indulge under such cir 
 cumstances ; a deliberate dinner is the occasion for the 
 delights of taste, or a game supper, if you will ; a 
 wedding collation, or a stand-up supper after a dance, 
 may be desirable as refreshment, but the connois 
 seurs spurn them. This reminds me that I do not 
 share in the supreme contempt entertained by some for 
 an epicure. Every other sense is cultivated to a high 
 degree of perfection; we pique ourselves upon the 
 acuteness of the ear, upon the correctness of the eye, 
 why not educate the palate as well? Why not enjoy in 
 their perfection the subordinate tastes ? They are more 
 animal indeed ; but man is part animal, and may as well 
 drain every drop of pleasure in his cup, all the 
 juice from the orange, all the honey from the flower. 
 I am not too etherial to relish a wine or a pate with 
 considerable zest ; I can even understand the wish 
 of Lucullus, for a neck as long as a crane s, that he 
 might protract the savoring of his dainties ; and I don t 
 think the opera less exquisite to me, or the play less 
 entrancing, the picture less beautiful, or the book less 
 absorbing, because I appreciate purely physical delights 
 of a gustatory description. All things, I believe, were 
 given us richly to enjoy. What is coarse let us refine, 
 what is good, extract. Goethe s philosophy was not so 
 bad as it is the fashion now to say : self-culture in all 
 things is a very good aim, and self-denial, without some 
 ulterior object to be attained I know nothing of. 
 But the parties. They may be divided into balls, con-
 
 140 The Vagabond. 
 
 certs, literary receptions, and weddings. The first have 
 been known the world over, and will last for ever. 
 Philosophers and old fogies may declaim as much as 
 they please, but the young will dance young New 
 York especially. The women will say he dances like an 
 angel, and dancing men will be invited; no matter how 
 great noodles they be ; the men will gaze with rapture 
 at the exquisite grace of the fair divinities as they 
 whirl in the maze ; while the lucky ones that whirl 
 who shall describe their pleasure ? Not I. Young New 
 York is celebrated for the excellence of its dancing. 
 Mr. Bristed long ago made famous the rage for the polka 
 in Fraser s Magazine ; and that waltz, so ugly to look at, 
 so delightful to engage in, has stood its ground against 
 all the moralists for a decade. Those who are left out 
 are apt to say that the servants of Terpsichore could 
 worship at no other shrine ; can dance but not talk. 
 And indeed there are those who acquire great profi 
 ciency in this accomplishment, but are not good for 
 much else. Some dames are glad, they say, to have 
 dancing and bowing acquaintances, people whom they 
 like to meet at the opera or on the promenade, whom 
 they are delighted to polk with, but are sure to be 
 not at home if they call. They find a waltz very agree 
 able in such company, but could not endure a visit. But 
 if you think all the good dancers are fools, my friend, 
 you are greatly mistaken. Some of the most brilliant 
 people dance superbly ; the superiority they manifest in 
 one thing is conspicuous in all. 
 
 But why will they dance the German ? Of all the 
 interminable and inextricable inventions that ever were 
 known, the German bears the palm. And they dance
 
 Parties. 141 
 
 it with so much gusto ; from nine to one without a 
 respite, not stopping for supper, and then not getting 
 through; not approaching the end of those three 
 hundred figures. There is indeed a vague tradition 
 that the German cotillion was once danced through by 
 a set as indefatigable as the dervishes of the east in 
 their saltatory devotions ; but some enterprising youth 
 forthwith invented new figures, and when the band 
 thought themselves arrived at a termination, Alps upon 
 Alps arose. Those who dance this, do well to seclude 
 themselves, to give German parties where nothing else 
 is done ; for to lookers-on at Vienna, to those Avho fear 
 to trust themselves in the never-ending maze, to get 
 down on their knees among the hoops, to wave banners 
 in the eyes of the fair, to waltz with chairs for partners, 
 tu dance under a nom de plume, to those who eschew 
 all this, tis weary enough. But the German has the 
 stamp of the highest fashion ; it is not known or prac 
 tised outside of exclusive circles, and until it reaches 
 others, it will be the rage. If the Lanciers could be 
 introduced, I am sure that would be preferable. True, 
 it is not so difficult, and does not so completely taboo 
 those who do not essay it ; but the gay world need not 
 hope to keep its favorite long to itself; all its modes are 
 imitated, and the outsiders will take even the pains of 
 learning the German for the sake of doing as the Ger 
 mans do. And when outsiders learn that dance, the 
 others will abandon it. Speed the day! 
 
 I have scarce left myself room to talk of the private 
 concerts, which, however, I have already discussed 
 when telling of the amateurs ; of the weddings which, 
 sooth to say, are dull ; I admit all that the spitefulest
 
 142 The Vagabond. 
 
 old maid can say of them : five young women in a row, 
 simpering and saying the same fine things to five hun 
 dred people ; five young men for ever going back and 
 forth like a pendulum between the door and the bride ; 
 five hundred people puffing and perspiring constitute 
 a wedding. Music and a table of presents, and a table 
 of another sort, provide some sort of recreation ; but 
 every wedding is like every other one ; two people are 
 made happy and half a thousand miserable. Literary 
 soirees, reading parties, private theatricals, tableaux, 
 furnish too large a field to enter upon at the end of a 
 paper. Besides, it is June, and the day for these things 
 is gone by. Society is like the auctioneer s hammer 
 going going going out of town. The Vagabond 
 must leave his P. P. C. s.
 
 THE BALLET. 
 
 "When you do dance, I wish you 
 A wave o the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that." 
 
 Winter s Tale. 
 
 "TnE drama sprang from the dance, and religion has not, 
 in all ages, disdained the aid of dancing men and danc 
 ing women. Many are wont to call the ballet the last 
 and most artificial refinement of modern civilization ; 
 the very highest intoxication of pleasure; the rarest 
 spice in the cup, the maddest flavor in the wine of those 
 to whom all other fascinations have palled. But though 
 it may be and often is, as seductive as any of the 
 delights of sense, it is far from being one peculiar to 
 the nineteenth century, or to European culture and 
 tastes. The choruses that ^Eschylus trained for the 
 stage, the satyric dance, or, earlier yet, the original 
 worship of Bacchus, when women remarkable for 
 beauty and grace celebrated the rites sacred to the god 
 of wine and mirth, bear witness to the early passion 
 for this amusement a passion that must be instinctive 
 with the race, since it has appeared alike among the 
 classic nations of antiquity, in the barbaric splendors 
 of oriental harems, and amid the elaborate elegance of 
 the Parisian opera.
 
 144 The Vagabond. 
 
 The Greek chorus was similar in many things to the 
 modern ballet ; the measured movement common in 
 temple and theatre among the most careful students of 
 art and pleasure in the ancient world, was not only the 
 germ of tragedy, and so of all the great productions of 
 Sophocles and Shakspeare, but itself a form of the same 
 amusement which, to-day, after the lapse of thirty 
 centuries, entrances crowds in the capital of the new 
 world. How ineradicable must be the instinct" that 
 prompted the sacred dances in the groves of Athens, 
 that delighted the king of Judea till he sacrificed the 
 head of a saint to the whim of a girl, that fascinated 
 the Howadji as he journeyed on the banks of the Nile, 
 and now excites a dollar-loving people to ecstasy as they 
 gaze on the faultless form and bewitching grace of a 
 foreign woman. Mankind is the same under all climes 
 and all circumstances. I like to fancy that I share the 
 pleasures of the gay and intellectual Athenian ; to know 
 that what delighted Alcibiades affords me gratification ; 
 that the dwellers in the luxury of a Sardanapalus revel 
 led in no more exquisite " lusts of the eye," than are 
 now afforded to an American on the shore of that land 
 not long ago rescued from the clutch of the red man. 
 
 Some, I know, declare the ballet unnatural and awk 
 ward. We all have read Carlyle s scathing criticism of 
 the stage dance ; we all have heard our acquaintances 
 dilate upon the absurdity of a woman sticking her leg 
 up in the air, or walking on her toes. And, of course, 
 as long as you talk of the ballet, you can ridicule it. It 
 is in some respects unnatural ; its artists are often awk 
 ward ; and those who have no susceptibility to the fasci 
 nations of form and color and motion may, very likely,
 
 The Ballet. 145 
 
 look on in amazement at what shall excite an uproar of 
 applause in the theatre. Still, it is impossible that an 
 amusement which has been found to possess such charms 
 for the universal race, which is enjoyed alike by the 
 wild savages of Otaheite and the most polished nations 
 of modern times, which boasts to-day its triumphs in 
 every capital in the world, which attracts crowds of 
 those best versed in pleasure and most learned in art it 
 is impossible that this should not have a basis somewhere 
 in our nature. Its universality proves its naturalness. 
 And even in the abstract, there is something to be said for 
 it. It appeals to sense and feeling and taste. It is, indeed, 
 like the opera, ridiculous if looked at logically; nobody 
 imagines that any dying Edgardo or Violetta would 
 sing their souls away in strains like the Bel 1 alma or 
 Gran Bio ; nobody imagines that the legitimate expres 
 sion of female passion is whirling around on one leg, and 
 flinging the other round the neck of a man. But for all 
 that, the strains of " Lucia" and the " Traviata" do ravish 
 and move the listeners ; for all that, the action of Cento 
 and the grace of Carlotta Grisi set men s brains on fire. 
 There is expression in the dance, there is meaning in 
 the pantomime, there is soul in the ballet. Passion and 
 sentiment and feeling are expressed not only in the eye 
 and face, not only in the lithe form and exquisitely 
 moulded limbs of beauty, but in the graceful motions 
 and fascinating positions of the dance. Who that has 
 seen the touching story of The Willies unfolded by 
 Caroline Rousset, that has watched her floating, sylph- 
 like gestures and delicate movements, but will acknow 
 ledge the capabilities of the stage dance. Who that 
 has been fired by the abandon and wild gipsy spirit 
 
 7
 
 146 The Vagabond. 
 
 of the Spanish Soto, but can tell of the delights of the 
 ballet? 
 
 The furore created by a new debrtt, the hats, and 
 gloves, and flowers and diamonds showered on Holla 
 last Monday, the crowded theatres and prodigious 
 applause that have rewarded her exertions since, re 
 mind me of the triumphs of her predecessors, recall the 
 days of other dancers now, alas ! grown stiff and old. I 
 can just remember the sensation created by Elssler ; 
 I know how the young men went mad, and the 
 young women got jealous ; how the Park theatre was 
 crowded nightly with the fashion and beauty of the 
 town ; how they said the appearance of the divine 
 Fanny was a new revelation ; how they talked of the 
 antique statues inspired into motion ; how the greatest 
 prudes took boxes, and the oldest fogies raved. But I 
 could not then appreciate the excellences of the ballet : 
 a third-rate dancer would have pleased me as well as 
 the incomparable gyrations that have never since been 
 equalled in America. Probably my brain would have 
 been turned by Augusta as well as by Elssler ; the 
 whirl of one s legs would have made me giddy as 
 quickly as the " Tarantula" of the other. I probably 
 liked to see the performances of the Miss Madelines and 
 Miss Adelines, the Ducys and Lucys who filled up the 
 entr actes. The sparse allowance of petticoats undoubt 
 edly excited my curiosity, and the sight of a woman s 
 calf, covered only with flesh-colored hose, made my 
 boyish blood run fast, though the steps its owner took 
 were heavy and slow. However, custom blunts the 
 edge of everything, and I got used to sights of .this 
 description. After having stood behind the scenes talk-
 
 The Ballet. 147 
 
 ing to a ballet-girl while she chalked her shoes, and 
 gone home with a bevy to supper all in their stage 
 dresses, one isn t particularly interested in the perform 
 ance as seen from the other side of the footlights. I 
 confess I was a little fluttered the first time a pretty 
 woman came into the coulisse and held out her foot to 
 me instead of her hand ; but I soon got ready to take 
 it, and now feet and hands are all alike, so that I don t 
 have to furnish gloves and hose. The mystery is half 
 the charm; and when there was no mystery to me 
 about these women, when I saw the ballet-master scold 
 them at rehearsal, and observed their efforts in the 
 morning to do what was to bring down the house in 
 the evening, when I noticed the red and white chalk, 
 the false eyelashes and the hired bouquets, there was 
 no more enchantment. Then I longed for good danc 
 ing ; then I discovered that Malvina s shape was bad, 
 and Aldina s legs were long ; that one had big feet, and 
 another moved heavily ; that this one was too stout, 
 and the other so awkward ; then I waited for the Avatar 
 of a new divinity. 
 
 The Roussets, I think, came first after Elssler. The 
 four sisters made an impression. Lecompte and Celeste 
 and Augusta had been forgotten, and many who crowded 
 to Niblo s to see " Catarina," had never witnessed such 
 dancing before. Then Adelaide, in her male attire, was 
 very bewitching ; and though Caroline was homely, and 
 her form not so exquisite as many that I have seen 
 since, she was yet a fine dancer she was spirituel and 
 delicate, more at home as Giselle than as "La Reine des 
 Bandits ;" and though she led the evolutions of her 
 military corps with skill and grace, though she danced
 
 148 The Vagabond. 
 
 the Manola with Adelaide with considerable spirit, 
 her forte was rather in the waving, floating style ; she 
 looked a very Giselle ; she seemed at times to have both 
 feet off the stage, to be buoyed up in the air, so grace 
 fully, so gradually, so exquisitely she moved. That 
 excrescence of the ballet, a male dancer, was always 
 got rid of in their performances the male dancers, who 
 do nothing but spin around, till you wonder whether 
 they will ever have done, and especially if they can ever 
 get unwound again. 
 
 Pougaud and Soto came together: fair examples of the 
 French and Spanish styles ; the one all art, the other 
 all fire; the one seductive, the other inspiring; Pou 
 gaud, finished, and careful, and immodest and cold, dis 
 playing her talent, making great efforts and superb 
 poses, accomplishing whatever she aimed at, but doing 
 it all for effect, and simpering and smirking for applause ; 
 Soto, brimful of Andalusian animation, enthusiastic in 
 her nature and passionate in her movements, whirling 
 round in a perfect abandon, and whirling her audience 
 invariably along with her, by far the most exciting 
 dancer that I have ever seen. Too heavy to attempt the 
 great achievements of her rival, not so lithe as many, 
 and even lacking precision and aplomb, she yet flung 
 her whole soul so into the dance, she so identified her 
 self and her nationality with what she was about, that 
 none could resist the entrainement. To see her come 
 down the stage in the Manola, the very sound of the 
 music of which is inspiriting and exciting to see her 
 bright black eyes flash, and her Spanish blood mount 
 into her cheek, as she whirled her body and flung her 
 arms, and leaned nearly level with the stage, was a
 
 The Ballet. 
 
 149 
 
 sight thai always made the house ring again. I have 
 known the pit brought to their feet more than once by 
 this dance. Pougaud s chef d oeuvre was the incanta 
 tion scene in " Robert le Diable ; the enchantments of 
 the wicked abbess, the unearthly wiles to lead a man to 
 ruin, were the very ones her talent was fitted to portray. 
 The insinuating grace, the seductive smile and action 
 of Helena, have never been better given in New York 
 than by Pougaud. I never wondered that Robert suc 
 cumbed to such fascinations ; it would have been un 
 manly to resist. 
 
 Mathias, the exquisite pantomimist, the pretty Rus 
 sian, never made so great a sensation as she ought to 
 have done ; and Teresa Robert, the most perfect dancer 
 of the French school that has ever been in New York, 
 with the most faultlessly-formed limbs and the ugliest 
 face imaginable, was not appreciated. They each drew 
 immensely at first ; the town talked of them for a week ; 
 everybody went to see them ; and then they were no 
 more thought of than if they had been second-rate. 
 Whether Rolla will share their fate, remains to be seen. 
 She is prettier than most of her predecessors ; she is 
 well shaped ; she is refined and interesting ; she is full 
 of expression in face and form ; her dancing all has 
 meaning, but she does no wonders in her art. Her tours 
 deforce are not equal to Robert s, and she has not the 
 fire of Soto ; her chami consists in the exquisite and 
 delicate expression of her dancing, in her little steps, 
 and in her personal attractions. 
 
 We don t have the grand ballet here yet, in the style 
 in which it is given abroad. The principal artistes are 
 excellent, but we want Cerito and Carlotta Grisi ; and
 
 150 The Vagabond. 
 
 more than that, we want the superlative splendors of the 
 Parisian theatres. The ballet needs every adjunct of 
 music and scenery. All sensual pleasures harmonize 
 with it ; elaborate and gorgeous colors, troops of beau 
 tiful women, music more exciting than we get away 
 from the opera ; something on a grander scale than we 
 have yet had here. The Pas des Patineurs, in "Le Pro- 
 phete," the ballet of " Guillaume Tell," as these were 
 produced at the Academy of Music, give some idea of 
 what I mean. When we have saltatory performances 
 of this description, combined with the greatest artists in 
 the world, as they say we shall have next winter, the 
 ballet will not lose its charms in a month, nor a dancer 
 grow stale in her prime.
 
 THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF 
 DESIGN. 
 
 " Look here upon this picture, and on this." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 WHOEVER has read " Jane Eyre " (and who has 
 not ?) will remember the vivid description of the draw 
 ings that Rochester found in the portfolio of the homely 
 little governess ; the wonderful character of those 
 sketches; the immense feeling that struggled for ex 
 pression in lines and colors till it was spoken as plainly 
 as in words. The same idea of painting which prompted 
 these, was common to the entire Bronte family ; Mrs. 
 Gaskell tells of the three purblind sisters, full of pent-up 
 genius and character, poring over the few prints that 
 fell in their way, and spelling out the meaning of the 
 artist, guessing at the thoughts that . originated his 
 work, or deciphering the enigma veiled in his outlines. 
 If Patrick Bronte had accomplished what he so wildly 
 longed for, what he so wildly cried for in that wonder 
 ful letter to Wordsworth, which harrows up one s heart 
 to read : if he had made himself a name as an artist, it 
 would, I dare say, have been as a man of feeling, as a 
 painter full of power and meaning. The Brontes were 
 right ; all lonely in their llaworth parsonage, out of the 
 way of art, they had learned art s highest teachings
 
 The Vagabond. 
 
 from her sister, nature ; they had hit instinctively upon 
 what some arrive not at, after years of labor and study 
 the knowledge that art is useless save as the utter 
 ance of thought, as the expression of feeling, as the 
 embodiment of sentiment. 
 
 This is true of art in every one of its departments ; 
 elocution is not acting, so Mr. Wallack is infinitely infe 
 rior to young Booth in essentials ; words are not poetry, 
 so Pope, with all his cultivated numbers, is tame by 
 comparison with the stammerings of Shelley ; science is 
 not music, and the elaborate learning of Mercadante, 
 and sometimes of Mendelssohn, is sounding brass and 
 tinkling cymbal, to the melody that scintillates all 
 through Verdi or Rossini. But in painting especially, 
 the difference is eternal and the distance impassable be 
 tween the true and its imitation. He who has nothing 
 to say, no thought to utter, no feeling to express, may 
 as well abandon his pallet and pencil. He may color 
 and draw, he may elaborate with the painstaking fide 
 lity of a Denner or a Mr. Hill, he may rival the effects 
 of the daguerreotype, but he will give only the body 
 without the soul. Without the inspiration which never 
 is acquired, his color will be cold and his drawing stiff"; 
 or even if he counterfeit grace and warmth, the life, 
 the breath, the spirit will be lacking. The statue will 
 never speak to its Praxiteles ; the fire will never be in 
 fused unless Prometheus steal it from the gods. 
 
 All that I look for in the Academy of Design is some 
 trace of this fire ; some spark, some show of feeling or of 
 thought. The closest outside imitation without it affects 
 me not, and one touch of nature gives me more pleasure 
 than the most elaborate results of skill. I had rather
 
 The National Academy of Design. 153 
 
 see even a misshapen creation like that of Frankenstein, 
 grotesque and monstrous, but yet alive, than the finest 
 of fantoccini or the best dressed wax doll. I discuss 
 no technicalities, for general criticism should be general, 
 not technical. The student of an ai t is expected to 
 master its secrets and be acquainted with its details ; 
 but others, whatever interest they may feel in the sub 
 ject, care for it only as it affects them and in its results ; 
 as an end, not as a means. The critic s function is to 
 discuss the aim and object of art, not to descant upon 
 the means by which that object is attained ; to appre 
 ciate the beauties of a picture or a statue, to point out its 
 faults, and impartially to discriminate between the true 
 and the false, the beautiful and the plain ; but it is the 
 province of the professor to say how the form should be 
 rounded and where the color shoiild be laid on. Criti 
 cism for artists exclusively, may be concerned with the 
 study, the practice, the efforts, the labor. Criticism in 
 general is concerned with the result. But because a man 
 does not understand how to compose an opera is no 
 reason why he shall not appreciate its beauties ; because 
 I may draw worse than Ruskin says Claude Lorraine 
 does, is not to say I cannot tell a line of enchanting 
 grace when I see it. 
 
 The present exhibition at the Academy is an encou 
 raging one ; there is more excellence than I have noted 
 in any of its collections for a number of years. More 
 of the portraits have character, more of the landscapes 
 reflect the spirit of nature. And of all in the galleries, 
 that which is the fullest of feeling, at once the truest to 
 externals, and the most instinct with expression per 
 haps the most instinct with expression because the truest 
 
 7*
 
 1^4 The Vagabond. 
 
 to externals is Mr. Church s "Andes of Ecuador." 
 His recent works place this artist at the head of 
 American landscape painters ; and it is as landscape 
 painters only that our artists have yet achieved any 
 place; it is in landscapes only that they have suc 
 ceeded in caging any of the indefinable, subtle some 
 thing we call genius ; in landscapes only that ideas are 
 embodied ; by them only that impressions, sentiments, 
 feelings are conveyed. American portraits are not often 
 portraits of men and women, but of faces and gowns 
 features without soul, complexion without character. 
 Our historical works are attempts, not achievements ; 
 showing an ambition which, alas ! is worth nothing 
 without the ability. Anybody may aim, but how few 
 attain. Pretentious efforts after greatness, denominated 
 historical pictures, bare or tawdry in conception, crude 
 and stupid in execution, are not redeemed because their 
 authors wanted to excel. It is hard of course for them 
 that they did not, but they are damned nevertheless. 
 Aim cannot be accepted for accomplishment : indeed, 
 without the latter, it only makes a man ridiculous ; and 
 such, sooth to say, are too many historical painters. 
 Convinced of this, they have of late eschewed the 
 branch of art in which no excellence seems likely soon 
 to be attained by Americans. 
 
 But in landscapes the sky is brighter ; there is ample 
 field; there is inspiring theme; there is nature fresh 
 and young as ever, but doubly new and fresh to those 
 who seek her in the new world. The Andes and the 
 Niagara are fitting themes for an American artist, and 
 have been fitly handled by Mr. Church. Who that 
 stands before the picture I speak of, and gazes at the
 
 The National Academy of Design. 155 
 
 magnificent prospect, the lofty ranges, the distant out 
 line melting into the clouds, the hazy peaks, the shim 
 mering sun of the tropics, the gorgeous-tinted earth 
 and sky, but must acknowledge that the artist has 
 caught and conveyed a new feeling to the mind. His 
 canvas lives. You forget to discuss the admirable 
 perspective; the curious manner in which the fore 
 ground is made to contribute to the general effect ; the 
 mystery of tone which is hung over the picture like a 
 curtain, subduing and mellowing every tint to a subor 
 dinate effect; the exquisite drawing of the hills, re 
 minding you of Ruskin s simile of rocks like ribs 
 clothed in living flesh, and swelling beneath the life-like 
 garment all these are lost in the general effect. Some 
 quarrel with Mr. Church that he makes everything sub 
 ordinate to effect : that is, that soul is more to him than 
 body ; but not so I. His pictures speak their meaning, 
 have an influence, excite feelings, and even if sometimes 
 his skies are impossible, or his foliage untrue, if he 
 daguerreotypes not, gives no fac-simile of nature, his 
 works yet answer the higher purpose of awakening the 
 same emotion which the sight of the landscape itself 
 would inspire. This is art s noblest, truest function ; not 
 to imitate nature, but to rival it. 
 
 Mr. Durand is worthily represented, although his pro 
 ductions are scarcely as much individualized as usual ; for 
 sometimes they are individualized to such a degree as 
 to be just on this side of mannerisms, but on this side 
 still. He looks not at nature in the wilder, warmer 
 aspects that most strike his younger peer. He wants 
 quiet, refreshing glimpses; June-like views, graceful 
 elm trees, browsing cattle, gentle streams ; but he as
 
 156 The Vagabond. 
 
 truly mirrors nature. He catches another phase quite 
 as successfully ; he sees her not in so imposing a garb ; 
 he is not like Moses, who looked on God unveiled ; lie 
 enters not the holy of holies barefoot ; but he is a true 
 worshipper at the shrine. He cannot paint a storm 
 without sunlight breaking through clouds, but he exerts 
 a delicious calming influence ; he soothes perturbed 
 spirits ; he, too, is a real artist. 
 
 Kensett is the other member of the trinity of land 
 scape painters who excel all their brethren in this de 
 partment. He is not so sumptuous in his tastes as 
 Church, nor so like Goldsmith in his influence as 
 Durand. He chooses not to portray the tropical atmo 
 sphere nor the peculiarities of autumnal glories ; he is 
 aflected not by placid lakes and softened hills; he 
 prefers wildness, but not the very wildness of Niagara ; 
 a White Mountain view, with rough, precipitous sides, 
 and scraggy rocks and stunted foliage, with black look 
 ing tarns and racing torrents, a real American view. 
 His masterpiece of last year was, however, finer than 
 his best picture in the present exhibition. There was 
 about it the same unity of feeling, the same harmony 
 of conception, the same originality of treatment, and 
 an apparently keener appreciation of the spirit of the 
 place. A still greater seclusion appeared to pervade 
 the scene, a still fresher coolness was in those woods, a 
 blacker shade hung over the pool. He is perhaps quite 
 as essentially American in his landscapes as either of 
 the other two great artists who lead the van. 
 
 Mr. Grey is the first of our colorists. His pictures 
 all have a magical influence on me ; they leave a deep 
 impression ; they strike me instantly and unmistakably.
 
 The National Academy of Design 157 
 
 He is called a mannerist, an imitator of old painters ; 
 but, if it is imitation, it is such as no countryman of his 
 can equal. If it is a mannerism it is full of character. 
 He is not pretty in treatment, but effective ; he under 
 stands tone, not as if taught, but as if inspired. What 
 he does is not the result of labor, or others would share 
 in his success. He has great merits in drawing also, 
 but lacks, sadly lacks, expression. His "Hagar" is full 
 of beauties of tone, is nicely drawn sometimes charm 
 ingly but it might nearly as well be a " Sarah " as a 
 " Hagar." His portraits are rather types of a class than 
 absolute individualities. He is excelled in this respect 
 by Elliott and Huntingdon, who give us the man 
 especially wherein he differs from others. They discern 
 what makes a man himself, what constitutes character ; 
 they have the rare faculty of peering through the 
 countenance into lines that lie deeper than features, and 
 it is these Hires that they reproduce on canvas. This 
 makes their portraits, portraits ; this sets them so far 
 above others who attempt the same thing. 
 
 Many of the other pictures have merit, but it is use 
 less to catalogue them here ; I only attempt to say when 
 one seems to me to rise far above the mass. I find 
 much that interests me not ; but, on the whole, good 
 cause for encouragement ; no reason to retract what I 
 said two weeks ago of an onward movement in Ameri 
 can art. The three landscapes of Church, Durand, and 
 Kensett are alone enough to assure me that there is 
 reason for congratulation.
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " Be that you are ; 
 That is, a woman." 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 IT is now ten years since "Jane Eyre" was given to 
 the woi ld ; but Avho does not remember the marvellous 
 success of that marvellous production ? Who does not 
 still more distinctly remember its effect upon himself? 
 For it is a work of genius ; it is one of those things 
 that speak direct to the individual ; that penetrate 
 through all swaddlings of circumstance and education ; 
 that have a universal voice ; that affect the innermost 
 nature. High and low, rich and poor, old and young, 
 illiterate and educated, were all touched ; a chord was 
 struck that vibrated in every heart. Since then other 
 powerful books have come to us from the same pen ; 
 " Shirley" and " Villette" also were full of the wonder 
 ful influence, the magnetism of genius ; bespoke the 
 same intense nature that was revealed in their pre 
 decessor ; awoke responsive emotions in bosoms whose 
 throbs the world never knew of, in breasts all unused 
 to answer to the play of these word-magicians. Then 
 came the first few intimations that the public got of the 
 personality of the great writer ; her name, her age, her 
 residence, and at last a voice in her own proper charac-
 
 Charlotte Bronte. 159 
 
 ter the preface to her sister s works. In this spoke 
 out again the compressed feeling which had been the 
 secret of " Jane Eyre s" power. However, only a few 
 words were said ; and soon after followed the news that 
 Charlotte Bronte was dead. Mrs. Gaskill s remarkable 
 biography let us into the secrets of her character ; told 
 us the story of that lonely parsonage among the York 
 shire hills ; described the three caged sisters, full of 
 repressed genius and feeling, pent up in their little par 
 lor at Haworth, pacing up and down like wild beasts 
 eager to be free, and with emotions quite as restless as 
 themselves raging within their breasts as complete and 
 sad a picture as exists in the history of English lite 
 rature. And now, we have "The Professor," Char 
 lotte s first work, and yet her last, coining to us with a 
 peculiar interest since we have studied the character of 
 its writer ; a book which read by the light the biography 
 throws across its pages is full of as strange significance 
 as any in the language. 
 
 All of Charlotte Bronte s books are full of person 
 ality. The author looked into her own heart, and por 
 trayed what she saw, and felt, and was ; you believe in 
 the reality of what she says, and therefore acknowledge 
 her sway. One got to know much of her from her 
 works, before the biography revealed her innermost 
 nature. But when that singular production displayed 
 the entire and uneventful career of Currer Bell ; when it 
 laid bare her every feeling and thought ; when it dis 
 closed the most secret recesses of her character, we 
 seemed admitted to a confidence generally bestowed 
 only on the nearest and dearest of friends. " The Pro 
 fessor," however, goes even a step beyond ; you can
 
 160 The Vagabond. 
 
 know the woman now even as she kne w herself ; secrets 
 are betrayed in this book, secrets of feeling, and tl ought, 
 and passion, that none ever disclose to any friend. The 
 veil is torn away from the most private and sacred parts 
 of her nature ; everything is uncovered to the glaring 
 light of publicity ; every stranger can rudely venture 
 in and trace the growth of character, can watch the 
 throbs of passion, the development of ideas in a being 
 so strangely sensitive, so morbidly inclined to shrink 
 from just this gaze. I feel, in reading " The Professor," 
 as if I were intruding where I had no right to be. You 
 absolutely know the woman better than she could her 
 self. You can say what incident in her real life sug 
 gested this fictitious circumstance ; what throb prompted 
 this burning line ; what nerve, touched to the qitick, 
 started these words that speak and flash so vividly. 
 And she, Charlotte Bronte, the reserved, undemonstra 
 tive Avoman, who kept her feelings and her passions 
 pent up and hidden, she to have her very soul torn 
 quivering from her almost before she is cold, and ex 
 posed, panting and bleeding, to the curiosity of the 
 multitude ! They were strange friends who had such 
 ideas of the duties of friends. 
 
 And yet the fascination in the nature of the woman, 
 and in her genius, the magnetic influence of human 
 sympathy, will not let me turn away. Since those 
 whose duty it was to decently close the eyes of the 
 dead and bury her quietly, have chosen to strip off the 
 shroud, and offer her form to the dissecting-knife, why 
 should we hesitate to learn a lesson of human nature thus 
 thrust upon us ? Let us approach reverently as is due 
 to the genius, delicately as beseems the sex, truthfully as
 
 Charlotte Bronte. 161 
 
 befits the nature of her of whom I speak. CouH I mtch 
 the spirit that animated Charlotte Bronte that earnest, 
 honest spirit though her surpassing power of course 
 would dazzle, that spirit might animate me, and help 
 me to do her a measure of justice. 
 
 The womanliness of Charlotte Bronte first strikes me 
 in everything that she has written ; the depth of wo 
 manly feeling ; the height of womanly passion ; the way 
 in which she has put herself into her books, little sus 
 pecting that a key should afterwards be offered to the 
 world which would unlock every mystery she chose to 
 hint at in her words. The revelation of character is 
 marvellous. The tenderer feminine traits are not so 
 manifest, but the earnest ones of woman are all de 
 veloped: the clinging with the whole soul around what 
 she loves ; the eager reception of a passion ; the absorp 
 tion of it into her nature ; the identification of herself 
 with its object in a word, what constitutes the truest 
 and noblest part of the truest and noblest woman. De 
 monstrations are not common, are not lavished openly 
 and freely : the first indications of any passions are 
 repressed, confidence is not sought, but the tremendous 
 force, the cataract of feeling at last sweeps everything 
 before it, and rises to the heights of the loftiest tragedy. 
 This I call one phase of woman s character. There are 
 those who lack the softer traits ; who bestow not tears 
 and kisses daily and nightly; who have none of the 
 youthful exuberance of Juliet ; who sternly repress what 
 emotions sprout up, but who, in the whirlwind of pas 
 sion, are all the more terrible from their usual calm ; 
 who hide under equable exteriors, under the crust of 
 quiet, a very volcano of feeling ; and such a woman
 
 162 The Vagabond. 
 
 Jane Eyre was painted, such a woman is everywhere 
 developed in the works of Currer Bell, such a woman 
 was Charlotte Bronte. 
 
 For she nowhere creates ; she had not, in so great a 
 degree as the world has thought, the inventive faculty ; 
 she transcribes herself, her own emotions, her own feel 
 ings, and ideas ; she pecks at her own breast for the life- 
 blood that warms her productions ; she clothes with 
 living flesh not the figures of her fancy, but those that 
 stood out in her memory. Here again I discern the 
 woman ; man creates, woman receives ; one makes im 
 pressions, the other retains them ; and even this won 
 derful genius is true to her womanly nature. She has 
 none of the Shaksperean faculty, none of the universality 
 of Goethe ; she does not beget a varied crowd of cha 
 racters ; she does not speak into existence those whose 
 identity is for ever established, and whose variety is as 
 remarkable as their actuality. It is a few homogeneous 
 beings that she sets before us, all having the same cha 
 racteristics, the same intensity, the same depth of cha 
 racter, the same tendency to repress emotions, the same 
 outwardly-forbidding aspect, the same condensed, 
 crowded feeling, the same power which she found and 
 felt in herself. Rochester and Jane Eyre are the same 
 being different phases of Charlotte Bronte ; her person 
 ality is what gives them life. And the after books are 
 still repetitions, each one weaker than the last (the 
 woman again) ; she had crowded herself into one effort ; 
 she had expended the intensity of her nature in the one 
 burst. You heard the cry and your heart re-echoed it ; 
 you felt the shock and your own nerves answered ; you 
 acknowledge all the wonderful passion and genius of the
 
 Charlotte Bronte. 163 
 
 woman, but what more has she done since than she did 
 then? 
 
 And not only does she not create characters, not only 
 does she copy from herself the most important indi 
 viduals of her works, and from her own family or the 
 few she met in boarding schools, the supernumeraries 
 of her little stage ; but even her events and plots are, 
 in a great measure, transcripts of real life. Doubtless, 
 they are only the more real for this : incidents are given 
 exactly as they occurred ; scenery is described till it is 
 mirrored before you ; language is repeated exactly as it 
 fell from the lips of her friends. Of course this power 
 of reproducing is prodigious, is what accounts for the 
 great effect of Charlotte Bronte s writings, but it is a 
 distinct and separate thing from that other and higher 
 power, possessed only by a chosen few, of creation. 
 
 She exhibits only that phase of life which she had 
 seen ; she attempts no imaginative writing ; she portrays 
 with the faithfulness of a Dutch painter the scenes in 
 which she had mingled; she sets down like Denner 
 every hair, and those who have been thus daguerreo- 
 typed complain of the forbidding truthfulness which 
 points them out after the lapse of twenty years as her 
 originals. Not mere daguerreotypes though, for Char 
 lotte Bronte s pictures are all instinct with life, all full 
 of feeling, all teem with suggestiveness. 
 
 The closest observation of character in her is com 
 bined with the most searching analysis of motives ; she 
 has the faculty of seeing straight through all disguises 
 to the very core of things ; she penetrates to the reality. 
 The most retentive memory of events does not interfere 
 with the ability to discover the significance of those
 
 164 The Vagabond. 
 
 events ; and though her sphere is narrow, within it she 
 is absolute master. She rings the changes in a mourn 
 ful key, and on one instrument ; she breathes always the 
 same s/id strain, now fierce and frantic in its earnestness, 
 now more terrible because repressed, now only inti 
 mating the concealed depths behind but with all the 
 monotony there is tremendous power. The sadness 
 again, is womanly; the consciousness of power is in her 
 ever attended by the sombre feeling of fate ; her novels 
 are almost like the Greek tragedy in this respect ; her 
 novels and her life are both for ever under this pall. 
 Even in the wild exultation of Jane Eyre, you feel the 
 foreboding of coming sorrow, and the chastened joy at 
 the close of her career is surely such as men are not apt 
 to be content with. 
 
 The intensity of feeling everywhere evinced in the 
 works of Charlotte Bronte is allied to a degree of 
 coarseness ; the rush of emotions crushes out delicacy ; 
 tenderness even is forgotten when a master passion seizes 
 hold of the soul. And I confess these novels have al 
 ways seemed to me such as a woman of great refine 
 ment could not have written. There is a certain 
 coarseness of feeling everywhere evident ; not surpris 
 ing in one educated under the influences that surrounded 
 the Bronte family, but which was besides instinctive in 
 them. No woman of great delicacy could do or de 
 scribe things that Miss Bronte describes her heroines as 
 doing. The very abruptness and intensity of her cha 
 racters are not of the sort common in a society used to a 
 polish always in some measure deceitful. I do not, how 
 ever, here allude to formal refinements, but to absolute 
 and innate delicacy, which was, in some degree, lacking
 
 Charlotte Bronte. 165 
 
 in Charlotte Bronte s character. In fact, her we manli 
 ness Avas of a peculiar sort : it wanted some features 
 which are commonly thought indispensable to true wo 
 manliness. It was a type of an uncommon kind, but it 
 was womanly, after all, rather than manly. 
 
 I shall not now discuss the literary merits of her 
 works. What need to dwell on the compressed energy 
 of her style ; upon her terse, forcible prose ; upon the 
 way in which character is again mirrored here ; upon 
 the absence of useless ornament ; upon the significance 
 she gives to natural scenery ; upon the life-likeness of 
 her dialogue, and the magnificent vividness of her de 
 scriptions. These, of course, were the means through 
 which her genius got expression ; but I trench not now 
 on the province of those who criticise the writer, I 
 rather attempt to say Avhat I think of the woman ; to 
 tell my idea of her character. All artists, of course, dis 
 play themselves in their works ; but in Charlotte Bronte, 
 character and genius were so nearly allied as to become 
 almost identical ; you could not say where one ceased 
 and the other began ; you could not tell which it was 
 that aifected you ; you only knew the effect. You mar 
 velled at the insight into character, at the penetration 
 that discovered, and the skill that portrayed motives ; you 
 yielded to the sway of the hand that was placed beneath 
 your heart and gathered up the strings to wrench them ; 
 you submitted to the sympathetic influence, and for 
 getting to criticise, became the willing subject of a 
 magnetism more subtle at once and more powerful than 
 any known to magicians or mesmerisers. You bowed to 
 the mysterious supremacy of genius ; and cried out 
 "This is the finger of God."
 
 MY UNKNOWN CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 "My gentle, bashful Nora Creina." 
 
 Hoards Irish Melodies. 
 
 MR. WILLIS and Bayard Taylor have their unknown 
 correspondents, and why should not I ? The younger 
 poet is just married, and announces to the world that he 
 is bored by these missives that come to him during his 
 honeymoon, he knows not whence. Mr. Willis, how 
 ever, is older, and don t get so much admiration 
 expressed to his face (I suppose) as Bayard, so he says : 
 " Write away, my darlings ; I prize your appreciation." 
 JEt moi aussi. If the women will write, I will read, I 
 promise. And they do write. Every once in a while I 
 get a letter directed to " The Vagabond " sometimes 
 graceful, sometimes flattering, sometimes caustic, some 
 times saucy, always piquant. Somebody who read my 
 enthusiastic praise of young Booth s beauty, was sure it 
 was written by a woman ; but you couldn t persuade 
 my fair correspondents of this. Do you think they d 
 waste thoughts and paper on one of their own sex ? 
 What piquancy in that, pray ? So they keep up a run 
 ning fire of letters, the most curious imaginable ; so 
 curious, that I cannot for the life of me resist the temp 
 tation to unfold a little history concerning them for the 
 edification of my choicest friends the very select few
 
 My Unknown Correspondents. 167 
 
 who read "The Vagabond." The first of these communi 
 cations came to me a year ago. Here it is : 
 
 " NEW YORK, 17th March. 
 
 "MY DEAR VAGABOND: Why do not you who speak of Painting as 
 though you really knew something about it no small praise nowa 
 days, why do not you make a visit to a few of our New York studios, 
 and criticise some of the paintings therein contained ? There is a sad 
 dearth just now of art criticism that is, so far as the pencil and 
 brush are concerned and the task of filling the vacuum cannot possi 
 bly fall into better hands than yours, my dear Vagabond, for your 
 article in last week s Times proves that you not only possess the judg 
 ment necessary to pick out the faults in a work of Art and censure 
 them, but that you have the rarer faculty of discovering its beauties, 
 and can generously praise them also. Therefore it is that I like you " 
 (delightful creature I) "and your criticisms. Can I say more to induce 
 you to accede to my wishes ? If so, let me know what and presto 1 
 it is said. Seriously though will you not oblige me? There are cer 
 tain Artists " (the capitals are my correspondent s) " in this City in 
 whom I am interested and certain pictures which in my poor judgment 
 deserve notice, and I should like to see them praised ; but I have not 
 the knowledge necessary to write a good Art Critique, and you appa 
 rently have" (who wouldn t be a "Vagabond?"), "therefore, sorely 
 pressed as was ever fair maiden of olden time I appeal to your chivalry 
 to aid me. Can you refuse ?" 
 
 Could I ? Could you Then follows a list of the 
 artists and their works, and their studios ; after which 
 my correspondent proceeds : 
 
 "Have I failed in tempting you sufficiently, and in failing have I 
 also betrayed which of these gentlemen it is that I am desirous should 
 possess your good opinion ? I hope not with all my heart, and trust 
 that yours will not permit you to refuse me, then like all the rest of 
 the world, I shall not only sing the Vagabond s praises, but thank 
 him heartily too. 
 
 "NORAH."
 
 168 The Vagabond. 
 
 I beg my readers to observe the profusion of itali 
 cised words and the scarcity of commas, together fur 
 nishing incontestable proof of the sex of Norah, if any 
 were wanting after that eminently feminine letter. And 
 is not the letter itself irresistible ? It was to me. I 
 sallied forth, visited every studio that Norah had desig 
 nated, found the picture I fancied she was most inter 
 ested in, wrote a criticism thereupon, and received a 
 letter of thanks from the artist. Had I then been con 
 tent, all would have been well ; but I must needs write 
 a " Vagabond " article, mentioning these facts, when in 
 stantly there came upon me a shower of letters, two of 
 which I append. The first is from the indignant 
 artist : 
 
 " And must I ravel out 
 My weaved up follies? 
 
 " It appears I must, that is if such a piece of folly as mine can be 
 raveled -out, for while I simply wrote to thank you for what seemed 
 to be a disinterested love of Art and its progress, I was egregiously 
 fooled and find from your own statement that your kindness was no 
 kindness at all, but merely a desire to please an unknown correspon 
 dent who nattered you into flattering me. 
 
 " Whoever Norah may be, I sincerely thank her for the interest 
 you seem to think she takes in me and my pictures, but I very much 
 regret the injustice you do me in attributing the matter of my letter of 
 thanks to her thanks, which I regret you have left me no option but 
 to recall." 
 
 Pleasant that remarkably pleasant! I don t see 
 why he need be so testy. What if I did go to his studio 
 at Norah s suggestion ? That didn t prevent my using 
 my eyes when I got there. But the artist s letter is 
 nothing compared to Norah s. Judge for your 
 selves :
 
 My Unknown Correspondents. 169 
 
 " Oh I you Prince of Vagabonds I yo.u most ungenerous of all un 
 generous critics 1" (what will she call me now, I wonder ? for of course 
 I ll catch it after this article) " to blazo n forth to thy hundred readers 
 and perforce admirers" ( twas she underlined that perforce) "that I 
 Norah, had written to theel" (Tutoyant, eh!) "nay, to mention, and 
 doubtless without a blush, too, the very subject of my letter. You 
 vainest of mortals ! to dream that my communication was dictated 
 through admiration of thee," (I leave it to my readers if that wasn t 
 a fair inference) "and not from interest in Art" (witli a capital A) 
 " and its professors. Henceforth the fabled Narcissus sinks into utter 
 insignificance and oblivion, and on his once lofty pedestal, lo ! the 
 Vagabond stands triumphant." 
 
 I suppose she thinks that s a fine sentence, but Narcis 
 sus didn t have any pedestal. 
 
 "So no one knows thy vanity? if you have indeed laid this natter 
 ing unction to your soul, discard it at once, and for ever, my dear 
 Vagabond" (the hypocrite ! dear indeed !) "/ know it, the readers of 
 this journal are fully aware of it ! The whole world knows of 
 it. Why should it not?" (I refrain from any remark.) "You have 
 taken pains enough in all conscience, to convince us of its extent, nor 
 in good sooth, do I blame thee much ; the intellect of a Cicero" 
 
 And here she becomes so utterly flagrant, so pert, so 
 regardless of my feelings and of good taste, that I omit 
 a passage. My readers lose nothing, I assure them. 
 
 " But who shall believe that you complied with my request, and 
 wrote a criticism upon Art ?" (She didn t ask for one on art ; look 
 at her first letter, and see if it was not on artists.) " Not I for one 
 for I searched every column of every newspaper in New York but no 
 critique could I find, save and except one that bore not the slightest 
 trace of having been penned by your illustrious hand; and had not 
 my continued disappointments at length checked my extravagance, I 
 should have finished by making the fortune of every Editor in the city 
 
 8
 
 170 The Vagabond. 
 
 but supposing for the sake of the argument that you visited certain 
 studios and criticised certain pictures? what then? from your own 
 confession, which I have in print, you did this to please Norah" (could I 
 have had a better motive ?) " and not oh ! shame upon thee for a Vaga 
 bond" (she calls hard names, too, you perceive,) "not from the love of 
 Art. I appealed to you to encourage art for its own sake, not for 
 mine" (Oh I ! !) "and I did this because I believed you to be fully capa 
 ble of the task." (A little more truthful, just now.) " I imagined 
 you to possess not only the necessary perception of the beautiful" 
 (coming to her senses, rapidly,) "and I knew from experience that you 
 could boast the noble faculty of speaking honestly your honest opinions 
 therefore I wrote," (a good reason,) "but had I for a moment dreamed 
 that a few delicate flatteries and felicitious phrases I quote from a dis 
 tinguished personage who shall be nameless" (she means me) "could 
 have tempted you into flattering phrases in return, I never had ad 
 dressed you." (Don t believe it.) 
 
 Then she preaches through two or three pages of let 
 ter paper about the mission of art ; but after a while 
 gets personal again : 
 
 " You quietly insinuate that you know Norah, although to her you 
 are unknown. I deny both positions. I know the mask I wear is 
 impervious to even your sharp eyes," (now, I m near-sighted,) "and, 
 moreover, I intend that it shall remain so ! But I do not quietly in 
 sinuate that I know the Vagabond I boldly assert it ! and, further 
 more, that when in the gay saloon or crowded thoroughfare we meet, 
 I re-adjust my mask, wrap close round me my mantle of invisibility, 
 and pass on ! 
 
 "So, secure for the present in my cloak of mystery, I bid the 
 Vagabond adieu I and defy him !" 
 
 There s a modest conclusion for you. Defy ! pretty 
 language for a young woman ; for I m sure she s young. 
 About her knowing me I fancy she meets me in the 
 " crowded thoroughfare" oftener than in the " gay
 
 My Unknown Correspondents. 171 
 
 saloon." I confess I don t know her. She bade thrf 
 " Vagabond" adieu ! and in a fortnight I had another 
 letter, rather more civil than the last, in regard to which 
 I leave it to my readers to say whether it was not un 
 called for. Didn t I do just as she desired, and did I 
 deserve the storm of reproaches that she heaped on me? 
 Letter No. 3 ends thus : 
 
 "What subject do you next intend your fertile pen shall embellish? 
 I know one that you could dilate on admirably." (Ahem!) "Shall 
 I suggest it? Yes? Well then the characteristics of American 
 women as compared with those of other countries. Hundreds of 
 people have written upon this subject you will say, and I agree but 
 then a greater number have written art criticisms and yet you per 
 ceive," (Rather prettily put, that ; the implied praise is so delicate ;) 
 "so I shall wait for the article, whether in vain or not the future must 
 determine. I intended writing you an interesting letter and feel the 
 pleasant consciousness of having failed, most lamentably sometimes 
 words will not come at my bidding, at another time my pen flows 
 smoothly as as the Vagabond s." 
 
 I admit she can turn a sentence neatly, and she cer 
 tainly has some discrimination. 
 
 Next came a letter on pink paper, some time in June ; 
 twas just after I had discoursed about parties, and my 
 unknown friend was angry because I defended small talk. 
 She wrote better, and I imagine knows more, about pic 
 tures than parties. I burnt the letter ; it contained no 
 felicitous phraseology. The last communication came 
 upon me after I had written about American belles. 
 Norah seems to have an ideal of a belle, but the dear 
 creature forgets how different the ideal is from the real : 
 
 "I had not intended writing to you again, and notwithstanding 
 your last clever article upon Art matters, had thus far bravely kept
 
 172 The Vagabond. 
 
 my resolution. Now, however, I have before me your last letter and 
 after perusing it my indignation is so intense that I cannot if I would 
 be silent. If you write snappishly or spitefully / It would be more 
 to the purpose if j r ou had said ungenerously and untruly pardon my 
 discourtesy, oh ! most courteous of Vagabonds 1 but I repeat it untruly. 
 If an American belle is the creature you describe her then do I most 
 devoutly thank Fortune that I am not the one, and that never in my 
 wildest or vainest moods have I aspired to be the other." (Norah s 
 rhetoric is evidently injured by the violence of her sentiments.) 
 
 " Yet I, too, love to look at a beautiful girl and can truly admire a 
 brilliant one ; and she to whom nature has given beauty and refine, 
 ment, whose education has been such as to heighten and polish every 
 natural gift, who can be grave or merry, earnest or playful as the 
 occasion may require ; can combine wit with delicacy ; and who even 
 in the most thoughtless moments forgets not her proper attribute of 
 womanliness ; who never let the temptation be what it may o ersteps 
 the boundary line between brilliancy and boldness, and who utterly 
 abhors as should every woman, particularly when applied to her own 
 sex that hateful word fast why such a one deserves to reign a very 
 Queen among women and to look upon all mankind as her most devo 
 ted slaves." 
 
 Quite eloquent, Miss Norah ; but proving that your 
 ideas of society and belles are formed from books and 
 your own fancy, not from contact with the originals ; 
 your picture is no type. 
 
 Doubtless I shall be inundated with letters next week ; 
 but I warn the dear creatures who expect to see them 
 selves in print, that unless they are as clever as Norah, 
 their expectations will be disappointed. And Norah 
 must not be too furious at my liberties : she insists that 
 I don t know her, so they are not liberties. She assumes 
 to rate me for my follies : eh Men ! I don t pretend to 
 be free from follies ; only it is usual in this world to dis 
 cuss your acquaintance when their backs are turned. If
 
 My Unknown Correspondents. 173 
 
 you do otherwise you take the consequences. I have 
 another batch of letters from another fair one, who is 
 even more pungent and decidedly better-natured than 
 Norah; perhaps some fine morning I may open my 
 budget again.
 
 THE COUNTRY, 
 
 A babbled of green fields." 
 
 Henry V. 
 
 AND what should set one to babbling of green fields if 
 not the heats of July ? What should incline the swelter 
 ing denizen of the hot city to dream of thick shades and 
 overhanging branches, of running streams and rustling 
 gales, if not the blazing of the dog star and the sun 
 that shimmers down so fiercely on streets and paving- 
 stones? I know, indeed, that banished Bolingbroke cried 
 out when John of Gaunt would have consoled him, he 
 could not hold a fire in his hand by thinking of the 
 frosty Caucasus : but is it always so, that apprehension 
 of the good gives but the greater feeling to the worse ? 
 I fancy myself cooler as I recollect my bath of yester 
 day. 
 
 Not a bath in a tub, just my own length, and without 
 room to turn over in, but a bath in the never-ceasing 
 flow of a mighty river, whose tides daily and nightly 
 are replenished from the inexhaustible ocean, and whose 
 invigorating waves are fragrant and briny with the salt 
 of the sea. After I reach a white, hard beach of sand, 
 skirted by a wood and fringed with rocks, sufficiently 
 secluded to allow an absolute return to the garb of 
 Eden, or the nudity of a Grecian statue, " sans every-
 
 The Country. 175 
 
 tiling," while I stand under the partial shelter of an 
 ancient elm, and unrobe my heated limbs, how deli- 
 ciously the breeze, gentle, almost imperceptible, but still 
 delicious, dries up the dripping beads that course over 
 my body ! And then, alone with my shadow, and bare 
 as at my birth, to walk out to the line whither the tenth 
 wave comes, and let the water from frosty Greenland 
 wet my feet, or the foam of a tide, borne perhaps from 
 the South Pacific, dash against my legs ! After standing 
 a moment, gazing at the white caps and dancing feathers 
 of the heaving, restless river, I plunge into a billow 
 larger than the rest, and am enveloped in coolness as in 
 a garment. I think of Undine, and reach out my arms 
 to embrace a water-nymph. I wonder not that the old 
 Xorsemen were so often beguiled by dripping mermaids. 
 I look down into the green, glassy depths, and expect to 
 see the outskirts of a coral grove, or hear a song wafted 
 upwards from the sea king s palace ; and rolling, turn 
 ing, over and over, round and round, in the liquid ele 
 ment, I fancy I feel the metamorphosis begin I am my 
 self becoming a sprite. 
 
 I am borne along over the surface, or just beneath it, 
 gliding gently, but finding the motion at once exhila 
 rating and voluptuous ; a tingling sensation of pleasure 
 extends along my whole frame. I arn stronger for the 
 exercise, and dash out faster ; I get bolder as I swim, 
 and stretch my feet towards the shore. I turn upon my 
 back, and folding my arms, float for a while, looking up 
 into the blue sky, and fancy myself suspended in mid 
 air, almost immaterial, almost flying. A moment ago, 
 speeding along through the water like a dolphin, or a 
 sea god in chase of a nymph, full of life, and my blood
 
 176 The Vagabond. 
 
 coursing quickly, though coolly, through my veins ; now 
 lying in one element and gazing into another, languidly, 
 or at least luxuriously, borne on by the current. I think 
 of Egeria, and Neptune, and Arethusa, and all the beau 
 tiful mythology of the sea, so much more exquisite, so 
 much more vraisemblable than fairy lore of the land. I, 
 remember Teverino taken for a faun, and as I look at 
 my own limbs, wonder whether I too might become a 
 model. I never thought the human form so beautiful 
 before; I never thought myself a faun on shore; bat 
 now I am no longer surprised that Adam and Eve went 
 naked in the garden. I agree with the old Greeks and 
 Winckelman, that nude statues only are tolerable. 
 
 A companion joins me in my frolic, and we return 
 towards the shore ; then standing, half-covered by the 
 tide, splash each other with storms of spray. A mimic 
 battle ensues, till blinded by the snoAvy shower, each 
 turns his back on the foe. We wrestle in the yielding 
 element ; we call ourselves gymnasts of Spartan breed, 
 or emulous of Olympic combatants, toss each other, and 
 race, in the wave. 
 
 Think of all this, ye that endeavor to stretch your 
 cramped limbs, and strike them against the tinned sides 
 of a bath-tub ! How much poetry will recur to you as 
 you squeeze the sponge over your shoulders ? Will you 
 think of the ocean s mane, or the* story of Leander, as 
 you turn off the stop-cock ? And you that bathe pro 
 perly at Newport or Long Branch, wrapped up in robes, 
 whose attire clings so becomingly to your forms, and 
 allows such facility of motion to your encumbered 
 limbs ; who get the delightful sensation of moist gar 
 ments, and keep off the damp sea from too close con-
 
 The Country. 177 
 
 tact with the heated frame, you envy not my primitive 
 fashion, I suppose. 
 
 After the bath, a country ramble, across meadows 
 and through marshes, hunting turtles and gathering 
 blackberries, pricking your fingers and staining your 
 faces, muddying your boots and tearing your trousers. 
 * Xone of your formal promenading here. Leave that 
 for Broadway or Saratoga ; we are far enough from 
 either. Away from the road, with no danger of meet 
 ing a fine carriage full of fine people, whp would stare, 
 perhaps, at our plight ; away from farm houses, and 
 louts who would bellow to us to get out of that corn, 
 or off of those potatoes, we rambled. Into the woods 
 and among the underbrush ; on the border of a stream 
 whose tinkle we heard in the high grass ; trampling the 
 blue flags and splashing among the bull-frogs ; every 
 now and then frightening a bird from its haunt in the 
 reeds, or getting frightened ourselves at a sudden frisk 
 of a grasshopper, as he came plump in our faces. Now 
 we can scarcely make our way through the thick growth 
 of shrubs ; the branches fly back in our eyes ; the grass 
 is higher than our heads, and here we go, knee-keep in 
 the marsh; we must be near the stream. We stand 
 still to listen ; the crows caw, and the blackbirds whistle, 
 and the frogs croak, and the grasshoppers sing, and the 
 wind rustles so that we can scarcely catch the purling 
 sound; but at last my ear distinguishes the clear sweet 
 ripple, and in a minute more we have found the daik 
 waters of the brook. 
 
 A drink, of course ; and lying flat on the earth, we 
 lap up the cool water, and moisten our faces, and look 
 in the mirror that Indian girls use, and wonder who
 
 178 The Vagabond. 
 
 would recognise the sun-burnt, smeared visages there 
 reflected for habitues of the town. I am not an angler, 
 or I might have emulated old Isaac Walton for a while ; 
 but fishing is too calm a pleasure for me. The tramp, 
 and the woods, and the stream, and all the accessories 
 I relish well enough, but not quietly waiting an. hour for 
 a nibble. Besides, my pole always breaks, and my line 
 is sure to get entangled in the branches, and I never 
 drop it in the right place, and I can never get the right 
 bait, and the fish will never bite. So I would rather 
 stroll till I am tired, and then fling myself down on the 
 green bank-side, and watch the stream as it glides or 
 rolls along ; sometimes turning over towards an opening 
 in the trees and gazing at a distant hill-top, more often 
 looking straight up into the branches, and counting the 
 leaves, and tracing the form of the tree through the 
 foliage, or noting the delicate harmonies of color the 
 sad shading of the bark, the rich tint of the leaves, and 
 the exquisite effect produced when a breeze sets all the 
 gentle things in motion and shakes light and color down 
 on me. 
 
 Then, too, I have a fancy for lying face downwards ; 
 for making acquaintance with the inhabitants of the 
 grass ; for watching the ants travel through the moss, 
 and the beetles cross continents of sand. I peer right 
 down into the mysteries of the little world ; never car 
 ing for bites and stings that punish my curiosity, heed 
 less of the swarms of black, and green, and yellow, and 
 red dwarfs that get on my face and swarm on my body, 
 Lilliputians on Gulliver. How busy the creatures are, 
 to be sure ! The broad sun that burns me doesn t dis 
 turb them ; the thick shade of a leaf, or the reflection
 
 The Country. 179 
 
 of a mighty spire of grass protects a whole colony of 
 insects. 
 
 " And whither fly the gnats but to the sun ?" 
 
 Shakspeare has lain in the grass as well as I. 
 
 But we have lounged lazily here long enough : I must 
 find one other spot ere we return. We follow the 
 stream, sometimes on its brink, and quite as often in its 
 bed : for of all things I do like to get my feet wet, to 
 splash right in the waters of the current. I retain a 
 vivid recollection of the whippings I got as a boy for 
 this very thing, and the charm hasn t worn away yet. 
 I dashed in yesterday with as much glee as if I expected 
 to be spanked when I got home. Up the stream then, 
 to a mimic falls, where the brook widens and divides ; 
 where an island of rocks deepens the channel, and a tiny 
 cataract eddies and foams and gurgles in the prettiest 
 way imaginable. The trees meet overhead, the shade is 
 thick, and only glimpses here and there of blue sky can 
 be got ; only here and there a ray of the broad sunlight 
 fleckers the wave and makes it seem to dance more mer 
 rily. The water must be two or three feet deep and 
 nearly as wide ; it quite rages in one particular place, 
 and just here is a broad, flat rock, where I have sat 
 many a time, a truant, and dabbled in the whirlpool, 
 and listened to the screaming raven that had a nook 
 hard by. How glad I was to find the charm not broken ; 
 the spot is as cool, the trees as tall, the water as clear as 
 ten years ago. I have seen Niagara and St. Anthony, 
 the St. Lawrence and the Ohio, since I used to wonder 
 at the Little Falls, but I liked them as well as ever yes 
 terday.
 
 THE WATERING-PLACES. 
 
 " Art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too !" 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 A VAGABOND may go to Saratoga, I suppose. He 
 may drive, and driiik the waters, may he not ? He may 
 bathe at Newport, and dance ; and he may like all this 
 better than those who are constantly telling how stupid 
 are the watering-places, how insipid the people, how 
 senseless the modes of passing the time. True, indeed, 
 you must dress in the morning, and you must dress (at 
 Newport) for the bath, and again after it ; and you must 
 dress for dinner, and again for the drive, and again for 
 the evening. True, you will be bored by stupid and 
 vulgar people, who go to the watering-places as they 
 go everywhere else. I have no doubt there will be some 
 in heaven ; but would you stay away on that account ? 
 True, you are incessantly annoyed by the consciousness 
 of suffering unconscionable extortions ; you are handed 
 over to Morris if you want a seat at the grand dinner, 
 and after you have bargained with him to his heart s 
 content, you walk in and expect to be supplied. Ah ! 
 ignorant, innocent one ! where ignorance is not bliss, 
 what then ? Why, make haste to hand Boston that 
 indifferent black behind your chair, who hears you not 
 and sees you not, though in such close propinquity
 
 The Watering-places. 181 
 
 make haste, I say, to hand him what shall open his eyes 
 and unstop his ears ; or else you will be calling for soup 
 when your neighbors have finished their Charlotte 
 Russe. All this is vexatious, I admit. 
 
 Then, too, you have other sufferings at the watering- 
 places : you are cooped up in a room not so large as you 
 hope your coffin will be ; your accommodations, if you 
 are a single Vagabond, are of the most peculiarly lim 
 ited description ; your washstand primitive in its form ; 
 your bed but ask me not to describe its Procrustean 
 horrors. You are colonized, perhaps ; sent off to sleep 
 far away from your hotel, and compelled four or five 
 times a day to run the gauntlet of innumerable eyes as 
 you pass to the colony, before the luckier ones, who only 
 mount a few stories when they want to dress. If you 
 dislike dancing and gaiety ; if you have a horror of pretty 
 women and crinoline; if you are a misanthrope come to 
 drink the waters, and incensed at your happy fellow 
 creatures who have no need to drink them ; if you are 
 suffering from the gout, or some other complaint brought 
 on by the excess of those pleasures which the young and 
 gay are now sharing around you ; of course all this life 
 and excitement, this constant change, this amusement, 
 annoys you, adds to your misery. The music of Munck 
 or the Germania band grates on your ears ; the sight of 
 the colonnade at the United States after dinner is a 
 positive pandemonium to you ; and you wish all those 
 fools who bathe might be drowned, all those healthy 
 creatures who drink the waters might be poisoned. 
 
 But no such testy old curmudgeon reads the Vaga 
 bond s papers ; if any ever took one up, he quickly threw 
 it down again, exclaiming "The forward youngster! the
 
 182 The Vagabond. 
 
 foolish ignoramus !" The Vagabond writes not for those 
 who see the world through the glasses that discolor and 
 distort : the Vagabond, mayhap, looks with no certain 
 vision or correct gaze, but he sees such beautiful sights 
 that he would not exchange his eyes, imperfect though 
 they be, for the experienced ones of any grumbler in 
 Christendom. The Vagabond sees as the young see ; 
 he knows that thousands of others are in his company ; 
 that a goodly number feel with him, think with him, en 
 joy with him ; are enthusiastic and eager, foolish and 
 fickle, it may be, but they enjoy themselves ; they are 
 a class, and why not write for them ? Anacreon cele 
 brated the praises of the vine for the devotees of Bac 
 chus ; Sappho sang of love and had her audience : have 
 not the young also a right to a priest ? Shah 1 I not 
 chronicle their our fancies ? 
 
 The young enjoy Saratoga. The Vagabond enjoys 
 Saratoga. He can appreciate all the discomforts and 
 yet forget them ; he can admit that the pleasures coun 
 terbalance. And is there really nothing to be said for 
 the delicious far niente ? Is it not delightful to sit on 
 the wide piazzas after dinner, and watch the brilliant, 
 sauntering crowd, timing their talk and their walk to the 
 strains of "Lucia" or "Ernani ?" Is there no pleasure in 
 a stroll under the old elms down to the springs, beside 
 some charmer without a bonnet ? Is there nothing to 
 be said of the exhilarating effect of the waters ; nothing 
 for the drive to the lake ; nothing for the dinners on 
 its banks, and the sails on its bosom ? Is there no plea 
 sure in meeting friends from all parts of the country ; in 
 joining the brilliant throng after nightfall ; in pacing up 
 and down with Norah by moonlight in the long corri-
 
 The Watering-places. 183 
 
 dor, looking on at the quadrille, or even, ye gods ! 
 sharing the polka with Fanny ? 
 
 And the early morning hour ! meeting X. at the 
 springs before breakfast, while the band is playing ; 
 watching her in that exquisite morning costume, a 
 piece of good fortune you don t often enjoy in town ; 
 and if you will, quizzing your acquaintances as they 
 make wry faces over the thirteenth glass. The varied 
 characters and appeactfhce of this little world, make one 
 feel like a cosmopolite. The hobblilig old man, the gay 
 ambassador, the stately general, the plain ex-President, 
 the brilliant belle, the fashionable Fitz Frivol, the grave 
 clergyman from the Union Hall, the weak invalid, the 
 boisterous, fast young man surely there is a pleasure 
 to be gleaned in watching all these phases of society. 
 
 Another phase not many have watched, I fancy : not 
 many have gone to the springs in the evening, when the 
 ladies maids drink the water. It is delightful to see 
 the Abigails promenade down the hill. As their mis 
 tresses wear no bonnets at Saratoga, the servants are 
 of course in the mode ; they have thrown their coarse 
 shawls over their shoulders in humble imitation of that 
 graceful negligence which was so irresistible in the 
 morning; and, indeed, I saw more than one elegant 
 lace that I had worshipped because it enveloped the 
 form of some Norah or Fanny, wound around a great, 
 coarse creature later in the day. Then they play off 
 their airs at second-hand in the most amusing manner ; 
 they inquire how their friends are affected by the 
 waters ; they ask how you like the hotel ; whether you 
 prefer Saratoga to Newport, and exclaim how dull are 
 all the watering-places this year.
 
 184 The Vagabond. 
 
 Newport has delights all its own : the magnificent 
 drives and the invigorating, exhilarating bath. One of 
 the oddest sights in the world is the crowd assembled 
 daily on the Newport beach to bathe. First, there is 
 the long, hard, smooth beach, with the great, green 
 waves rolling mightily up, and breaking in a line of 
 surf on its edge ; there is the distant reach of the sea, 
 and the fresh breeze cooling you on the hottest of 
 August mornings. In the back-ground, the row of 
 quaint little bathing-houses, as small as the prison cells 
 at Auburn or Sing-Sing. Into these enter the gay 
 children of fashion, sometimes bedight with care, and 
 gather up their extended robes as they crowd through 
 the narrow door, or stoop their lofty heads for luck ; 
 and save a few stragglers or lookers on, the beach is 
 nearly bare, for a while. One, here and there, more 
 expeditious than the others, first peeps out, and finally 
 ventures forth from the chrysalis ; but the brilliant but 
 terfly is gone, and a thin, lank figure, ridiculously clad, 
 scarcely reminds us of the elegant creature that disap 
 peared so short a while ago. While we are wondering 
 and laughing at the metamorphosis, a whole troop sal 
 lies forth, looking as wild and uncouth as Indians ; 
 bare-footed (delicate, tiny, white feet you can see, if 
 you look sharp), bare-headed, or else with the oddest 
 of straw hats tied down in the oddest of fashions, and 
 such robes! Turkish trousers and Spanish doublet, a 
 cosmopolitan costume. You can scarcely tell a man 
 from a woman ; you can scarcely distinguish your 
 acquaintances. You cannot find the graceful charmer 
 who was to be your partner in the bath ! Ah ! here she 
 comes, shambling along ; her eyes, however, sparkle as
 
 The Watering-places. 185 
 
 brightly as ever; you would know her anywhere by 
 them ; and taking her hand (how soft it is, to be sure, 
 and how tight you may hold it now), you run together 
 into the sea. 
 
 But we are to be lookers-on to-day ; we are to notice 
 the comical figures of our friends as they rush in and 
 out ; the ungainly attempts at dignity of some in their 
 unwonted costume; the gleesome, childish folly, and 
 frolic of the others. We are to hear the laughing tones, 
 the occasional whoop of fun, the scream of. half-felt ter 
 ror from some timorous maiden, as her lusty lover 
 plunges the little head into the tenth wave. We are 
 to watch the sports till the bathers are tired, and then 
 we have a sport of our own. It was funny to see 
 them go in ; to notice the attempts at finery and the 
 fanciful dresses ; the pink trimmings and the blue bind 
 ings. But what is it to see them come out ? Their 
 dark, dripping garments clinging close to the form, re 
 vealing every outline, and that not gracefully ; their 
 hats broken, and their hair, mayhap, dishevelled ; their 
 feet tender and tripping, and they conscious of the sorry 
 sight they present, yet not more than half ashamed ; too 
 busy laughing at each other to care for themselves, they 
 run up hastily to their little dens. One or two fat old 
 dowagers endeavor to stalk statelily, but, unluckily, 
 waddle instead. One or two incorrigibly vain maidens 
 endeavor to pull out the wet trousers from their legs, 
 and spread the scant allowance of skirt into an imitation 
 of crinoline ; but they only make themselves more ridi 
 culous. The best way is to accept the unavoidable evil, 
 and laugh at it. You are ridiculous in bathing costume, 
 certainly. If you are as graceful as a houri, or as finely
 
 i86 The Vagabond. 
 
 formed as Apollo, your grace and beauty are effectually 
 concealed. 
 
 The bath is fine while you are in the water, but 
 marvellously relaxing in its effect afterwards. You 
 are fain to drive to your hotel ; you hurry to your 
 chamber, and order a strengthening draught. They 
 say the most delicate females feel the need of a restora 
 tive, and the glasses clink for an hour along the passages ; 
 and then all the world sleeps till it is time to dress for 
 dinner. Two or three lounge into the bowling-alleys, or 
 practise in the pistol-gallery ; but most prefer to recruit 
 themselves for the after fatigues and pleasures of the day. 
 
 The drive. How can I describe the drive ! The proces 
 sion of carriages filled with gay and beautiful faces, 
 recruited from each hotel, winds along, it may be to the 
 old fort, to listen to the music, or to Bateman s, to look at 
 the sea. The drive to Baternan s is one of the most magni 
 ficent I ever enjoyed. The sea views are superb, and the 
 air so invigorating, the roll of the waves so musical, the 
 glance at the white, tossing crests so inspiring, that I won 
 der not it is a favorite. The horses, too, leel the influence, 
 and prance, and trot or run more eagerly ; the ladies 
 glance more brightly, and smile and bow more gra 
 ciously ; the sun sets more brilliantly than elsewhere. 
 And you will tell me tis all stupid frivolity, this enjoy 
 ment ; that those who best know how to enjoy themselves 
 are mistaken ; that those who make pleasure the study 
 and business of their lives, do not know ; that the distin 
 guished and cultured people who for years have resorted 
 to watering-places are all fools; that Ems and Baden- 
 Baden, and Nassau too, afford no delight ; that Saratoga 
 and Newport are only fit for vagabonds. Perhaps tis so.
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 " That s the scene that I would see." 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 I RECOLLECT once watching a distinguished historian 
 peep through the crevices in his stage-box, poke his fin 
 gers into a hole in the wall, and spend nearly the entire 
 act of a play in vain endeavors to peer behind the 
 scenes. He took off his gloves, he tried opera-glass and 
 eye-glass, he was as persevering as Robert Bruce, or his 
 spider, but less fortunate, and at last was fain to content 
 himself with the performance on the stage. And who, 
 like the historian, has not longed to penetrate the mys 
 teries of that hidden world ? Who has not been curi 
 ous about the coulisses f Who has not wondered what 
 they do in the green-room and at rehearsal ? The plays 
 that pretend to give pictures of an actor s life are always 
 popular; the novels that treat of similar subjects are 
 sure to be read. The success of Peg Woffington was half 
 attributable to its vivid descriptions of the demi-monde. 
 And how delighted we all were to see Rachel in "Adrienne 
 Lecouvreur," studying her part of Roxane. To be sure 
 Pendennis got disenchanted when he met the Fotherin- 
 gay off the stage, and George Sand describes a theatre 
 by daylight as the most doleful of places : I never shall 
 forget the dismal impression I got from reading the
 
 i88 The Vagabond. 
 
 pages in "Consuelo," where the Berlin theatre is so 
 grimly portrayed. But the reality is not so bad. Ask 
 Wilhelm Meister. 
 
 The first time I ever was behind the scenes was at the 
 old Vauxhall Gardens, years ago. A party of us boys 
 got on the stage by day, and without the knowledge of 
 the attendants; it was late in the afternoon, rehearsal 
 was over, and nobody there. We rummaged the property- 
 room, we discovered the theatrical wardrobe, we han 
 dled the pulleys, and finally raised the curtain and acted 
 a play. It was glorious sport ; I remember looking out 
 of a stage balcony, and spouting verses to one of my 
 comrades beneath ; I remember wearing a great wig 
 and a sword, and that some of us were mufiied in ermine 
 robes, and stalked majestically across the boards only 
 my sword would get between my legs, and my fellow 
 nearly broke his neck by falling through a trap-door. 
 We especially liked to change the scenes ; the promp 
 ter s bell rang every two or three minutes, and the 
 curtain rose and fell amazingly often. Finally, we got 
 more perfect in our parts, and determined to have an 
 overture performed; so one of us jumped into the 
 orchestra, and found some instruments left there. The 
 next thing I remember was an alarm that the usher was 
 coming, " for he heard the loud bassoon," and we scam 
 pered away without regard to stage directions, or exits 
 to the right. We stood not upon the order of our 
 going; but went at once. My hiding-place was in a 
 barrel, prepared for the farce that night, and when I 
 emerged I was blacker than soot. However, the usher did 
 not discover our retreats, so we lay quiet until dark, and 
 then ran home. That very night I sat in front, and how
 
 Behind the Scenes. 189 
 
 strangely familiar everything looked to me, who had 
 been initiated. I wondered no longer at the apparitions, 
 and was particularly indifferent to the balcony scene ; I 
 recognised our ermine on the stage king, and thought of 
 the trap-doors as he strode so bravely on. 
 
 That adventure, however, was soon forgotten ; I had 
 not thought of it in a dozen years till I sat down to 
 write this paper. The next time I went into the cou 
 lisses was under very different circumstances. It was at 
 night ; the play was on ; I stood in the wings, among 
 the scene-shifters and supernumeraries, the managers, 
 and prompters, and call-boys all huddled together in 
 strange confusion. Some were bedizened in theatrical 
 tinery, others clad in ordinary gear ; a noble in silk and 
 satin, and paste jewels, by the side of a workman with 
 his sleeves rolled up ; Pizarro talking with Mr. Smith, 
 and the principal actress scolding her waiting-maid. In 
 the midst of my conversation with an actor, he would 
 rush upon the stage, declaiming furiously, and, if the 
 scene was short, return and take up his last remark 
 exactly where it had been discontinued. What particu 
 larly amazed me was the indifference of the actors to 
 their parts. Poor innocent I, had imagined that they 
 were all so in earnest, so devoted to their art, so identi 
 fied with the characters they assumed, whereas they 
 never seemed to think of them a moment after they left 
 the stage. Before entering, they smoothed down their 
 finery as a peacock would his plumage, and got ready 
 for a stage strut ; but as for any thought of Sir Peter 
 Teazle or Claude Melnotte, in the wings, you might as 
 well look for it at a Methodist camp-meeting. They 
 would ask after brandy, or remark how poor the house
 
 190 The Vagabond. 
 
 was, or joke with the actresses, or swear at the scer.e- 
 shifters ; but the grace, or dignity, or fervor, so wonder 
 ful or winning when seen from the front, was not percep 
 tible behind the scenes. This is true, I suppose, of actors 
 generally. 
 
 But I have been with those who identified themselves 
 with their parts. I have been shown to my box by 
 Hamlet in all his trappings and suits of woe, and with 
 all the courteous and princely demeanor that became 
 the Dane. I have talked with Romeo in his dressing- 
 room, when he could not and did not divest himself of 
 his splendid manner or his intense feeling any more 
 than of his doublet and hose. When Macready played 
 Richelieu, he coughed and shambled as much off the 
 stage as on. The great tragic actors, too, are often 
 excessively exhausted after playing ; not only physically 
 fatigued, not only unable to rise without assistance, 
 after a fall or a death-scene, but intellectually wearied as 
 well. I have known them laid on a board panting and 
 perspiring for some minutes after a great point. Talma, 
 they say, had always to be wrapped in a cloak and car 
 ried from the theatre ; Mrs. Siddons would sob for an 
 hour after one of her great performances; and I have 
 been with some of these geniuses who were excessively 
 excited, as if by wine, for half the night, after the play. 
 The immense tax upon nerve and brain, as well as the 
 corporeal exertion necessary in the playing of great 
 parts, of course makes them strangely unlike the rest 
 of the world. 
 
 And how strange a thing it is, this genius ! You may 
 be talking all day with a man or woman, perhaps study 
 ing with them the very part they are to play at night,
 
 Behind the Scenes. 191 
 
 quarrelling over their readings, criticising their con 
 ceptions, and then go and see them transformed, cry 
 over the very line you thought they misapprehended, 
 shudder at the gesture you declared would be ridicu 
 lous, and applaud as vigorously as any one at the act 
 ing you contended against all day. There is no form in 
 which genius manifests itself so palpably as this of his 
 trionic sort ; there is no phase of humanity that is more 
 a mystery to me. What talent, or perseverance, or 
 study can accomplish is not wonderful, is at least com 
 prehensible. If you cannot do it yourself, you can 
 understand how it is done. But this marvellous inspira 
 tion that comes down on a man as suddenly and 
 strangely and unaccountably to the actor as to the 
 audience that transfigures him before your face, like 
 Rachel in " Polyeucte " or young Booth in " Richelieu" 
 this surpasses in strangeness any other gift vouchsafed to 
 the race. A man may write a poem, or paint a picture, 
 that shall move you as much or more than anything on 
 the stage ; but the palpable presence and influence of 
 genius are not so felt as when it works on the man him 
 self; when his own soul and body are his tools and his 
 material. Nothing in life or art strikes me as so 
 wonderful. 
 
 However, to go to rehearsal with these people who 
 get so inspired ; to watch Othello mumbling his part, or 
 Desdemona sitting down in a chair in the fifth act, and 
 saying in ordinary tones, "Oh! oh! oh!" these being 
 the rehearsal of her death groans ; this is not so wonder 
 ful. I was amazed, when I first went to a rehearsal, 
 that no more labor was bestowed on the business. I 
 went to the wings to see an actor whom I knew. He
 
 192 The Vagabond. 
 
 stood on the stage, talking with a well-dressed woman, 
 and I concluded not to approach him. He looked at 
 me and bowed, but did not offer to speak, and after a 
 while I discovered that he was rehearsing. It had not 
 occurred to me before. In the middle of a speech 
 from Shakspeare they interpolate directions to the other 
 players ; they stop short in some exquisite line to sug 
 gest an entrance from the left ; in fact, they rehearse 
 only the words and the positions. All the effects, all 
 the tones, the action, the facial expression is omitted, or 
 slurred over; the dead words are recited without a 
 particle of feeling, and the positions, where two or 
 more actors are concerned, are gone through with. If 
 a star is rehearsing, he gives his orders how he shall be 
 supported, tells this poor devil when to approach and 
 when to go, the other subordinates how to emphasize 
 that line, so that star may not lose his point, and 
 arranges matters generally so as to suit himself, and pro 
 duce the greatest effect; which is all very proper, but 
 cannot be extremely agreeable to the second-rate people, 
 as they may be supposed to have sensibilities, if not 
 position or talent. 
 
 In the middle of a scene, the cue will be given for 
 an actor not on the stage, and you hear the call-boy 
 shout" Othello ! Othello !" Othello may be in front 
 talking with his friend, and clambers over the orchestra 
 up to his place ; and in Othello this is forgiven ; but if 
 Cassio should attempt an improper entrance, he is sent 
 back to the other side of the stage. Then DeSdemona 
 cannot be found, and the last speaker repeats his cue 
 half a dozen times, while the call-boy looks for the 
 gentle Desdemona, and she comes hurriedly on without
 
 Behind the Scenes. 
 
 the handkerchief. If we stay for the farce, we shall see 
 the stage manager paying more attention ; he has to be 
 civil to the stars ; he cannot interrupt them when their 
 readings do not suit him, but he revenges himself upon 
 the stock company. He snubs the pretty little waiting- 
 maids, and orders about the Boxes and Coxes in grandi 
 loquent style. These receive his directions with pro 
 found submission and contempt. The ballet-girls 
 rehearse too : they lean against the wings and stick up 
 their legs, and you wonder where is the grace that brings 
 down the house in the evening. Opera rehearsals, 
 many of my readers have attended ; and Philharmonic 
 rehearsals, who does not know of them? They are 
 not so piquant, though perhaps as interesting, as a visit 
 behind the scenes.
 
 LAKE GEORGE. 
 
 " Let his silver water 
 Keep a peaceful progress." 
 
 King John. 
 
 To be sure, the Howadji has discoursed eloquently 
 of Lake George ; to be sure, others have written 
 about its beauties, and the magazines have furnished 
 historical and pictorial information concerning Tea Island 
 and Ticonderoga : what need, indeed, for me to inflict 
 my fancies on those who look for 
 
 "Something new and strange." 
 
 But, Lake George is new to me. Its enchanting love 
 liness first broke upon my eyes last week ; I then first 
 sailed on its placid waters, and watched the shadows as 
 they fell upon its softened hills ; I last week first clam 
 bered over the gentle slopes along its sides, and rambled 
 around the still recesses of its clustering islands ; by the 
 brink of the cascades that fall into its bosom, and 
 through the cool thickets, where I could gaze my fill at 
 the witching and varying charms of nature in her most de 
 lightful garb. Why, then, should I not tell how drunk 
 I got with beauty ? Why should I not revive to those 
 familiar with the effects of clouds, and hills, and sun 
 shine, and moonlight, and clear water, and sparkling 
 waves and mirrored groves, as they are all blended in
 
 Lake George. 
 
 Lake George ; why should I not endeavor to recall to 
 them arid me the charms so fresh and so enchanting ? 
 Why should I not essay to picture to those who have 
 not yet been gladdened by the delicious beauty of Hori- 
 con, the peculiarities that make it a spot unequalled in 
 the New World ? Then, too, all things beautiful and 
 fair are ever young, are always new ; we never tire of 
 scenes familiar to us from childhood, if they possess a 
 real loveliness. And nature conies to us in so many 
 moods, under such various aspects, that it is sometimes 
 worth while to know how she affects another mind. 
 When one is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of a 
 landscape, the earliest impression quite subsides ; the 
 charm of novelty is gone, and in its stead that of friend 
 ship and intimacy is substituted ; we are won by another 
 guise than that by which we first were wooed. Let me 
 then tell how the loveliest spot in America first im 
 pressed the Vagabond. 
 
 And first, I have never been abroad. I know of Como 
 and Geneva, only by description, by pictures and by 
 imagination. I have fancied for myself a lake in Italy, 
 from hearing Claude Melnotte s exquisite story, as who 
 has not ? I have studied prints of those Swiss views, 
 till I almost know them. I am sure I shall greet Mont 
 Blanc and Luzerne as old acquaintances. Byron has 
 made me familiar with the monarch of mountains, and 
 lovely women have told me tales of embosomed lakes and 
 towering hills, of picturesque towns and crumbling ruins 
 on their sides, that with the charm of such association 
 have become indelible in memory. Indeed, my recollec 
 tions of Lake George are firmly fixed, if only because 
 I heard an accomplished and beautiful creature recite
 
 196 The Vagabond. 
 
 "Manfred," as we sailed together on its bosom, and 
 compare the Highlands and Bolton with the hills around 
 Geneva, Nature showered all delights on lucky me ; 
 and I, perhaps, am not a fair judge of the beauties of 
 Lake George : a tamer spot would have seemed superla 
 tive. Still, others agree in remembering its charms ; 
 only, if one wants to see it to the best advantage, he 
 should be so fortunate as to go thither in company with 
 those whose society and sympathy add a new zest to the 
 highest pleasure. 
 
 To one, then, who has no memories of Europe, but 
 who has seen most that America claims of lovely or 
 grand, Lake George seems lovelier, and if not grander, 
 more absolutely natural than all besides. The natural 
 ness is as great a charm to me as the surpassing beauty. 
 I hate your village scenery ; I like nature unadorned. 
 These detestable cottages and aspiring towns that infest 
 all beautiful spots ; these intrusions of man into the 
 sacred places of nature Actreon ever in Diana s bathing- 
 place this thrusting of vulgar shops and hideous houses 
 into the wildest recesses and most secluded groves, I 
 cannot abide. I want either town or country ; the ab 
 solute, crowded excitement of a great city, or the pri 
 vacy of woods and streams. Cultivated scenery has no 
 charm for me ; farming countries and grazing countries, 
 nicely-painted barns and wells, crowing cocks and grunt 
 ing pigs I leave for those who affect domesticity ; who 
 like Herring s pictures of farming life. I cannot away 
 with them. I want groves which you can fancy the 
 dryads of antiquity would love to haunt ; streams that 
 you look into in search of Arethusa ; spots where Tita- 
 nia and Puck may come upon you unawares ; river-sides
 
 Lake George. }gj 
 
 where the culprit fay might strive to catch the drop 
 as it falls from the leaping sturgeon. And such a spot 
 is Lake George. When you glide over its waters, into 
 some nook that reminds you of Virgil s exquisite 
 
 "Est in secessulongo," 
 
 or peep between branches where the Mohicans would 
 still find themselves at home, and where indeed the tra 
 ditions of the red men yet linger, you can throw aside 
 all thoughts of the outer world. ~No curling smoke re 
 minds you of culinary proceedings ; no glaring, white 
 washed boards recall petty village scandal ; no aping, 
 gothic turret bespeaks the bad taste of aspiring citizens. 
 You may sail between the islands, looking down into 
 the clear water of the lake, and watch the fishes as they 
 chase each other far below, or, mayhap, catch glimpses 
 of the pebbly bottom ; you may gaze at the sky and 
 banks reflected there, or looking upwards, watch the 
 fleecy clouds lazily lingering on the mountain summit, 
 or rolling serenely along in the higher ether. I was 
 struck with the important part that clouds and sky bear 
 in a landscape. You never picture to yourself a beau 
 tiful or awful scene without imagining the firmament ; 
 you never gaze, especially at a distant view, without 
 taking in as much of heaven as earth. Not only do the 
 shadows flecker the hillsides, and soften the outlines, 
 and vary the effect ; not only do the clouds descend to 
 the heaving bosom of earth as she holds it up to the 
 sun ; not only are the blue ether and the white heaped 
 up cumuli reflected in the mirroring lake ; but the sky 
 itself, with the varying shades of rain cloud and fine 
 cirri, the big, white billows of the cumulus, all enter
 
 198 The Vagabond. 
 
 into the composition of the scene. The peculiar effects 
 of morning and evening skies, the gorgeous tints of sun 
 rise and sunset, of course are as remarkable as any 
 beauties of the lower world. 
 
 All these I watched on Horicon. It rained one day 
 on the distant hills, and so shut out a portion of the 
 view ; but after a while, the soft grey curtain lifted, and 
 showed a green hill lighted up by sunshine, lying far 
 behind. A glimpse was all we caught, ere the cloud 
 descended, and we were ourselves enveloped. I sat on 
 the wide piazza, looking down the lake, to watch the 
 breaking up of the rain storm ; to count the peaks a 
 they came into view, seeming almost to descend to us out 
 of the clouds ; to get sight of a patch here and there 
 of woods, while all around was grey; to see the first 
 sunbeam strike the water, which gladly sparkled back in 
 recognition ; to follow with my eyes the storm as it 
 passed away, and left the surface of the lake glittering 
 with a purer brightness, the wooded hills clad in a fresher 
 green, the heavens refulgent with a clearer blue. 
 
 Ah, me! those rounded hills, that winding lake, those 
 dotting islands ! How can I imagine them ! I have said 
 nothing but what might be said of any lovely scene ; I 
 have given no idea of the enchanting loveliness of Lake 
 George. How can the fleeting beauties of clouds and 
 sky be caught and caged in words ? How can the 
 evanescent glories of morning and evening be painted 
 with pen or pencil ? How can the superlative grace, 
 the wild picturesqueness of the masterpiece of God be 
 described by a creature ? Man can only strive to ap 
 preciate. And yet, I cannot stop without again attempt 
 ing to say wherein consists the peculiar charm of this
 
 Lake George. 199 
 
 charming spot. Its entire naturalness I have already 
 adverted to : its fringed islands, scattered all around, and 
 taking every form, add vastly to the effect. They are 
 small and large, wooded and bare, rocky and plain ; 
 narrowing the channel at times ; again, one just dotting 
 the wide expanse. Some are covered to a considerable 
 height with thick woods ; some just crested with a sparser 
 foliage ; some so tiny, they were fit mooring for the 
 bark of Oberon ; others suggest the ambush of a dusky 
 tribe. Then the wonderful variety and exquisite forms 
 that the hills assume, coming down at times to the lake 
 abruptly, and shutting it in to a narrow gorge, through 
 which it winds almost like the Hudson at West Point ; 
 rising again to a lofty height away off in the distance, 
 and leaving the waters to spread out into a broader sheet. 
 Now softly moulded into forms that remind you of the 
 exquisite outlines of womanly grace, now jagged and 
 abrupt, but ever beauteous rather than grand. The pic- 
 turesqueness is always subdued into grace ; the wildness 
 is, if not tamed, yet softened. It is the wildness of an 
 Indian girl, fresh, exquisite in outline, charming in grace, 
 varying in expression and tender in everything ; not the 
 grandeur of a mountain, or a cataract, or a Mohican 
 chief. Rightly was it named Horicon the sparkling 
 water ; rightly was it called the Sacrament the sacred 
 lake; rightly do they baptize its jutting capes Sabbath 
 day ; the stillness and the glad sparkle combine to make 
 it a place for all pure and beautiful thoughts.
 
 THE HOWADJI. 
 
 " Respue, quod non es." 
 
 PEKSIUa 
 
 MOLIERE, you know, used to read his plays to his 
 housekeeper, and if she laughed at the " Precieuses 
 Ridicules" or "Le Medicin Malgre Lui," the great 
 comedian was satisfied. So I sometimes show the manu 
 script of a paper to a confidante (notice the final e) and 
 am sure to receive a sincere criticism. I told Confidante 
 I was going to write about the Howadji. Confidante 
 thought the subject was injudiciously chosen ; Vagabond 
 could not discover the injudiciousness: Confidante insisted 
 that the discussion would be too personal ; that I would 
 descant upon Mr. Curtis as a lecturer and a political 
 speaker, as well as a writer; that there had been no 
 recent event to render such a discussion timely ; that I 
 had no right to say anything about him except in his 
 literary character. Vagabond replied that Mr. Curtis s 
 entire public career was fairly open to comment ; that he 
 was a subject sure always to prove interesting; and that 
 he had within a short while afforded a topic of discussion 
 to the newspapers by his political address at a college 
 anniversary. Who was right Confidante or Vaga 
 bond ? 
 
 The admiration with which Mr. Curtis has been re-
 
 The Howadji. 201 
 
 garded by so many, has of late been diminished in certain 
 quarters. The detour he has made into the domain of 
 politics, has let slip the dogs of war upon him, and many 
 think havoc was not cried in vain. I do not, indeed, 
 consider his success entire in this new career. I heard 
 him speak in the political campaign, a year ago, more 
 than once or twice. I have read both of his scholarly 
 and exquisitely beautiful, but illogical and ill-timed 
 harangues before college societies ; and though I recog 
 nise sufficient evidence of a riper mind and a more 
 manly tone ; though the very thing that was previously 
 lacking in his efforts appears now to be infused into 
 them, a purpose and an aim ; yet so many tares are 
 mingled with the wheat, he seems to me to have done so 
 many of those things that he ought not to have done, 
 that the doing of those things he ought to have done 
 scarcely atones. I cannot congratulate him upon the 
 result of his political endeavors. The bad taste of 
 intruding his own notions and forcing his own doc 
 trines upon a mixed assembly, one anticipating a purely 
 literary entertainment, cannot be excused because of his 
 sincerity, or because of his belief in the importance of his 
 theme. Neither can his own eloquent apology be accept 
 ed. I remember very well to have read the opening of 
 his oration at Middleton till my blood tingled. I remem 
 ber to have felt all the force of his splendid illustrations 
 of the scholar s duty in a great crisis not to remain idle 
 or indifferent. I acknowledge the poetry of his thoughts, 
 the charm of his expressions, and the rich array of orna 
 ments with which he set them forth. But supposing 
 everything to have been as he claimed it ; supposing his 
 ideas on politics to have been correct, and admitting the
 
 2O2 The Vagabond. 
 
 force of his adjurations and illustrations, I could not dis 
 cover their pertinency. He proclaimed the scholar s 
 duty, but that duty was not to be performed in the 
 place and under the circumstances that Mr. Curtis 
 selected. All that he said would have been appropriate 
 at a political meeting, or in an assemblage of cultivated 
 men convened to discuss public matters, or anticipating 
 such an oration as Mr. Curtis delivered ; but, thrust 
 upon an audience to many of whom it might have proved 
 offensive, and to all of whom it must have been unex 
 pected, it was ill-timed, ill-judged, and inappropriate. 
 
 Neither do I think these efforts we*e successful, 
 regarded simply as political efforts. That their literary 
 merits are great is undoubted. They are finer written 
 than any other of Mr. Curtis s productions ; they con 
 tain passages full of genuine and tender feeling, and 
 exquisite in melody as the syllables of Italian poetry; 
 they are rich in beautiful thoughts, and overlaid with orna 
 ment ; at times indeed, rather profuse in embellishment, 
 and so exceedingly mellifluous that the sweetness cloys ; 
 at times so elaborate that the wealth of illustration seems 
 almost ostentatious ; but, on the whole, delightful com 
 positions until their author approaches the core of his 
 subject, until he attempts to deal with harsher matter 
 than is fit for his delicate handling. When he leaves his 
 rounded periods and historical allusions, when he gets 
 from Galileo and Milton, and summer skies, and flowers 
 and breezes, to political history and political economy, 
 he is not so successful. His mind is not logical ; he can 
 not make out his case; he cannot even make these heavier 
 matters interesting. I have read many a political dis 
 quisition, many of the speeches on both sides of last
 
 The Howadji. 203 
 
 year s campaign, many a newspaper article from the 
 Charleston Mercury or the New York Tribune, that was 
 vastly preferable to Mr. Curtis s attempts ; many an 
 effort from the hands of men greatly his inferiors in ele 
 gant culture or poetical fancy, that was more telling, 
 more convincing, more successful than the political 
 endeavors of the Howadji. His luxurious muse was 
 more at home lounging on the banks of the Nile, or 
 lotus-eating at the Catskills or Niagara. 
 
 Yet I own to have felt a warm glow at some of his 
 generous enthusiasm ; I believe him to have been very 
 much in earnest ; I appreciated his fervor, and acknow 
 ledge that he did, here and there, infuse some of it into 
 his orations ; but it was in those portions less distinctly 
 political ; it was when he could talk of Leonidas, or gild 
 his phrase with the pomp of rhetoric. 
 
 The Howadji has a youthful ardor which cannot fail 
 at times to stir the blood, but I do not think he possesses 
 the rarer power of reaching the heart. His eloquence 
 may in time be moulded into something like the per 
 fection of Mr. Everett s style, which is that of Thalberg 
 the most consummate art ; the very perfection of ela 
 boration ; the crowning elegance that Cicero attained in 
 his full and polished periods; but Mr. Everett, though 
 he is a prose poet, and pleases your fancy and tickles 
 your ear, though he delights your taste and satisfies 
 your intellect, never moves you, never comes near your 
 heart. Nor do I think Mr. Curtis will ever attain this 
 highest and last result of oratory. The way to the hearts 
 of men is known but to few ; it is never discovered by 
 research ; tis found by a clue that those who possess 
 may use, but never impart. So, with all the warmth
 
 204 The Vagabond. 
 
 of Mr. Curtis, with all his earnestness, greater now 
 than Everett s, he never seems to me to have hold of 
 this clue through the labyrinthine passages that lead to 
 the human heart. He seems not to possess genius. 
 
 His political speeches, made at mass meetings, were 
 not so fine as the more elaborate efforts I have spoken 
 of; they especially lack the Demosthenean vigor so ne 
 cessary on the hustings. He spoke often in covered 
 rooms and when the front seats were reserved for la 
 dies, and he could not always refrain from saying a word 
 or two for the ladies, whose especial favorite he is. His 
 arguments were either derived from analogy, or weak ; 
 his appeals invariably lacked force ; his highest sallies 
 failed of effect. He always spoke agreeably and some 
 times wittily, but too nicely for the occasion. Though 
 he evidently took great pains not to be fine, though he 
 tried hard to use cant terms and slang phrases,, they 
 would not come readily from his tongue ; he could not 
 speak the speech trippingly; he could not saw the air 
 with his hand thus; he could not split the ears of the 
 groundlings. And it is not only the groundlings who 
 want their ears split at a political meeting ; the best in 
 formed and the best cultured prefer a telling speech to 
 an elaborate one. Mr. Curtis knows this as well as any 
 one, and endeavored to conform himself to the require 
 ments of the situation ; but nature did not second his 
 endeavor. She had not intended him for this purpose, 
 and would not allow him to wrest himself from what she 
 designed ; so the Howadji did not succeed as a political 
 speaker. 
 
 His purely literary career has been often discussed ; 
 in parlors and libraries as often as in newspapers and
 
 The Howadji. 205 
 
 magazines. All the reading world has read the " Poti- 
 phar Papers " and the " Lotus Eating ;" all New York 
 and Boston, and I do not know how many other cities, 
 went to his lectures. I have recently read one or two of 
 his works again : " Prue and I," in its collected form, 
 and the " Nile Xotes ;" one, among the earliest, the other 
 almost the latest of his avowed productions. They are 
 both characteristic. In both I find the same richness of 
 fancy, the same sweet tooth that will have mellifluous 
 phrases and gorgeous images. The pomp of the east 
 and the luscious odor of the lotus, are renewed, and re 
 vived, and repeated till one is sated. His luxuriant style 
 is very well for a while, or at times, but palls at last. 
 It is, however, relieved by a vein of sarcasm, to which 
 he might with advantage more frequently resort. There 
 is a point in his irony, a sharpness in his satire, that one 
 relishes after the unalloyed sweets that he lavishes. I 
 wish he would cultivate this talent more assiduously, 
 and let the other alone. The skill displayed in the "Po- 
 tiphar Papers," though it was the skill of a neophyte, 
 yet would warrant him in making other eiForts. Though 
 he was much given to exaggeration, and his satire often 
 degenerated into caricature, there was still a wisdom in 
 his wit, a likeness in his caricature, that proved he had 
 not mistaken his talent. 
 
 I like him better as an essayist or a sketcher of man 
 ners than as a critic. I did not often agree with his 
 judgment of the great novelists ; I could not set Dickens 
 so far above Scott ; I did not find all the geniality in 
 Thackeray that he discovered ; I do not recognise King- 
 slcy as a master spirit. I am not a disciple in that school 
 in literature Avhose doctrines Mr. Curtis has so warmlj
 
 206 The Vagabond. 
 
 espoused. But it is not only because I do r.ot concur with 
 his criticisms, that I do not admire them. I have read 
 many able and eloquent disquisitions with whose conclu 
 sions I entirely disagreed. But I did not detect in Mr. 
 Curtis s lectures any peculiar critical acumen ; he opened 
 my eyes to no new merits in his subjects ; he dissected 
 them not with any extraordinary skill ; he set their 
 characters in no new light ; he gave me no new ideas 
 about the modern British novelists. When he sketched 
 the men or the times in which they lived, he was graceful 
 and vivid ; he was always interesting and frequently 
 witty ; but his lectures scarcely made a definite or an 
 abiding impression ; they simply afforded an agreeable 
 mode of spending an evening. 
 
 I believe some work is reserved for Mr. Curtis more 
 suited to his talent than any he has yet undertaken. 
 I confess myself one of his admirers ; I find a fascina 
 tion in almost everything he writes, though upon calmly 
 considering it, I frequently see nothing so wonderful ; 
 but the fascination proves the power : and there are 
 thousands like me, in this regard. The man who can 
 exert this influence must have something in him, I shall 
 be glad when it comes out. Spider-like, let him spin 
 the web that shall entangle us all in its meshes. I, for 
 one, am very willing to be enthralled.
 
 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 " DON PEDRO. Maybe she doth but counterfeit. 
 CLAUDIO. Faith, like enough." 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 I HAVE no doubt that many who witnessed Miss Cush- 
 man s performance of Meg Merrilies were glad to re 
 mind themselves that what they saw was counterfeit ; 
 they were glad to shake off the horrible impression left 
 by that weird figure, that ghost-like movement, that 
 crazy face, that shrieking voice. Many have told me 
 that they could not sleep after seeing this acting ; the 
 tall, gaunt gipsy haunted their dreams, the wild, un 
 earthly tones startled them from their pillow, the fierce 
 eyeballs glared through the dark night on them. Many, 
 too, have told me that the acting is overdone ; that the 
 conception and execution of this part are beyond what 
 Scott imagined, are melodramatic, are too frightful to 
 be natural. And, indeed, I think Scott never imagined 
 so strange a creation as that which Miss Gush man em 
 bodies. I think the actress in this transcends the novel 
 ist; her imagination - is wilder than Scott s; she docs 
 carry his idea beyond anything indicated in " Guy Man- 
 nering." But so much the more praise ; so much the 
 more admiration have I for the actress who combines an 
 imagination to conceive with the surpassing ability to
 
 208 The Vagabond. 
 
 execute so singular an idea as that of Meg Merrilies, 
 That Miss Cushman s idea is exaggerated, I cannot ad 
 mit. It is utterly unlike anything not only on the stage, 
 but with which in real life we are now familiar ; but I 
 can find nothing in it extravagant. It verges upon the 
 supernatural ; it is great enough for one of the witches 
 of " Macbeth ; " it is as grotesquely terrible as Hecate 
 herself; but no more untrue to itself, no more unnatural 
 when you consider the type, than the horrors of the 
 Eunienides, or the grandeurs of the sisters three. Feel 
 ing and intellect are both made manifest, and that inde 
 finable something that invests the whole, and makes 
 what would otherwise only be repelling, truly great ; 
 that makes tragedy ; that is akin to the awe inspired 
 by the "Inferno" of Dante, or the incantations of 
 "Der Freischutz." 
 
 The embodiment of this idea is perfection. From 
 the first rush upon the stage, which almost takes away 
 your breath, and the fixed attitude, the strained limb 
 and eye, when Meg recognises Harry Bertram, to the 
 last shriek of exultation and the death rattle in her 
 throat, all is great. Not only eminently effective at the 
 moment, but vivid and wonderful in the recollection ; 
 not only startling when you see it, but equally so when 
 you think of it afterwards. The character loses its re- 
 pulsiveness to me. I see the dirt and rags ; I see the 
 wrinkles and elf-locks, the wild eye and the shrivelled 
 limbs ; I hear the hoarse and broken tones of age and 
 passion, the convulsive laughter and the gritting teeth ; 
 but with all these I see and hear more. I see the creature 
 inspired to foretell and accomplish the restoration of an 
 ancient house ; full of the passion of her race, yet with one
 
 Charlotte Cushman. 209 
 
 sympathy that connects her with humanity ; tender and 
 earnest when she thinks of her bairn. 
 
 The crooning over Bertram s hand, the tears that 
 blind her eyes when she fain would gaze into his face, 
 the sobs that choke her utterance in striving to speakhis 
 name, make the old hag human ; awake sympathetic emo 
 tions even for Meg Merrilies : for she owns an affection, 
 that, in its holiness, as well as in its intensity, is anything 
 but unnatural. 
 
 The fact that Miss Cushman has contrived to crowd 
 all this character into the few lines given her in the 
 abortion of a play that is put upon the stage, makes her 
 abilities all the more admirable. What Scott only 
 hinted at, even in the pages of description and narrative 
 allotted to Meg in the novel, the great actress has seized 
 upon, amplified, developed, and then compressed into a 
 few scenes, a few words. Her marvellous talent for 
 what is technically called " making up," presents us 
 with the picture that lives so indelibly in our memory ; 
 her exquisite elocution enables her to accommodate her 
 voice to the necessities of the unusual situations of the 
 play, to break it with age, to thicken it with the choking 
 sensation of death, to loosen it in the cry of agony, to 
 repress it to the hollow murmur of despair ; while the 
 genius that makes her feel so acutely the proprieties of 
 the character is only equalled by the consummate art that 
 dictates and accomplishes such touches as her sliding, 
 sidelong gait ; her frantic but significant gestures ; her 
 attitudes, so ungainly, but so wildly expressive, that they 
 speak more forcibly than words. I can conceive of no 
 more "exact, no more effective picture,than that afforded 
 by Miss Cushman s performance of Meg Merrilies.
 
 21 o The Vagabond. 
 
 But in nothing else do I so admire her. In Romeo and 
 Rosalind she is intellectual ; she reads with an exqui 
 site appreciation of the language and the sentiment, and 
 especially of the wit of a part ; her gestures are always 
 full of meaning, are always appropriate, are occasionally 
 fine ; her intonations generally please a scholar and a 
 man of taste ; but she entirely fails to move me in either 
 part, and in her conception of each character she differs 
 entirely from my own idea. Romeo, indeed, I have 
 never seen played to suit me. I have seen one who 
 looked a Romeo, who had all the beauty and voice I 
 fancy in the love-sick Montague, but who failed entirely 
 to infuse any spirit into the words he lavishes on his 
 mistress ; and Miss Cushman so fails to look the charac 
 ter, that this alone would prevent my deriving any 
 satisfaction from her performance. Then her actions 
 are not youthful, her manner not sprightly, her tones 
 not spirited, her passion not intense enough for the lover 
 of Verona. Her Rosalind lacks the captivating sim 
 plicity, the arch coyness, that I look for in the merry 
 maid of Ardennes. It proves that she has no comic 
 talent. The lightness, the grace, the ease, the charming 
 vivacity of comedy, are talents not vouchsafed to her 
 who plays Meg Merrilies. Siddons and Rachel, before 
 her, discovered that the tragic muse receives no divided 
 homage. 
 
 Neither am I so gi-eat an admirer of Miss Cushman 
 in her more womanly characters. I prefer Miss Heron 
 to her in Bianca, and Rachel in Tisbe. With her 
 rendering of the former part, one could not but be 
 greatly pleased ; I acknowledge the force and expres 
 sion of her attitudes, the correctness of her gene-
 
 Charlotte Cushman. 2 1 1 
 
 ral conception, and, above all, the admirable taste of 
 her reading. Everything indicated a careful student, 
 an accomplished artist, one who appreciated thoroughly 
 the thought of her author ; but the performance failed 
 to affect me. I did not once experience that intense 
 emotion Miss Heron caused in the same play. I re 
 member distinctly that in all rendering of womanly 
 feeling, in harrowing tenderness, in terrific agony and 
 in the mad remorse of the close, Miss Heron was supe 
 rior. She kept you in a constant state of excitement ; 
 you had no time to criticise ; you were shivering or 
 choking by turns. When Miss Cushman played Bianca, 
 I was cold ; I admired, I observed, I perceived what 
 was done and what was left undone ; I was on the look 
 out for sensations that she did not arouse. 
 
 And in Tisbe, oh ! how sadly I felt the contrast be 
 tween her and the great Frenchwoman ! Miss Cush 
 man was powerful, effective, excellent ; she gave a coarse 
 picture in strong colors and masculine outlines, a 
 wild, fierce creature, a real Bohemian ; but again she 
 failed to move me, though I confess I saw handkerchiefs 
 in use around me. But in this play I noted especially 
 the inferiority of Miss Cushman, not only to Rachel, but 
 to many other great geniuses of the stage. Here she 
 was not truly tragic : she was only dramatic. She 
 lacked entirely the classic grace, the ineffable dignity, 
 that clothed the creations of Rachel ; she was earthly 
 and common ; she was not at all imaginative. Rachel 
 in Tisbe, was the very incarnation of Italy. The stately 
 mistress of a Paduan duke, the haughty actress pour 
 ing out curses on a guilty duchess, the suspicious crea 
 ture glaring around the bedchamber of a rival, the
 
 212 The Vagabond. 
 
 gipsy s daughter saving her whom she hated, were by 
 the great Jewess all rendered, not only so as to move 
 you with terror and sympathy, but so as to provoke your 
 admiration too. There was a symmetry, a statuesque 
 beauty, an enchanting grace that one would look for 
 in vain in Miss Cushman s Tisbe. 
 
 I seldom have been able to detect true tenderness 
 in Miss Cushman ; I have seldom noticed real womanly 
 feeling. Those characters in which she excels are mas 
 culine ; the Meg Merrilies has no touch of femininity ; 
 and in whatever there is of great about anything else 
 she does, it resembles or approaches this ; a tone, a ges 
 ture, if it be effective, recalls something in Meg Mer 
 rilies. She is a person of unmistakable ability, but 
 of very limited expression of that ability ; of much 
 greater talent than genius ; whose excellences are mostly 
 acquired ; of greater intellect than feeling ; possessed of 
 profound insight into character, rather than inspired 
 with an appreciation of it. She does things by rule ; she 
 learns by heart ; she studies and perfects herself; she is 
 not of those whose limbs quiver with emotion they know 
 not how, whose eyes light up with a fire that burns 
 within them they know not whence, whose tones speak 
 a passion that descends upon them irresistibly like the 
 afflatus of a god.
 
 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 " For "Warwick is a subtle orator." 
 
 3 Henry VI. 
 
 THE palmy days of eloquence are past ; the press has 
 become in a great measure the substitute for the orator. 
 Men are no longer stirred up as the Greeks were by 
 Demosthenes, or the Roman populace by Cicero, to the 
 accomplishments of great deeds the resistance of an 
 invasion, or the suppression of a conspiracy. Peter the 
 Hermit, if he wanted to preach a new crusade, would 
 advocate it in the newspapers, and Kossuth, considered 
 by many the greatest of living orators, derives his fame 
 not so much from his speeches themselves as from their 
 publication next day. Let him who is inclined to doubt 
 this, compare for one moment the effect produced by a 
 leader in the columns of a daily newspaper published in 
 this metropolis, and that of an unreported speech de 
 livered by the most eloquent or the most famous of our 
 orators. Will you tell me that the speeches are reported, 
 and so have their effect ? Yes, but what then becomes of 
 the three essentials of oratory the action action ac 
 tion of Demosthenes ? Delivery, according to Quintilian, 
 is as important to the orator as invention ; but of what 
 importance is delivery to the orator at Washington who 
 addresses us in New York ? What do we care for the
 
 214 The Vagabond. 
 
 grace or awkwardness, the sluggish or animated manner, 
 the harsh or musical voice of the speakers whose words 
 alone reach us ? The orator is on a level with the 
 writer now-a-days. I am indifferent whether Pope was 
 a hunchback or Elia stammered ; and who is concerned 
 at the bad delivery of Seward or the false accents of 
 Douglas, when he reads their speeches in the daily prints ? 
 If their arguments are cogent, their diction fine, their 
 style pleasing manner, delivery, action, is of no conse 
 quence. And is this oratory ! Oratory that moved 
 masses of men ; that was invented by the gods ; that was 
 compared to the honey of Hybla and the afflatus of 
 Apollo ; oratory, that persuades, and excites, and terri 
 fies ; oratory like that which was sparkling in Sheridan, 
 and scathing in Randolph, magnificent in Burke, insi 
 nuating in Clay, overwhelming in Pitt, and everything 
 all at once in Mirabeau ! 
 
 True, there are speakers now-a-days speakers at 
 political meetings and in legislative halls ; but these are 
 infinitely more anxious to have their addresses well re 
 ported than to produce any effect at the time. Like 
 Mrs. Jellaby, they look entirely beyond their present 
 audience. Which of them expects to influence the senti 
 ments, or the opinions or the conduct of his hearers, by 
 anything he says ? Will a vote in Congress be changed 
 because of the numberless harangues that are to take 
 place on the Kansas question ? Votes out of Congress 
 may be changed by them ; but how many in it ? Good 
 speeches may be made there ; but if they are good as 
 speeches, it is because the speaker is personally ambi 
 tious of oratorical fame, because he wants to be con 
 sidered a fine orator, not because he expects to convert
 
 Edward Everett. 215 
 
 his hearers. How different this from the days when a 
 man might hope that his words would incite a nation to 
 a rebellion or a crusade ! These speeches may be listened 
 to, but it will be as an intellectual gratification ; the 
 fine ladies will go to hear as they would to an opera ; the 
 scholars will go to criticise, the political friends and 
 foes to compliment or condemn, but how many to decide 
 upon the point at issue ? So the great incentive to 
 oratory is Avithdrawn ; if a man feels that he is talking 
 without the prospect of accomplishing anything, if he is 
 merely exhibiting his own graces and talents, he sinks to 
 the level of an actor, and seldom possesses half the skill of 
 the actor in displaying his abilities. 
 
 The pulpit, one may say, still offers a field for the ora 
 tor, and Spurgeon seems to prove it ; but people follow 
 a popular preacher just as they go to the play, for an 
 excitement. He may add to the number of his hearers, 
 but not often to that of his denomination. The pulpit is 
 either so soberly and staidly respectable as to be dull 
 besides, or else affords only a momentary pleasure, some 
 times intellectual and refined, sometimes impulsive and 
 emotional. As to any permanent effect it produces, I 
 confess I don t see much. To be sure, there is a natural 
 disinclination to receive the distasteful doctrines we hear 
 in church, and a still greater to follow the hard instructions 
 we receive, which may account for this ; but, whatever 
 the cause, very few pulpit orators expect to convert their 
 hearers, and those few are disappointed. The religious 
 people are those who are educated into their belief, or 
 who become religious from study or natural tempera 
 ment, not those who are preached into it. 
 
 The bar does afford scope for the orator ; limited it
 
 216 The Vagabond. 
 
 may be, but a talented or skilful orator may hope to 
 change the opinions or influence the verdict of the 
 twelve men in a jury-box ; upon his exertions does 
 depend the success of his cause ; not only mediately 
 his own reputation, but immediately the ruin or fortune 
 of his client ; sometimes the life or death of a human 
 being. Here the opportunity is as great as it was when 
 Cicero spoke for Milo or Demosthenes against Midias ; 
 here there is a field for the display of various abilities, 
 and occasion to call them forth ; here is demand for 
 feeling and earnestness ; and here by consequence we 
 find them. Intellectual effort, of course, is often exhi 
 bited in all the courts of law, but only before a jury can 
 the real orator find himself at home. 
 
 It is true that there is an immense deal of public 
 speaking in our day ; perhaps more here and now than 
 ever before or anywhere else ; but this is because men 
 like to hear fine things well said ; because the love for 
 oratory is innate, like the gift itself; because even 
 if any absolute effect is hopeless, those who can speak 
 must do so ; " it is in them," as Sheridan said, " and it 
 must come out of them." And the rest of the world are 
 as bent upon hearing as the orator upon speaking. It is 
 for the gratification of taste, or the excitement of feeling, 
 that we go to hear a great speaker, and it is because he is 
 a great speaker that he declaims ; because he is prompted 
 to it by his nature, because he can do it, because he 
 must do it ; but he would do it vastly better, he would 
 be more in earnest, and we should be more truly 
 moved, if some great thing were to be achieved by his 
 efforts. 
 
 But what was to be achieved by Mr. Everett the other
 
 Edward Everett. 217 
 
 night ? The audience had paid their dollar apiece, and 
 he truly said, so far as he was concerned, the object of 
 the occasion was attained before he had spoken a word ! 
 "What a condition for an orator! But it exemplified 
 entirely what I have been saying ; it proved that people 
 went to hear him who is called the greatest American 
 orator, just as they would go to see a great actor ; to 
 be gratified or interested ; to receive an intellectual 
 entertainment ; and that the greatest American orator 
 spoke simply because he could speak well and wanted 
 to ; but neither he nor they expected any ulterior results 
 to come of his effort. Nobody will give a penny more 
 to the poor because Mr. Everett lectured on charity. 
 One would be more likely to do this after seeing the 
 " Poor of New York " played. And after hearing the 
 address on Washington, what then ? Or after the 
 astronomical oration, or that on agriculture, or that 
 delivered at Dorchester, or that on Columbus, what fol 
 lows ? You are delighted, you retain a vivid recollec 
 tion of the grace of style and the poetic fancy, and the 
 exquisite diction of the orator ; but anything more ? 
 Mr. Everett has indeed done much for the memory of 
 Washington. He has paid a splendid tribute to his 
 name, and revived the recollections of his history ; he 
 has presented a spectacle to the eyes of the world quite 
 equal to the classic triumphs of antiquity ; an eloquent 
 orator journeying all over this broad republic, and sum 
 moning the people in every city to pay homage to the 
 memory of its father and founder, he has laid on the 
 tomb of Washington his worthiest eulogy. He has 
 secured that tomb to be the property of the nation, and 
 indissolubly linked his own memory with that of the great 
 
 10
 
 218 The Vagabond. 
 
 man he commemorates. When pilgrims from all parts 
 of the world shall hereafter visit the spot on the banks 
 of the Potomac, where repose the bones of him whose 
 name and fame are the purest in history, they will fail 
 not to remember that to the oratory and patriotism of 
 Edward Everett they owe the opportunity. This is a 
 worthy object to attain ; but it is not attained by the 
 absolute effect the orator produces on his audiences ; as 
 far as each audience is concerned, it is attained before 
 they hear the oration. 
 
 Mr. Everett is undoubtedly the man of all alive who 
 has made oratory his greatest study ; who is most ambi 
 tious of the fame of an orator ; who risks his reputation 
 upon his oratorical efforts ; who bends all his energies 
 and devotes all his faculties to the attainment of such a 
 fame. And he has determined that the bar, the forum, 
 and the pulpit furnish not the widest or the most effec 
 tive theatre for oratorical display ; that no field for an 
 eloquence such as that Avhich roused the Athenians or 
 stirred the Quirites now exists ; that elaborate and grace 
 ful orations are what will ensure him the greatest fame. 
 And he is right. Some men are more innately orators 
 than he ; move their audiences more absolutely ; have 
 more of the action which constitutes an orator; the live- 
 coal of genius is laid on other lips, the inspiration 
 descends on other frames that are quivering with emo 
 tion, and full of that magnetism which is sure to extend 
 to the hearers ; but this is all momentary it passes 
 away and leaves no trace behind ; while Mr. Everett s 
 elegant and learned discourses are read next day, and 
 their effect is as great then as it was the night before. 
 Nothing with him depends on manner. To be sure, his
 
 Edward Everett. 219 
 
 voice, is agreeable, his gesticulation graceful, his utter 
 ance measured, his bearing dignified, and his action ap 
 propriate ; but he is not dramatic ; his elocution is not 
 overpowering, his feeling not intense ; he is no orator as 
 Brutus was ; he is not one of those who steal men s 
 hearts or stir their blood, and yet he can create an enthu 
 siasm, he can provoke a tear. His careful recitation ol 
 the long oration he has committed to memory, his nicely 
 elaborated periods, his calm delivery, his finished style 
 constitute a different thing from my idea of an orator, full 
 of big, burning thoughts that come out in burning words, 
 with fire in his eye, and fire in his gesture, and fire in his 
 whole frame and fire in his soul. Who could report such a 
 speaker ? Now Mr. Everett loses nothing in the report. 
 He is simply a most elegant writer, a master of all the 
 rhetorician s arts, a man of varied acquirements, among 
 them not the least that of moulding into forms of exqui 
 site music, and suggestive beauty the choicest words of 
 the English tongue. He is a man of charming fancies, 
 of true, and pure and lofty sentiment, of vivid imagina 
 tion, of refined taste, but especially gifted with a delicate 
 appreciation of the shades of difference in the significance 
 of words and a marvellous faculty of selecting the very 
 word out of eighty thousand which exactly conveys his 
 meaning. His orations are as carefully joined together 
 as a piece of mosaic Avork, in which each little stone 
 must be of the very size and color or the effect is lost. 
 Not only in these minutiae, however, is his taste apparent ; 
 the selection of his themes, the division of his subjects, 
 their appropriateness to the audiences before whom they 
 are delivered, the fitness of his allusions and ornaments 
 to whatever topic, the chaste, yet ornate beauties of his
 
 22O The Vagabond. 
 
 style, all these are evidences both of the elaborate care 
 with which he has cultivated his natural gifts, and the 
 taste which must have pre-existed to enable him to cul 
 tivate to such good eifect. 
 
 He has, too, more than beauties of style ; he has beau 
 ties of thought, beauties which constitute real eloquence ; 
 ideas as truly poetical as any you will find in the writings 
 of Spenser, or as exquisitely delicate as the fancies of 
 Keats; he pours out at times a torrent of charming 
 figures, of lively images, of true sentiment all combined, 
 and all wedded to the most musical and most appropri 
 ate language ; such as I have never heard any other man 
 utter, and such as I believe few living prose writers can 
 equal. In this way is he truly eloquent. Gentle, grace 
 ful, sometimes touching, his mind grapples not with 
 great problems, nor seizes upon vigorous or tremendous 
 thoughts. He is no Milton, no Dante, no Shakespeare 
 in prose ; but a Gray, a Petrarch, or a Virgil. His in 
 tellect resembles that of Cicero in some things, but lacks 
 the profound philosophical turn, the originality of thought, 
 and the energy of the great Roman orator. Sweet and 
 tender at times, trite and tame it must be owned at 
 others, neither uttering new ideas nor suggesting them, 
 not attempting to arouse or excite his hearers, Mr. 
 Everett is yet the finest and most accomplished writer 
 of eloquence that America has produced. Among the 
 speakers, he will not hold so high a rank.
 
 AMERICAN SCULPTURE. 
 
 " Your gallery 
 Have we passed through, not without much content." 
 
 Winter s Tale. 
 
 SCULPTURE seems to be that form of art in which the 
 American mind finds its most natural development ; that 
 form, also, in which the American mind most delights ; 
 the only form of art in which Europe recognises any 
 excellence in American eifort. Whether there is any 
 congruity between the nature of the art and the pecu 
 liarities of our national mind ; whether there is a like 
 ness between this embodiment in cold and passionless 
 marble of human passion and human beauty, and the 
 unrest, the excitement, the intensity of the yet unde 
 monstrative American character ; or whether it is a fact 
 that sculpture is an inferior art, as some proclaim, that 
 it never can attain to the excellencies of painting, that 
 it is second to painting, as comedy is to tragedy, it 
 might be hard to say ; but whatever the explanation may 
 be, it is true that we have taken onward steps, and 
 arrived at a degree of excellence in sculpture, that is 
 far enough from being attained in painting. Crawford s 
 death has made a sensation in Europe ; Powers and 
 Grcenough are known and admired where Durand and 
 Allston were never heard of. The art, too, is appreciated
 
 222 The Vagabond. 
 
 among us by many who are blind to the harmonies of 
 color and the exquisite beauties of tone. Form always 
 seems first appreciated in the progress made by a nation 
 in culture. The savages mould clay figures before they 
 attempt to paint ; children admire tangible outlines be 
 fore they recognise the excellencies of color or of light 
 and shade ; and sculpture has always first attained per 
 fection in a national histoiy, or at least has first been culti 
 vated. It may be doubted whether the old Greeks ever 
 knew the superlative excellence that since their day 
 has been reached by painters ; the stories of their pic 
 torial artists, of Zeuxis and Apelles, all give the idea 
 that imitation was the great desideratum. They tell 
 of grapes painted so that birds would peck at them, 
 and curtains represented on their canvas so that even 
 the judges were deceived, but they had no notion of a 
 higher excellence. They certainly did not conceive of 
 the expression we moderns have infused into music ; 
 they dreamed not of harmonic combinations of sounds; 
 and many have doubted whether the harmonic combina 
 tion of color, the art of putting expression upon canvas, 
 was not also one of those mysteries that the art-loving, 
 art-worshipping* Greek never solved. But sculpture 
 reached its efflorescence in antiquity. 
 
 The art culminated in the days Avhen the Apollo and 
 the Laocoon were carved. Yet I am far from believing 
 with some, who, by their knowledge and appreciation of 
 the beautiful, are well calculated to judge, that sculpture 
 is inferior to any art. It comes before others in point 
 of time ; but the sublimest utterings of poetry always 
 precede the tamer. Homer came before Pindar, Shak- 
 epeare before Byron, the Golden Age before the Silver ;
 
 American Sculpture. 223 
 
 invention precedes elaboration ; eloquence has never 
 since the days of Demosthenes attained such an excel 
 lence or such an influence as it then knew ; but is the art 
 inferior because it is a lost one ? Shall we affect to un 
 dervalue the perfection of the Parthenon because it is 
 the despair of modern builders? . The mere fact that 
 sculpture is the first in any national history to be culti 
 vated, does not stamp it as inferior to painting. 
 
 And can it be called inferior in beauty or expression, 
 the two objects of all art ? To embody the beautiful, 
 to express feeling, I take it to be the aim of art. Sculp 
 ture certainly accomplishes both these aims by different 
 means, but quite as fully, quite as admirably, as painting. 
 Who that has looked upen even a cast of the Apollo 
 Belvidere, will say of any canvas that it exceeds the 
 marble, either in beauty or expression ? Who that has 
 studied the Laocoon will prefer a picture? I have felt 
 the highest influences of art while gazing on copies from 
 the antique, while studying the Torso, the Niobe, the 
 Venus, but above and beyond anything, the Apollo and 
 the Laocoon ; no more wonderful embodiments of pas 
 sion, no more lofty images of beauty can I conceive of 
 than these. Color gives me no more d.efinite idea than 
 form ; it certainly is no more palpable ; it is certainly no 
 more ideal than the pale, refined marble. Whether you 
 ask for w r hat shall stand out like an actuality before the 
 bodily eye, or whether you demand what shall satisfy 
 the imagination and elevate the fancy by its exquisite 
 ideality, sculpture will afford it. 
 
 So the strivings of America in this direction are no 
 evidences of inferiority ; true she has not yet created, 
 probably she never will create another Apollo ; we have
 
 224 The Vagabond. 
 
 not the belief in gods who walk the earth, that the an 
 cients had, to infuse life and divinity into our works. 
 When a modern attempts the classic style, he may be 
 severe and beautiful, but he never is so full of fire, and 
 life and passion, as the old sculptors. The reason is pal 
 pable. The ancients believed in the reality of these 
 divinities ; they got inspired by their works : the mo 
 derns are students only, not worshippers ; their fancies 
 are engaged, their passions never. Just as none but a 
 good Catholic could paint a good Madonna, none but a 
 good Pagan could have given that wondrous life and 
 godlike beauty to the Belvidere. The finest modern 
 marbles are the " Christ and His Apostles," of Thorwald- 
 sen ; the reason is that Thorwaldsen s feelings and his 
 faith were enlisted in the work. But Americans are no 
 worse off than others when they copy the antique ; the 
 rest of the world has fallen away from its belief in those 
 grand old divinities that inspired Homer and Phidias ; 
 Canova s Hebe is exquisite, but it is not Hebe ; Thor 
 waldsen s classic bas-reliefs have all the grace, all the 
 exquisite fancy of antiquity, but none of the soul. And 
 all modern statuary is copied after the antique ; 
 whether the subject be selected from classic pages or 
 not, the style is always remodelled after classic origi 
 nals ; for classic originals are perfection. 
 
 But is, then, sculpture an art which has seen its best 
 days? Lacking the vital breath breathed into it by the 
 olden gods, by virtue of which it became a living soul, 
 must our modern art be only a copy, only a shadow, 
 only a remembrance, an echo a beautiful transcript, 
 but still a transcript ? 
 
 American sculpture is as yet nothing more. Craw-
 
 American Sculpture. 225; 
 
 ford, the most classic of our artists, so much adr lired at 
 Rome, the favorite pupil of Thorwaldsen, he, whose loss 
 the nation now deplores, Crawford, in his noblest efforts, 
 created not. His " Orpheus," one of the finest works of 
 art ever executed by an American, one of the proudest 
 trophies of modern statuary, is nothing but an imitation 
 of the antique. It is exquisitely beautiful, severely 
 classic, recals vividly to one s imagination the fable of 
 Eurydice, delights the eye, but never has one suggestion 
 of anything more ; never elevates, arouses, moves. And 
 bay what you will, the calm sense of beauty is good, 
 the delight afforded by perfectness of sound, or form, or 
 color is exquisite ; but more even than this is required. 
 Many critics call this demand for something more a 
 vulgar want of excitement : but is it not rather that 
 irrepressible longing of the human heart for something 
 more than human ; that reaching out after the infinite, 
 which whether it awakens to sympathy or stirs to exal 
 tation, yet is the noblest thing in man ; the spring of his 
 noblest thoughts ; the universal aspiration, the craving 
 of the race. This is not satisfied by Crawford. 
 
 His " Beethoven " is massive, and grand and severe : 
 you cannot readily find fault with it, since it fulfils all 
 that one requires ; but a great genius would do more 
 than you require ; it would suggest what never occurred 
 to the critic. If you can measure every excellence of a 
 statue or a poem, it is not divine : if there is not some 
 thing undefinable, subtle, yet overpowering and irresisti 
 ble in its influence, or its effect, or its beauty, it belongs 
 not to the first rank. No one can say that Crawford s 
 statue of Beethoven has such influences. 
 
 The works of Powers are like Crawford s in one re- 
 10*
 
 226 The Vagabond. 
 
 spect, they are beautiful ; but they are not equal to Craw 
 ford s, because they have nothing but beauty. The 
 " Greek Slave" is of course exquisite in proportion, and 
 full of grace and softness, yet it lacks expression ; it 
 might be called anything else as appropriately as a 
 Greek slave. I feel always in Mr. Powers s works this 
 want ; in the "Proserpine," in the "Fisher Boy," in the 
 " Eve ;" in his most admired productions there is need 
 of more meaning ; there are outlines and outsides ; re 
 presentations, not realities ; beautiful exceedingly, but 
 spiritless, all. Other American sculptors excel Powers 
 in this regard : one perhaps excels even Crawford in this 
 single particular ; I mean Horatio Greenough. 
 
 I have seen few American sculptures with so much 
 meaning compressed into the marble as Mr. Greenough s. 
 Those familiar with his " Venus Victrix," now in the 
 Boston Athenreum, will remember how instinct it is 
 with expression, how limb and feature both are full of 
 character, and of beauty too ; not, indeed, the exquisite 
 beauty of Powers s works, nor the classic grace thrown 
 around Crawford s productions, but still a beauty unde 
 niable and palpable. 
 
 Brackett s " Shipwrecked Mother and Child " is also 
 very full of meaning; it tells its own story; it is modern 
 too ; is an indication that the moderns must look to 
 their own life for their subjects, must catch the spirit 
 of their own times, if they hope ever to rival the ancients 
 in this magnificent art, if they would put "life into a 
 stone." The Palmer marbles also indicate this feeling : 
 all of them deviate from the classic model of beauty. 
 The "Indian Girl" is of no Grecian type, is American 
 in conception and idea, as well as in execution ; is, if I
 
 American Sculpture. 227 
 
 mistake not, the work of one who has studied in no 
 foreign workshops, who certainly is imbued with no 
 classic spirit. 
 
 I love the classics, I am sure. I can never hope to 
 derive the satisfaction from half-fledged efforts in any 
 sphere, that absolute perfection must afford ; but my 
 only hope for an American school in art is, that artists 
 will be American ; will live in the present and not in 
 the past. There is enough now and here to inspire 
 them. If they get rid of traditions and shackles, they 
 huve a field before them ; and genius is a gift that God 
 vouchsafes in all ages and climes. Here and there, one 
 may see indications of it now.
 
 WASHINGTON SOCIETY. 
 
 " And there live we as merry as the day is long." 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing. 
 
 ALL the world goes to "Washington just before Lent ; 
 and as vagabonds follow the tide, whether it leads to 
 the country or the capital, I went with my fraternity to 
 Washington. There were all the somebodies, and very 
 many of the nobodies ; the latter in large numbers, but 
 the former in larger. There were breakfast parties and 
 dinner parties, day receptions and evening receptions, 
 matinees dansantes and balls, suppers without women 
 and women without suppers ; indeed, the whirl was so 
 incessant, that I was at last glad to get out of it, and 
 rest from my labors. We think in New York that we 
 know what gaiety is, but ours is tame by comparison 
 with the intensity of Washington dissipation. We 
 have some sort of a respite during the day. If, at the 
 height of the season, we go to two, and once in a great 
 while, to three parties a night, we lie late next morn 
 ing, and gather strength for the next night s efforts. 
 But they never sleep in Washington ; tired nature s 
 sweet restorer is not " received " there ; no arrange 
 ments are made in regard to her ; you dance at a ball 
 till four o clock in the morning, and are expected to be 
 prompt at a breakfast with Congressmen who go to the
 
 Washington Society. 229 
 
 House at twelve. Now, I have paid visits here on the 
 morrow of the Bachelors Ball, or some other recherche 
 fete, and not found the ladies " at home ;" the fatigue 
 incapacitated them for receiving; but in Washington 
 there is a nightly occasion, and a round of visiting 
 besides, which allows you no intermission to recruit. 
 Beranger s Wandering Jew would find himself in com 
 pany : 
 
 " Toujours, toujours, 
 
 Tourne la terre ou moi je cours, 
 Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours." 
 
 The day receptions are pleasant, however ; they are 
 not like the matinees in New York, attended almost 
 exclusively by the beau sexe; you will find a cabinet 
 minister at home with his wife and daughters, and see 
 half a dozen of the most prominent statesmen in the 
 country flirting in the half-light of the parlors, or two 
 or three well-known soldiers hanging over some charmer 
 at the piano. Indeed, the most distinctive feature of 
 Washington society is the presence of men of talent and 
 character. Everybody knows and bewails how much 
 New York society is given up to boys and girls; 
 how few distinguished men are to be seen at our balls ; 
 how comparatively lowered the tone of conversation 
 thus becomes ; how sadly deficient the most brilliant 
 saloons are in brilliant talkers. Dancers we have in 
 abundance, and here and there a musical house can be 
 pointed oiit ; but the number of ladies who are able to 
 gather around them a circle of prominent or talented 
 men for an evening can be counted on your fingers. 
 They manage these things better in Washington. They
 
 230 The Vagabond. 
 
 dance thei-e as much and as Avell as we do ; the people 
 who can do nothing but dance are accommodated ; the 
 Landers music is heard" as regularly every night in every 
 parlor as you enter, and as constantly till you leave, as 
 it is here ; but this is not all. Older people, and people 
 who have other than social position, men who have 
 made their mark in the world, are to be seen at all the 
 entertainments ; are not rare enough to be lions ; are 
 the rule rather than the exception. A belle scorns a 
 man who has not something to distinguish him. She 
 demands a name as well as a man ; a name, too, known 
 outside of a single set ; something more than irreproach 
 able manners, faultless toilet and divine dancing ; some 
 thing more than fortune, or family, or fashion. She may 
 be exorbitant, but she asks for talent, and the distinction 
 which this has brought its possessor ; no inglorious Mil- 
 tons, no guiltless Cromwells will serve her turn; the man 
 must have achieved some of his greatness if he hopes to 
 make an impression upon these exacting fair ones. And 
 when statesmen, successful politicians, generals, diploma 
 tists, and men of this stamp crowd the rooms, it is impos 
 sible that the entire tone of the society they frequent 
 and compose should not be affected. So there is at once 
 dignity and ease, distinction and savoirfaire. The con 
 versation is finer, and the society is more cosmopolitan ; 
 there is neither the provincial coldness of Boston, nor 
 the hauteur of Philadelphia, nor the pretence of New 
 York manners. The necessities of public life oblige the 
 leaders to be anything but exclusive ; everybody is 
 admitted, but the influence is good, and you see as little 
 bad manners as in the most select circle elsewhere. 
 Some lament the facility with which the entree to
 
 Washington Society. 231 
 
 society is obtained. An American Lady Kew exclaimed 
 to me in horror-stricken tones, that the daughter of one 
 of the members of the cabinet had been seen dancing 
 with a tailor. She didn t know she was telling this to a 
 vagabond. But it is impossible to prevent people who 
 behave well from visiting; the officials must receive; 
 the President s levees are the most accessible of all, and 
 everybody follows his lead. And I really could not 
 perceive the ill effects of the system. Some people, 
 doubtless, learn good manners who have had no previous 
 opportunity ; but those who were well-bred before lose 
 nothing by the contact ; and you will generally find that 
 those suddenly elevated are extremely anxious to com 
 port themselves so as not to allow others to suspect that 
 their position is a novel one. 
 
 One strange etiquette results from this universal 
 democracy; everybody introduces; in every drawing- 
 room you will observe the repetition of the everlasting 
 formula. If you are at a morning visit or an evening 
 ball, it is supposed you want to know every one there, 
 and that every one wants to know you ; and you are to 
 remember the introduction and recognise the acquaint 
 ance. Nobody asks permission before presenting you 
 to a lady. I was talking with a belle when an ambassa 
 dor came up to her and said : " One of my attaches is 
 anxious to know you, miss ;" and forthwith trotted away 
 to bring up the attache. So even the foreigners fall into 
 the fashion, and do as the Romans do, when they are at 
 Rome. To be sure, this universality of introductions 
 has its disadvantages ; the usage in the best houses here 
 and abroad is preferable ; one doesn t want to be forced 
 to know people, especially when such a motley crowd is
 
 232 The Vagabond. 
 
 " out " as that at Washington ; but it has also some 
 counter advantages. It secures a stranger almost imme 
 diately the acquaintance of the entire Washington world. 
 Every one who is able to procure an entree has thence 
 forth admission everywhere ; and so many go to 
 Washington merely as transient visitors, and yet are 
 anxious to see its society, that this custom is, on the 
 whole, agreeable. It allows those who are permanently 
 at the capital to meet all the new-comers, and affords 
 the temporary members of the throng opportunity to 
 see all that is to be seen. 
 
 The number of disagreeable men in Washington is 
 prodigious. In the first place, many of the prominent 
 people are not necessarily pleasant to meet, yet however 
 disagreeable, must be endured; and then there is a per 
 fect tribe of insipid and ordinary ones, who, I suppose, 
 seem unusually uninteresting, because of the contrast 
 with those who are really brilliant. The men of talent 
 who abound dwarf the noodles ; after listening to the 
 conversation of the leader of a party, or one of the mas 
 ter intellects of the country, it is extremely tiresome to 
 return to the nothings inflicted on you by some bore 
 W 7 ho has an office, or has had one, or expects one. I 
 think I never met so many extremely stupid, and yet 
 perfectly well-bred men, as in Washington. To be sure, 
 that is better than talent and vulgarity : if my associates 
 cannot be both talented and refined, give me the refine 
 ment by all means ; this affects me, while the talent is a 
 matter that concerns them more. Still, the class of well- 
 bred idiots is distressingly large everywhere, and causes 
 an immense deal of suffering. They would be abso 
 lutely intolerable at Washington were it not that the
 
 Washington Society. 233 
 
 brilliant people outnumber them. Your chances are 
 really better for meeting a clever person than a fool ! 
 Think of that, and remember the mortal hours you have 
 endured in society without encountering a single man 
 or woman with brains. 
 
 I met, among other of the clever folk, Lady Sneer- 
 well, Mrs. Candour, and Sir Benjamin Backbite. Rela 
 tions of theirs (the family is a very large one and most 
 respectably connected) visit in Xew York among our 
 v ery best people, but I had not previously fallen in with 
 these celebrated individuals in person. They are of 
 course extremely sought after, and from their position 
 and fashion, give the tone to much of the society. Con 
 sequently people are more talked of even than in New 
 York. (Monstrous as this assertion seems, I am sure it 
 is warranted.) I relish gossip myself, and even a touch 
 of scandal doesn t spice the dish too highly for my taste, 
 though I only indulge in this luxury in private ; but the 
 rage for picking one s neighbor to pieces is so prodi 
 gious at the capital, that even the Vagabond was amazed. 
 Parties are pronounced *ores before you leave them, 
 and your character is discussed while you are on the 
 opposite side of the room. The men are quite as much 
 given to the practice as the women ; they dissect their 
 dearest friends with as much skill and alacrity as the 
 bitterest female does her bosom companion ; I heard 
 just as much ill-natured talk at dinners and suppers 
 from which women were excluded, as took place even at 
 receptions where the Vagabond was the only man pre 
 sent. 
 
 On one of these last mysterious occasions, where I 
 was assisting to receive, there occurred the most delight-
 
 234 The Vagabond. 
 
 ful circumstance imaginable : a complete discussion of 
 three widow ladies who assume to prune the visiting 
 list of an ambassador lately arrived, and who of course 
 is as yet ignorant of the standing of many who have 
 left cards at his door. I strongly suspected that several 
 of the dear creatures who were freest in their comments 
 upon the widows, were themselves excluded from the 
 ambassador s balls. At any rate, they couldn t have 
 said anything more severe if they had been. While 
 their conversation was at its height, a bevy of beaux 
 arrived, and these were forthwith informed of the subject 
 of talk. They were very anxious to know who the wi 
 dows were, probably with a view to paying their court ; 
 but Lady Sneerwell would not tell, and Mrs. Candour 
 could riot ; the utmost they could be induced to disclose 
 in identification, was that one of the widows was she 
 whose receptions were so universally popular, and who 
 had allowed a distinguished civilian to close her shutters 
 at one o clock in the morning.
 
 PRE-RAPHAELITISM. 
 
 " In our fine arts, not imitation, but creation, is the aim." 
 
 EMERSC N. 
 
 AFTER studying " The Anti-Puseyite Lady" and " The 
 Eve of St. Agnes," till I thought myself fully aware of 
 their aim, and able to appreciate their execution, I went 
 the other day to Mr. Bryan s gallery, to compare the 
 real Pre-Raphaelites with their imitators. I was struck 
 immediately, as I had often been before, not with the 
 exactness of detail, not with the truthful attention to 
 exterior nature, not oven with the uncouth drawing, 
 and stiff, angular outlines of the old artists, but with 
 the spirit that animated those outlines, and gave life and 
 meaning to those details ; with the religious fervor of 
 Giotto, and the earnestness of Cimabue ; with the 
 simple, heartful energy of Guido di Sienna ; with the 
 reverent, pious feeling of them all. This is in reality 
 what gives the predecessors of Raphael all their power, 
 this is what makes them now, after the lapse of centuries, 
 acknowledged as true artists. This is what the modern 
 Pre-Raphaelites profess to aim at ; this is all that makes 
 the theory of the new school anything more than realism ; 
 this is what the practice of the new school fails to 
 attain. 
 
 Its disciples rival their models in the careful delinea-
 
 236 The Vagabond. 
 
 tion of trivialities ; they will paint you the back of a 
 chair that shall be carved as finely as the work of Al- 
 brecht Dtirer, or the elaborate embossment in the pictures 
 of Giottino ; they will mark every sheep in a pen with 
 his brand, and dot the earth everywhere that a sunbeam 
 flickers through the leaves ; they will count the hairs like 
 Denner, and mark each shred of grass like Valkenburgh ; 
 but they have not the motive that the old painters had. 
 Their art is not religious. No modern art is I eligious. 
 People paint no pictures for cathedrals, they carve no 
 images of saints which they afterwards adore ; or if a man 
 happens to work on an altar-piece, he looks not upon the 
 purpose as sanctifying the labor. The spirit that ani 
 mated the real Pre-Raphaelites does not exist ; it is dead 
 and buried, and even the eloquent conjurations of a Rus- 
 kin can evoke nothing but its ghost. 
 
 The disciples of the Oxford graduate are then realists; 
 the doctrine of the Oxford graduate, if it lose this only 
 savor wherewith it should be salted, is realism ; and 
 though its apostle claims for Pre-Raphaelitism that it 
 possesses the saving savor, it is only a claim, and one 
 which neither the doctrine nor its results can establish. 
 The theory that truth is in art of more importance than 
 beauty is not correct ; the notion that beauty should be 
 sacrificed to truth harsh, bare, repelling truth, is itself 
 at once unlovely and untrue ; the teaching that nature 
 is always, and under all circumstances, to be scrupulously 
 copied is false. Nature is often unlovely, and its effects 
 disagreeable ; truth to nature, under such circumstances, 
 is falsehood to art ; and though eloquence, and sophistry, 
 and rhetoric be employed, with all the splendid talent of 
 one of the greatest masters of English prose, they can-
 
 Pre-Raphaelitism. 237 
 
 not upset the notions that mankind has held for centuries. 
 What, indeed, in any art, would you do with plain, bare 
 nature? Would you have the sculptor carve out the 
 grossnesses and imperfections of the human form ? Would 
 you have him represent the moles and pimples, the coarse 
 flesh and the dirt of the "Fisher Boy," or the " Torso ?" 
 would you have the poet put the foul and common lan 
 guage of the stews or the market into the mouth of his 
 Dogberries and Pistols ? Would you have a comic 
 actor represent all the odious vulgarities, the revolting 
 indecencies of low life ? This is not art : art, whose aim 
 is to elevate, not to debase, to ennoble and refine, not to 
 belittle and render coarse ; whose object is the beautiful ; 
 the true, certainly, but not all that is true ; truth in ex 
 pression, but not in the expression of what is mean and 
 common ; truth in the representation of nature and cha 
 racter, but not nature that is disgusting, nor character 
 that is ordinary. If you paint me tin pans and carpets, 
 you may do it well ; but you are not an artist for all 
 that. If we want nothing more of painters than abso 
 lute representations of old buildings, or copies of oak 
 trees and fern leaves, Pre-Raphaelitism is very well ; but 
 if artists are to awake emotions, to excite sentiments, to 
 arouse feeling, then Pre-Raphaelitism is not well. 
 
 For there is a higher truth than that of detail, there 
 is a higher truth than that which is apparent in confor 
 mity to oytsides, which consists in daguerreotyping or 
 mirroring external objects ; there is a truth of sentiment, 
 a truth of feeling. The artist must catch this higher 
 truth, must put meaning into his brooks and trees, ex 
 pression into his forms and features, must infuse a spirit 
 or a thought into his work ; else it is but sounding brass
 
 238 The Vagabond. 
 
 and tinkling cymbal. If the life is more than meat or 
 the body than raiment, then is the thought of man worth 
 more than its dress ; then is the ideal loftier than the 
 real. It is all very well to ridicule the notion of improv 
 ing upon nature, to laugh at the presumption of those 
 who you say attempt it ; but will you accept coarse, 
 ordinary nature, or look you for that nature not to be 
 found every day nor everywhere ? Will you have nature 
 in which a divinity is incarnate, or nature like that of 
 the brutes that perish ? If a man in search of common 
 truths fail to notice higher ones, he is as far out of the 
 way as he who sees none at all. Would you be blind to 
 the light of the stars, and see only sticks, and clods, and 
 stones ? 
 
 This fault I find with the Pre-Raphaelite brethren 
 that their doctrine leads directly to a worship of the 
 material ; to an ignoring of the ideal ; to putting out- 
 sides and externals on an equality with the essential and 
 superior. This one would say after studying the doc 
 trine in the expositions made by its chief and self- 
 appointed advocate. He who should read Mr. Ruskin s 
 " Modern Painters," with the subsequent pamphlet and 
 lecture on Pre-Raphaelitism, must come to the conclu 
 sion, without seeing the pictures, that all this tends to 
 realism. To be sure, there are denials of the tendency ; 
 there are contradictions innumerable ; there are deifica 
 tions of invention, and hymns to imagination ; but for 
 all this, the only logical deductions from the reasoning 
 are in favor of realism. 
 
 And if this is the notion you get from the eloquent 
 defence of the school, how firmly is it fixed by the sight 
 of the works themselves. What do you see in all these
 
 Pre-Raphaelitism. 239 
 
 careful pictures but the most marvellous accuracy, the 
 greatest degree of mechanical skill, the most remarka 
 ble imitation, the most painstaking assiduity, the same 
 traits that enable a man to weave a Brussels carpet, or 
 an old woman to put together a patchwork bed-quilt ? 
 Do you call painting a tree, in which every leaf is 
 marked out, art ? Do you call the delineation of every 
 figure in a tapestry, of every blade of grass in a meadow, 
 art ? What end is attained by this ? What sentiment 
 d^es such a picture inspire? What emotion does it 
 awake ? What beauty does it present to the soul ? 
 You may look at these elaborate photographs all day, 
 and get no ennobling feeling from them. There is a 
 certain excellence in their correct copying ; but, again 
 and again, imitation is not art. This will do for those 
 who can accomplish nothing more ; but it goes so far 
 and no farther. The men without genius may give 
 themselves up to it if they will, but when the real magi 
 cian comes along, we shall all cry out, with the old 
 Egyptians : " This is the finger of God." 
 
 I see few excellencies in the Pre-Raphaelites peculiar 
 to themselves ; while their faults are all their own. They 
 overlook great things in search of small ; they are really 
 untrue to nature, for all their hue and cry about truth : 
 their perspective is untrue. No human being distin 
 guishes distant objects with the same degree of accu 
 racy as near ones; no human being could perceive 
 leaves and flowers at the distance represented in many 
 of these pictures. Then, many of them, in aiming at 
 certain traits of the older artists, have caught faults and 
 mannerisms instead of excellences. They all fail in em 
 bodying that religious feeling which Ruskin says truly
 
 240 The Vagabond. 
 
 is the great distinguishing characteristic of Giotto and 
 his contemporaries; they, many of them, imitate the 
 bad drawing, the angular outlines, the harsh, stiff atti 
 tudes, the uncouth appearance of the old pictures ; and 
 they lack tone always and altogether ; while their merits 
 are such as all the world shares. When a Pre-Raphael 
 ite is a man of genius, in so much as he exhibits that 
 genius, he deviates from the strict rules of his school. 
 When he does anything great, he ceases to be peculiar ; 
 he does what other great artists have done before. For 
 instance, the expression of the " Ophelia" of Hughes is 
 very sad and sweet ; the vacant look, the mournful atti 
 tude, and the entire sentiment of the picture are admi 
 rably expressive, or indicative, rather, of the character 
 and fate of the fair Ophelia ; but these characteristics 
 the picture would possess if Pre-Raphaelitism had never 
 been heard of. The truly admirable things in Madox 
 Brown s " Lear," are the attitude of the crazed old king, 
 the straw stuck into his grey locks, and the drawing of 
 his weary limbs ; but what of these did the artist owe 
 to Pre-Raphaelitism ? Here he had to resort to imagi 
 nation ; here he did not what Mr. Ruskin so often in 
 sists the artist should do, represent what he saw ; not 
 what did exist, but what he imagined ought to exist. 
 In "The Light of the World," Pre-Raphaelitism dic 
 tated the flowers so elaborately drawn and colored, the 
 curious workmanship of the Saviour s robes, and the 
 general quaintness of treatment ; but not the expression 
 of the Christ, not the sentiment of the picture, not the 
 really beautiful traits of the work. 
 
 I leave to the ardent admirers of the new school, the 
 " Monarch Oak," a fair sample of its monstrosities, the
 
 Pre-Raphaelitism. 241 
 
 " Two and a Half Years Old," and the " Home from 
 Sea." Whoever can admire such pictures as these is too 
 far gone for me to argue with ; whoever believes them, 
 as I do, to be legitimate results from the teaching of the 
 school, will either receive that teaching implicitly, or 
 else reject entirely that which puts flowers and humanity 
 in the same scale ; that which appreciates a stick as 
 highly as a soul, and lavishes as much labor on the por 
 traiture of a pan as Da Vinci would have bestowed on 
 the "Last Supper," or Raphael on a picture of the 
 Fornarina.
 
 MRS. KEMBLE. 
 
 " In the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your 
 passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it 
 smoothness." Hamlet. 
 
 I KNOW of no one who has acquired and begot this 
 temperance of which Hamlet speaks, in the same degree 
 with Mrs. Kemble ; I know of nothing that more exactly 
 describes the style and school of elocution in which she 
 excels, than this advice to the players. The Kembles 
 all believed that dignity and grace and taste could be 
 combined with the expression of the intensest feeling ; 
 they all acted upon this belief. They never relinquished 
 their stately demeanor for effectiveness ; they never sacri 
 ficed their elegance to rant ; they were well-bred when 
 they raged, and measured when they wept. And their 
 representative is faithful to the traditions of her race. 
 She too preserves the music of intonation in the most 
 tremendous outbursts of passion, and forgets not her 
 art when her genius is most apparent. For it was the 
 peculiarity of this extraordinary family, that its mem 
 bers combined great art with undoubted genius ; they 
 were not of the cold, unimpassioned sort who elaborate 
 sounding declamation without feeling it; who portray 
 and copy life, but are not themselves alive ; they infused 
 meaning and expression into their eloquent tones and
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 243 
 
 graceful attitudes ; their t iste added a crowning orna 
 ment to their feeling, but interfered not with its utter 
 ance or embodiment. Mrs. Kemble is a true Kemble 
 in this ; it is impossible to hear and see her without ap 
 preciating at once her exquisite skill and her magnetic 
 influence. 
 
 "Yet with her, as it was with the other Kembles, art is 
 supreme ; if the two come in collision, nature must give 
 way. I like nearly as well as its most devoted admirers, 
 tLe style of this school ; I believe that grace and dignity 
 can be, combined with passion and feeling ; I delight in 
 the music of elocution, and am gratified by the stately 
 walk and dignified postures of these commanding forms. 
 I appreciate, I think, the cadences of poetry, and do 
 not call Shakspeare less true to nature when he writes 
 in blank verse than in prose ; for there is a higher than 
 an every-day nature that answers back to these exalted 
 influences. It is this nature in us that admires the ideal 
 in art ; that frowns on materialism ; that is affected by 
 tne truthfulness of Lear and Raphael, by the music of 
 Mozart and the readings of Mrs. Kemble. Though these 
 geniuses do not represent human nature in her coarsest 
 or commonest garb, though they lift us up for a time 
 into a higher sphere, we feel that they do not trans 
 gress the promptings of nature, that they are truthful, 
 that they are natural, as well as impressive and effective. 
 
 Yet John Kemble was supreme till Kean came, and 
 then the sceptre departed from Judah. You could ima 
 gine nothing finer than Kemble s Hamlet, till you had 
 felt the influence of Kean s Richard or Othello ; and 
 exalting and refining as are the readings of Mrs. Kem 
 ble, I like her better as a reader than as an actress. I
 
 244 The Vagabond. 
 
 mean that her intellectual powers are greater than her 
 dramatic ones ; I mean that when she reads something 
 like Clarence s dream, which cannot be acted, she is 
 inimitable, but that I have known others move me more 
 in the rendei ing of Richard in the tent scene of the 
 same play. You feel no lack if you have not seen or 
 heard these others who are transcendent ; but if you 
 have, the Kembles pale their uneffectual fires. 
 
 There are two sorts of reading ; one elocutionary and 
 the other dramatic. In the former, Mrs. Kemble is 
 absolutely unapproachable ; in the latter, she probably 
 excels any one else, but she becomes so much of an 
 actress that it is impossible not to contrast her with 
 other actors who, in their turn, excel her. Of course, it 
 is unfair to make the comparison ; for in the reading of 
 an entire play, it is impossible for any one to become so 
 completely identified with a single part as in acting it. 
 Doubtless, Mrs. Kemble could give every passage with 
 greater effectiveness and intensity were she playing tho 
 role; but it belongs to her style to stop short of the ab 
 solute abandonment of passion ; she maintains the tem 
 perance and smoothness in the very whirlwind ; she never 
 loses her self-control when her excitement is at the high 
 est pitch ; she never becomes absolutely the individual 
 whom she represents. Now, I believe that perfection 
 in the histrionic art is not reached until the performer 
 thinks and feels, for the time, that he is Richard or Des- 
 demona ; till he ceases to imitate, and feels instead of 
 feigns ; till he no more restrains himself than a man in 
 a real passion does : yet if he be a genius, this abandon 
 ment, absolute as it is, shall still be lofty and magnificent 
 as well as effective.
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 245 
 
 I repeat it is unfair to compare Mrs. Kemble s read 
 ing with another s acting; but it is the highest compli 
 ment I can pay her. Without the adventitious aids of 
 dress and scenery, she is able to bring up the various 
 individuals of the play nearly as vividly as a stage full of 
 performers. You see and hear Othello and lago, Richard 
 and Lady Anne, Prospero and Ariel. You cannot avoid 
 criticising her as an actress ; for she possesses the mar 
 vellous faculty of expression in face and form, that is as 
 necessary to an actress as intellect or voice, and contri 
 butes as much to success as either. She has also the 
 power which the very greatest geniuses of the stage pos 
 sess, not only of enchaining the attention, but compelling 
 an unconscious imitation of her looks in those of her hear 
 ers. I have at times caught myself responding to her 
 expression or copying with my own features the varying 
 emotions depicted on her mobile countenance. 
 
 Then I knew that I had been not only absorbed but 
 forced into a state of subjection to her genius ; and 
 looking around I saw the entire audience also subject. 
 When she expressed anger, they looked angry ; when 
 she portrayed fear, they looked fearful. They were en 
 rapport with her ; she swayed them at her will, as the skil 
 ful magnetizer does his patient. This is a power that the 
 very greatest histrionic geniuses, and only the greatest, 
 wield. Rachel, Grisi, and young Booth exert it ; and its 
 possession alone stamps Mrs. Kemble a woman of genius. 
 
 Then how wonderfully her face expresses passion ! how 
 radiant it becomes with that highest beauty, of soul ! 
 The features, which in repose are too massive and heavy 
 to be absolutely beautiful, then assume a life and spirit 
 that transcend all other beauty. You wonder not at
 
 246 The Vagabond. 
 
 Othello s love when she looks Desdemona; you can par 
 don Desdemona s infatuation when she beams out the pas 
 sion of the Moor. I think the most magnificent intensity 
 of expression I ever saw in her, was that which accom 
 panied the death of Desdemona the awful attitude of 
 Othello as he held the smothered victim down, and the 
 black frown that indicated he was a murderer. This fol 
 lowed so instantly on the last shriek of Desdemona that 
 the scene was brought as vividly before the imagination 
 as on the stage. I have never seen an Othello or a 
 Desdemona equal it. 
 
 This reminds me of what is the most remarkable thing 
 connected with these readings. I mean the versatility 
 of feeling which enables Mrs. Kemble to throw herself 
 so instantly from one character into another ; to share 
 alike the fear of Desdemona and the determination of 
 Othello ; the scorn of Gloster and the hate of Margaret 
 of Anjou. This compensates for the occasional lack of 
 intensity is, indeed, incompatible with it. It affords 
 the listener a more continued gratification, a more even 
 one than he can ever have in a theatre ; for no play can 
 ever be so well rendered throughout as Mrs. Kemble 
 reads it. We are bored by no miserable creatures in 
 the subordinate parts ; she is sure to be well supported ; 
 she reads every line exquisitely; and as Shakspeare 
 is so crammed with meaning, and wit and poetry, tis 
 doubly delightful to have every shade of expression so 
 fitly rendered. 
 
 This versatility makes her comic readings to the full as 
 great a pleasure as her tragic ones ; she gives the drunken 
 scene of Cassio delightfully; she renders the jibes of the 
 young Duke of York, the childish, pettish tones of the boy,
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 247 
 
 quite as well as the deep mutterings of his hunchback 
 uncle. Indeed I think her more delightful still in comedy 
 than in tragedy ; the intensity there is not needed ; and 
 it is impossible to conceive of anything more exquisite 
 than her " Midsummer Night s Dream." All the delight 
 ful poetry is poetically read : the humor of Bottom and 
 the malice of Puck, the grace of Titania, are made reali 
 ties to the imagination and to the ear, if not to the eye ; 
 indeed, more palpable to the sight, as they are expressed 
 on her changing features, more real than if they were 
 portrayed by people of ordinary talent, who would only 
 disenchant you when they essayed to deceive. 
 
 In passages indicative of tenderness, of love, of deep 
 but not harsh feeling, the wealth of passion lavished 
 by Romeo and Juliet, the manly ardor of Othello, 
 the touching address of Wolsey to Cromwell, and the 
 death scene of Katherine of Arragon, she is as admi 
 rable as can be desired. In Henry VIII., of course, she 
 reminds one of Miss Cushman, and seems to me to possess 
 more feeling. Miss Cushman s taste and intellect are 
 quite as remarkable as those of Mrs. Kemble ; but the 
 Englishwoman is more of a woman. She can be touching, 
 she can move to tears, when the other would only pro 
 voke to admiration. Her forte is not so much the 
 terrible and harsh emotions, not the awful fright of 
 Richard or the hurry of the battle scene, not the intense 
 malignity of lago or the bursts of rage in Lear ; she 
 does not occasion these shocks of strange delight that 
 some actors cause, but in the rendering of familiar or 
 tender passion, in graceful comedy, in tasteful poetry, 
 in versatility, and in the general pleasure she affords, 
 Mrs. Kemble must stand unrivalled. I can imagine no
 
 248 The Vagabond. 
 
 more intellectual gratification than her reading, no finer 
 lesson to the taste ; and if at times I fancy that I might 
 experience a more acute sensation than she excites, I 
 certainly can seldom know a more refined or loftier 
 pleasure.
 
 AMERICAN BELLES. 
 
 " Examine other beauties." 
 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 I HAVE been jilted of late ; so it I write snappishly or 
 spitefully, my readers are forewarned, and can take their 
 granum salts. At any rate, I shall write with feeling. 
 You will think so, for I had intended to say my say 
 about an opera to-day, and had even written the title 
 at the top of my page ; but the uppermost emotion 
 would have its way ; so I scratched out " The Hugue 
 nots," and set down instead "American Belles." 
 
 Emerson says in one of his essays : "A beautiful woman 
 is a picture w T hich drives all beholders nobly mad." I 
 have seen several beautiful women, and consequently, 
 according to Emerson, been driven mad several times. 
 Xow when one gets sane after his noble madness, or 
 Avhen one thinks he is sane (for they say the taint of 
 lunacy is never removed, and after a while the old 
 disease is sure to return with redoubled virulence), his 
 experience is useful to the doctors. He may serve as a 
 warning, to point out to others how they shall escape 
 his fate. His treatment, too, may teach what regimen 
 is to be avoided and what to be essayed. Pelican-like, 
 then, picking my own breast to feed the curiosity of my 
 readers ; poet-like, drawing from my own feelings to 
 11*
 
 250 The Vagabond. 
 
 make my strain more truthful, I begin. Musa ! mihi 
 causas memora ! 
 
 American belles ! belles like Beatrice, so queenly, and 
 tall, and elegant and fascinating ; belles like Norah, 
 with dark, flashing eyes, and merry laugh, and shrewd 
 sense and keen wit ; belles like Cornelia, sumptuous, 
 and superb and lazy ; belles like Kitty, dashing, and 
 racy, and brilliant and coquettish ; belles like them all 
 inclined to flirt, inclined to be fast. The characteristics 
 I first mentioned are such as any woman may share ; 
 are not peculiar to Americans. French women are gay, 
 English women are voluptuously formed, Spanish women 
 are bewitching and Italian women are brilliant ; but 
 if American belles can be distinguished, as a class, by 
 any traits peculiarly their own, it is by their love of 
 flirtation and of frolic. Other belles, when they play 
 with men at the dangerous game of love, play in 
 earnest ; their passions get involved instantly ; they 
 cannot touch the edged tools without cutting them 
 selves ; and therefore other women are more closely, 
 and scrupulously and wisely guarded than ours. But 
 an American girl can touch the brink of all we love 
 without falling over ; can engage in a desperate flirta 
 tion without feeling one spark of passion, and without 
 eliciting one in her partner. Is this because she is inca 
 pable, or cold ? I recollect reading some French book 
 that treated of American society, and nothing surprised 
 the foreigner like this facility of flirtation ; the very 
 word as well as the theory was unknown to him. There 
 is no equivalent for it in that language, which has a 
 word for every shade of feeling, for every idea of society, 
 for every pha.se of thought. So my Frenchman adopted
 
 American Belles. 251 
 
 our phrase, and spelt itfleurtecheunej but a fleurtecheune 
 is not flirtation. No Frenchwoman coiild realize even 
 from the vivid description of her countryman the possi. 
 Lility of such a delightful state of affairs as exists here. 
 
 For it certainly is delightful. You have all the plea 
 sure of love ; all the piquant, interesting charm of la 
 belle passion, without any of the painful intensity. A 
 man and woman may like each other well enough to 
 spend many a pleasant hour together ; may even prefer 
 each other to any one else they have met ; may be good 
 friends ay, they may even be and do all this, and be 
 young besides, and yet not be plunged into that horrible 
 gulf of love, which has no pleasure, only a painful one. 
 At least, this is possible in America. Romeo and Juliet, 
 I know, foolish creatures ! could not see each other 
 without going madly to work and loving ; but two 
 young Americans in their position, meeting at a ball, 
 would have been content with a flirtation. They would 
 have said, perhaps, as pretty things as Miss Capulet 
 and Mr. Montague did at the masquerade, but they 
 would have stopped short of the hand-kissing ; they 
 would only have talked of it. And can any one imagine 
 an American belle standing on her balcony after a party, 
 and ranting about a beau who had just been introduced 
 to her, as Juliet did about Romeo ? Can any one ima 
 gine a member of the Union Club clambering over into 
 the back yard of a family with whom his own was not 
 on speaking terms, and eavesdropping while the belle 
 apostrophized him in rhapsodic strains? How much 
 more sensible for these young people, who are just as 
 handsome and agreeable as the Veronese couple, to dance 
 "The Lanciers," and promenade the avenue (not arm
 
 252 The Vagabond. 
 
 in arm), to visit and be visited at the opera, to go out 
 with a chaperone or without, according as mamma is 
 rigid or not how much more sensible than to take poi 
 son, and go down into vaults, to visit friars cells, to 
 fling themselves on the earth, to die for each other, and 
 all that. My modern pair, after a few months very vio 
 lent flirtation, after dancing indefatigably together an 
 entire season, after being seen in public invariably at the 
 same time and place, after exciting some little talk among 
 their set, suddenly subside ; and, though they are good 
 friends thereafter, neither suffers from the subsidence. 
 The young man devotes himself more attentively to busi 
 ness, or to some other charmer, of another style ; the 
 belle accepts the richest or the most distinguished of her 
 admirers, and there is a great wedding, a matinee dan- 
 sante, to which Mr. Montague will certainly be invited. 
 The trouble is that a belle must carry on several flirta 
 tions at once. Every young lady in society finds at least 
 a single admirer ; but the popular one, the particularly 
 rich, the particularly beautiful, the particularly fascinat 
 ing one has a host, each waiting to take his turn. This is 
 probably very agreeable to her, but I am sure it is distaste 
 ful to the worshippers: I myself never enjoy a ball or a 
 party while I am in love, for I am a man of taste, and 
 always fall in love with belles ; I can t expect to mono 
 polize the attention of a brilliant girl during an entire 
 evening, and I don t like to see her dancing with a bet 
 ter-looking man than myself. I vastly prefer a morning 
 visit, when nobody else is likely to come in, and I never 
 choose reception days. I think a box at the opera infi 
 nitely better than a soiree, even if I am the escort. But 
 the skilful manner in which a professed belle plays off
 
 American Belles. 253 
 
 her different attendants; the tact with which she will 
 distribute a smile to one, a look to another, and a word 
 to a third, each fancying that nobody else gets such a 
 look, such a smile, so soft a glance, so low a tone this 
 is amazingly interesting when you are only a looker-on. 
 The belle does not intend to be coquettish ; she really 
 likes all the fellows, but for different reasons ; one is so 
 handsome, another so good-natured, another so clever ; 
 Tom sends her such bouquets, and Ned is an old friend 
 of the family, while Mr. Montague is so much admired 
 by all the girls, and especially by Rosalind, that she 
 must keep him at her shrine. Thus she has a reason for 
 being civil, ay, more than civil, to each ; besides, they 
 all like her, they all are her friends, and she can t be so 
 ungrateful as to wound their feelings ; so she keeps them 
 dangling. 
 
 American girls are very good-natured, you see. They 
 all have good hearts, though not very warm ones; they 
 would not do much for a friend ; you couldn t expect 
 them to make a great exertion or a great sacrifice in 
 your behalf, but they appreciate what you do for them ; 
 they wouldn t stop a bit of scandal about an acquaint 
 ance, but they wouldn t set one in motion. There are 
 hateful, malicious ones, who possess the dangerous gift 
 of wit, and spit out spiteful words in your face ; who 
 say things that make a man feel very unpleasant, and 
 which he can t resent because they are said by a woman ; 
 but these are few. Most girls are not brilliant enough 
 to say such things ; their wit is only sportive ; and most 
 of them would not willingly give pain ; they may -some 
 times quiz you to your face, and boast of it afterwards, 
 but not often ; they may laugh at a man s peculiarities
 
 254 The Vagabond. 
 
 and foibles when he is away, but that is fair ; the men 
 talk up the women as well I can vouch for it; we know 
 all your weak points, darlings ; don t flatter yourselves, 
 that you escape. Sometimes, after you have been snuffing 
 up the incense of adoration for a whole evening, t\vo or 
 three of your admirers will go home together, and as 
 they stop to take a cigar, or a supper, after a starvation 
 party, say how badly you were dressed, or how awkward 
 you moved in " The Landers ;" they don t admire your 
 singing, or you are pretty, but you know it too well. 
 
 All the belles are fast ; married or single, in their first 
 winter, or almost passee, the beauties and the wits, all 
 the women who make a sensation in society are pronon- 
 cee ; perhaps only a little so, but they must be distin 
 guished from the rest to be belles ; they must dare do 
 things that the others will not do ; they must have more 
 manner, more confidence, very likely more cleverness, 
 but all this makes them rather fast. Perhaps I do not 
 choose my word with sufficient care ; perhaps there is 
 none that exactly expresses what I mean. But is it not 
 true that those who are most admired, who are most 
 invited, who are never neglected at a ball, and always 
 have a crowd around them at the opera, are those who 
 flirt most, who talk most, who laugh most, who go out 
 most, who accept most attentions, who are called by the 
 men, not only brilliant, but fast. 
 
 The greatest southern belle whom I have known was 
 a woman of large fortune, and used as all belles are 
 not from her earliest years, to the highest companies. 
 She had been abroad, spoke several languages, danced 
 divinely, and was rather good-looking, when well dressed. 
 But she lived at a hotel, and told me of changing the
 
 American Belles. 255 
 
 gentlemen s boots at night, as they stood at their doors 
 to be cleaned ; she told me of wearing men s clothes ; 
 she went to the Jardin Mabille in Paris I have her 
 description of the scene now in a letter before me ; she 
 said, the severest and rudest things to people ; in fact, 
 she said some to me. Yet this lady has a position that 
 none can gainsay, and never was seen without a train of 
 admirers. 
 
 The western belles talk loud, laugh loud, walk fast, go 
 everywhere, do everything, without being immodest or 
 vulgar; they are decidedly piquant in their daring, like 
 Di Vernon or Lady Gay Spanker, and sure always 
 to make an impression. I remember seeing the daughter 
 of a United States senator, for a wager, order a drink at 
 the bar of the Astor House; and she tossed it off 
 bravely too. 
 
 The New York belles are by no means of this sort ; 
 are undoubtedly well-bred, can be dignified when they 
 choose ; but the enthusiasm of the American character 
 may be seen in their manners, subdued in a degree by 
 elegant associations ; still, they lack repose. They like 
 Verdi s music, and prefer the " Trovatore" to " The 
 Huguenots ;" they think " Stride la Vampa" superb, 
 but the romanza of Raoul tame.
 
 CARL FORMES. 
 
 "Either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, 
 historical-pastoral." Hamlet. 
 
 HOWEVER much one may dislike to own it, there can 
 be no doubt that the opera is rapidly supplanting the 
 drama in the estimation of the cultivated part of man 
 kind. As long ago as Voltaire s time, indications of this 
 state of affairs were perceived by that astute observer, 
 who declared that " the most sublime tragedy and the 
 most artful comedy are not so frequently revisited by the 
 same person as an indifferent opera." A critical judg 
 ment must indeed always place the intellectual merits of 
 the drama above the effeminate charm of the opera ; 
 and for myself, much as I enjoy the delights afforded by 
 music, I reckon the highest pleasures of the theatre 
 superior, simply as pleasures. There is, after all, nothing 
 but sense and passion gratified by music, but in the 
 theatre intellect also is called in play ; and, if you lose 
 the exquisite raptures that tickle your ear, at least as 
 intense an emotion is excited, one that compensates for the 
 lack of sensual titillation. Still, the highest dramatic 
 sort of entertainment is very rare, and ordinary theatri 
 cal performances cannot be compared with second-rate 
 operatic amusements. I had rather hear Labocetta 
 than see Miss Logan ; I had rather hear an indifferent 
 opera than see an indifferent play : I can get some plea-
 
 Carl Formes. 257 
 
 sure out of the one, while the other is an unmitigated 
 bore. The great world agrees with me and Voltaire ; 
 it frequents the Academy in crowds, and straggles in 
 only occasionally to the finest performances at the theatre. 
 As a result of this, great artists will prefer the operatic 
 stage : one would rather be appreciated by those best 
 qualified to judge ; one would rather display his talents 
 before the most distinguished audiences ; and, unless the 
 actor can compel crowds to follow him like those that 
 attend Ristori or Rachel, he must do as Formes does, and 
 sing ; that is, if, like Formes, he happens to possess a mag 
 nificent voice. For the great basso was intended by 
 nature for an actor rather than a singer ; his musical 
 abilities are uncommonly fine, but they are quite thrown 
 into the shade by his dramatic ones ; he himself enjoys 
 acting more than singing, and we go away from his 
 performances thinking much more of what we have seen 
 than of what we have heard, superb as the last may have 
 been. In fact, there are times when his acting is so 
 excellent that it absolutely interferes with your apprecia 
 tion of the music ; it distracts your attention ; you are 
 watching the comic face of Basilio when you should be 
 listening to the notes of "La Calunnia; you are laugh 
 ing at Leporello when you should be enjoying the song 
 of his master. However, if Formes had been merely an 
 actor, he would have delighted smaller audiences ; he 
 would have been a German actor, and appeared only in 
 German theatres, and mostly before the middling class 
 of people ; whereas, by leaping on the operatic stage, he 
 secures every nation for hearers, and accomplished 
 people all over the world for admirers. He does not, 
 however, fail to affect all sorts of people. My barber is
 
 258 The Vagabond. 
 
 in raptures with him as well as my minister ; I have 
 heard them both praise him, though one heard him in 
 " Martha " and the other in " The Messiah." 
 
 Things have changed since Addison s day ; the sneer 
 ing tone in which he wrote of Nicolini, the he-singer, 
 is not that in which the critics have discussed Carl 
 Formes. The genius and the art of this last comer have 
 done much to elevate the consideration and position of 
 operatic artists. No person of sense or taste can see 
 the great basso and not acknowledge him to be a man 
 of more than ordinary abilities ; and not acknowledge 
 that he is in exactly the sphere for which nature intended 
 him ; can possibly rank him with the singers in the 
 pope s chapel, or the Nicolinis who used to scramble on 
 the stage with lions. If then it is apparent that all these 
 gifts could not have been lavished on a man for naught, 
 if he is possessed of gifts that can be exercised in no 
 other way than on the operatic stage, if he does exercise 
 them there in the most splendid manner, who shall 
 deride or despise him or his calling ? You may laugh at 
 some of the drunken or foppish tenors who spend their 
 lives in squabbling and squalling; but don t confound 
 true artists Avith fools who happen to possess a voice. 
 Voice and genius are very distinct qualities: I enjoy the 
 gratification one affords me, but I reverence the other. 
 I see no reason why a genius for the stage should be 
 denied the personal appreciation which it sometimes 
 covets more than the applause of theatres. If a man is 
 a gentleman, or a true man, his being an actor is no more 
 against him than his being a pork-merchant surely. And 
 yet, fools rush in where angels would get the door shut 
 in their faces.
 
 Carl Formes. 259 
 
 When I first heard Formes sing the incantation music 
 of " Robert le Diable," and saw him compel Alice to 
 descend from her post at the foot of the cross ; when I 
 first listened and looked while he pleaded with Robert in 
 the grand trio of the same opera, and with all a father s 
 earnestness, and all a demon s intensity, besought the 
 son ; when I heard his suspiration of gratified hate at 
 overcoming the Norman peasant ; when I watched his 
 attitudes so full of meaning and passion, his looks so 
 intent and devilish, his hands so expressive in their play, 
 his stride, the sweep of his robes, the very toss of his 
 hair, and the instinctive, nervous twitchings of his limbs, 
 I recognised the true dramatic nature. More than this, 
 however ; Formes has a nature that seeks expression not 
 only in form and face, but in song as well : though with 
 him, song is but one part of a stupendous whole. His 
 voice, so rich, so full, so melodious (when true), so 
 sweet, but above all so sympathetic, is fitly joined to 
 such abilities as he possesses. It is natural for him to- 
 sing ; he sings to give vent to his feelings ; you do not 
 perceive the absurdity of opera \vhile you listen to his 
 notes ; you are not amazed that Bertram calls the guilty 
 nuns to earth by means of song, or that Plunket tells 
 his love to Nancy in involuted strains. He so feels the 
 music that he makes his audience feel it too. He takes 
 you up along with him into the region where all these 
 things are possible and probable ; where demons cry to 
 their sons in heart-rending ti ios, and valets shudder in 
 terrific tones ; where Mozart and Meyerbeer lived when 
 they composed, where great artists live when they em 
 body great ideas, where you and I must follow these 
 geniuses if we would appreciate their efforts. Formes
 
 260 The Vagabond. 
 
 catches us all up into this region ; he wakes an en 
 nobling fire in the dullest listener ; he sends an emotion 
 to the coldest looker-on. It is this magnetic influence 
 which we feel, which he feels, which is exerted by glance 
 and tone and action, that constitutes his power. He 
 does not possess it in the same degree as some that I have 
 watched ; he is not the greatest of actors, but he is yet 
 truly great ; he does not so completely absorb as to 
 make you utterly indifferent to everything and every 
 body else on or off the stage ; but he compels your 
 attention, and he is sure to repay it. 
 
 His versatility is, perhaps, more wonderful than his 
 electric influence. His tragic powers are great, as who 
 can doubt that has seen his attitudes and action in the 
 third act of " Robert," or his painfully life-like represen 
 tation of terror in the finale of " Don Giovanni ?" But 
 his comic abilities are still finer. He enters into fun with 
 a greater zest even than that which he bestows upon the 
 loftier parts. I was in the coulisses on the night of his 
 debut, and saw him stalk loftily alone, while waiting for 
 his cue, evidently imbued with the spirit of Bertram, 
 looking and feeling devilish enough ; but I have also, 
 from the stage boxes, seen him brimful of the most exu 
 berant fun in the entr actes of a comic opera; while 
 that he fully appreciates the mirth of Plunket or Le- 
 porello none will doubt who have seen "Martha" or "Don 
 Giovanni." He seems boiling over with nonsense. He 
 convulses the house, and is himself convulsed ; he is as 
 droll as Hudibras and as comic as Gabriel Ravel, and 
 alas! occasionally coarse. I have seen him guilty of 
 vulgar humor ; the gobbling up of the maccaroni in 
 "Don Giovanni," though it is traditional, is disgust-
 
 Carl Formes. 261 
 
 ing, and entirely unworthy a great artist like Carl 
 Formes. 
 
 I have called him an artist ; and he is an artist as well 
 as a genius. He omits no detail of dress or manner ; 
 he never forgets his role, he never remembers himself ; 
 he is completely absorbed bodily and mentally in his 
 part. It is not Formes, but Georgio in " I Puritani," or 
 Rocco in " Fidelio," that you see. Every motion, every 
 look is in character. His by-play is quite as effective as his 
 great points ; indeed, he makes but few startling points ; 
 it is the uniform excellence of his acting that delights 
 you. He never excites those shocks of emotion, whether 
 comic or tragic, that the very greatest geniuses alone 
 can cause, but he always gratifies you ; if he reaches not 
 the absolute superlative, his comparative merits will suf 
 fer by juxtaposition with those of very few. 
 
 His excellence is, however, not only perceptible in the 
 careful attention to what another would consider trivia 
 lities, not only in the painstaking appreciation of details, 
 not only in producing quiet touches, but in the large con 
 ception he takes of a part, in the admirable manner in 
 which he seizes hold of the thought of the composer. 
 He enters into the very spirit of the music, whether it 
 is buffo or serious. He makes Leporello not a mere 
 vulgar buffoon, but a man of the world although a valet ; 
 a shrewd, vain, cowardly, affectionate, even reverential 
 fellow. He discovers traits in the music of the role that 
 no one else had detected before ; he elevates the charac 
 ter into the region of high comedy, and at last finds 
 out how to harmonize this light, ridiculous creature with 
 some of the grandest music of Mozart. He feels how 
 unfit were the chatterings and grinnings of former Le-
 
 262 The Vagabond. 
 
 porellos for the sublime finale of " Don Giovanni, and 
 substitutes for them a representation of terror that I 
 do not scruple to say enhances the effect even of Mo 
 zart s music ; that is in admirable keeping with the spirit 
 this would awaken ; that is at once profound in concep 
 tion and nearly unequalled in the representation. 
 
 I have persisted in considering the musical abilities of 
 Formes as entirely secondary to his dramatic ones. I 
 enjoy his singing as much as that of any basso who has 
 preceded him in America ; the superiority of his voice 
 being especially apparent in the Libertad duo of "I 
 Puritani," where its fluent sweetness as a basso can- 
 tante, its sympathetic tones and its flexibility are most 
 remarkable ; in the concluding trio of Robert, where 
 its passionate intensity seems to culminate, and in the 
 third act of the same opera, where it assumes entirely 
 the character of a basso profundo, and surpasses any 
 other ever heard here, in compass, if not in volume; but 
 his singing is sometimes forgotten for his acting ; it is 
 entirely subordinate to the grand effect ; it is not, in fact, 
 so perfect as his acting, for he sometimes sings false ; but 
 he never acts false.
 
 RACHEL. 
 
 " n faut done quitter tout." 
 
 SHE who so often simulated death, has succumbed to 
 the reality ; she who studied the workings of poison in 
 the hospitals of Paris, and portrayed them with such 
 terrible life -liken ess, has passed through an agony fiercer 
 than she had feigned ; she who was wont to cry with 
 such harrowing accents, in the last act of " Adrienne," 
 " Je suis si jeune, et la vie s ouvre pour moi si belle ! " 
 has exclaimed in bitter earnest as she looked at her 
 jewels and her sumptuous robes : " II faut done quitter 
 tout ! " Yes, all ; all the triumphs, all the fascinations 
 of the theatre; the crowded audiences, the reverberating 
 plaudits, the gorgeous garments, the homage paid by 
 kings and poets, the jewels oifered by emperors and 
 cities, the glory of being to her own people the inter 
 preter of their greatest poetry, and to the rest of man 
 kind the truest embodiment of those classic fictions 
 which have delighted the world for thirty centuries. 
 All she had to leave. One can hardly realize that the 
 form so instinct with expression, that towered in hate 
 in " Les Horaces" and writhed in agony in " Adrienne," 
 that was all alive with love and horror conflicting in 
 " Phedre," and transformed with a radiance never seen 
 on any other uninspired form, in " Polyeucte," that this
 
 264 The Vagabond. 
 
 should be still and stiff for ever ; that the eye which 
 burned with the intensest and guiltiest ardors, or with 
 ered with scorn, or flashed with hate, should be finally 
 closed; that the voice, which rang clear and loud, or 
 was convulsed with emotion, that was the very music 
 of declamation, or the absolute incarnation in sound of 
 rage and horror, should be for ever stifled. To be sure, 
 as Gertrude says, in " Hamlet : " " All that live must 
 die." The change is common, but how much more 
 startling when it falls upon one whom we have only 
 seen in the intensest life, crowned with the most daz 
 zling gifts ever vouchsafed to humanity, receiving in 
 the most actual and present manner the applause of her 
 contemporaries ! Nothing strikes more forcibly than 
 the contrast between Rachel, as I last saw her, in " Phe- 
 dre," stammering out her guilty passion to the Amazon s 
 child, crying "j aime " with a meaning that no one else 
 could put into those two words, and looking "j aime" 
 with a meaning greater still, and Rachel, broken-hearted, 
 dying, struggling to resist the irresistible enemy, recall 
 ing her triumphs, and demanding once more to see the 
 jewels she had received and the royal attire she had worn 
 and then crying out in the bitterness of her soul : " II 
 faut done quitter tout !" 
 
 The secret of the fascination of the theatre for minds 
 of a certain class, minds imaginative and yet not 
 wholly so, minds which like to see their imaginings 
 embodied, and which sometimes fling an imaginary 
 grace around the actual, which live in the real world 
 but elevate it into the ideal, is, that great acting makes 
 real for them their ideal ; it presents to the perceptions 
 of eye and ear what had before only lived in the cliam-
 
 Rachel. 205 
 
 bers of the brain. Of course, this is the mission of all 
 art ; this incarnation of the imagination is what elevates 
 and refines in painting and statuary and architecture. 
 Poetry is purely and simply imaginative; it calls up 
 only to the soul s sense the creations of the poet s 
 fancy ; it is dreamy and abstract : but other and realer 
 art makes alive, brings out of the womb of the mind ; 
 not only conceives, but brings forth, through much 
 tribulation, a living thing a thing of beauty ; and as a 
 man, who unborn is soulless, but once brought into the 
 world is alive for an eternity, so this thing of beauty 
 once embodied, is a joy for ever. It not only vivifies 
 the conceptions of the artist, but realizes the ideas of 
 the rest of the world ; those unformed, floating notions 
 of the beautiful we all have, are shown by it not to be 
 mere fancies, to be capable of expression, of utterance, 
 of form, of life. 
 
 Now, no art is so actual as that of the stage ; the 
 actor does not represent a man, he is one ; he does not 
 so much feign passion as he really feels. As the human 
 voice is the sweetest and most expressive of instru. 
 ments, as the human form is the noblest, and the human 
 face the most beautiful and pliable of materials, so he 
 who works with such material has an advantage over 
 his brother artists who labor in colder clay and less liv 
 ing colors, or struggle with rougher and more intractable 
 instruments. The sculptor leaves you to imagine life 
 and color, the painter can only make you fancy form 
 and substance, the musician represents words ; all their 
 arts are more intangible, more elusive, more ideal per 
 haps than that of the great artists of the stage ; the 
 actors may be no greater, but they are more perfect in 
 
 12
 
 266 The Vagabond. 
 
 this one thing in the complete expression and elimina 
 tion of their idea. No statue ever equalled the grace 
 and dignity of one of Rachel s attitudes, and she 
 changed them every moment; no painting ever por 
 trayed half the intensity of her looks, and they came in 
 such rapid succession that the beholder was fatigued to 
 follow. So the stage, of course only in its most exalted 
 representatives, possesses advantages that no other art 
 can claim. Who could possibly paint a Phedre like that 
 we have seen ? Who can carve a Camille like that we 
 shall never see again ? 
 
 For if the stage possesses this power of realizing 
 the creatures of the imagination as no other art does, 
 Rachel, of all actors, was the one who possessed the 
 greatest share of this power. She not only realized a 
 grace, a beauty, a dignity such as we had never before 
 seen with our bodily eyes, but such as few of us had 
 dreamed of in our most exalted rhapsodies. She pre 
 sented to us loftier ideas than many had imagined from 
 reading the poet s page ; she soared even beyond the 
 dramatist himself; what was Racine s Phedre, com 
 pared with hers? What was the Camille of "Les Ho 
 races" by the side of the magnificent creation of the 
 actress ? I think I shall never tire of the theatre for 
 this reason ; I would rather have my fancies fully em 
 bodied, than floating half-shapen through my brain. I 
 may not be so ethereal or so completely ideal in the 
 character of my mind as those who are content with 
 their own imaginings ; but when I can contemplate 
 incarnate even a degree of Hamlet s solemn melan 
 choly, of Macbeth s fright, or. the terrific grace of Phe 
 dre, it affects me more than the gloating over my own
 
 Rachel. 267 
 
 notions alone. I leave altogether out of consideration 
 the sympathetic influence possessed by some geniuses, 
 and which, I confess, affects me more even than their 
 art. But this Rachel did not possess ; with her, it was 
 the perfection of art you contemplated. 
 
 She had a complete appreciation of the character 
 suggested by the poet ; she entered absolutely into the 
 sentiment of antiquity ; she was imbued with the classic 
 influence, and she possessed a wonderful intellect as well 
 as all the mechanical or material gifts of a great actor ; 
 that is, a voice, a form and a face capable of any de 
 gree of expression, either in the lightest shade, or the 
 greatest intensity. And she knew perfectly how and 
 when to use her tools ; but she did not possess the 
 electric feeling which acts so strangely upon actor and 
 audience. She struck you with awe or horror, but she 
 felt none herself; she moved you, but it was in spite of 
 yourself. Her exertions were wonderful, and their re 
 sults prodigious ; but she was not of those upon whom 
 the inspiration descends ; she rather worked herself up. 
 I could often tell when she was about to make a point 
 by the preparation of her limbs, like the crouch of a 
 basilisk before its spring. When I saw the shivering, I 
 knew she was about to move me, but I could not sit un 
 moved for all that knowledge. Her influence was akin 
 to that of a sorceress; you saw the means by which she 
 produced the charm, at least you knew them ; you saw 
 her prepare to cast the spell about you, and yet could 
 not resist. You were as completely in her power, as if 
 you had fallen in unawares. This of course is a proof 
 of the greatness of her art, but it proves, too, that the 
 Inspiration of the moment did nothing for her. You
 
 268 The Vagabond. 
 
 never wondered how Grisi moved you ; you never knew ; 
 she never knew herself; the moment came and with it 
 the inspiration. The one was absorbed in the play, and 
 felt all the wrath of ISTorma or remorse of La Favorita ; the 
 other knew all the time that she was Rachel, the Jewess, 
 and that you were only the puppet to be worked upon. 
 
 This everlasting coldness, this superhuman calm, this 
 almost divine serenity, while all around were shudder 
 ing with awe, or wrought up to the highest pitch of 
 excitement, provoked the auditor. One does not like 
 to feel at the mere beck of another ; to be dissected 
 and subjected to a galvanic battery ; you want to feel 
 from sympathy ; because another is moved, you would 
 be moved also. Then you care not how deep the emotion. 
 
 But your admiration and interest were compelled in 
 your own despite by Rachel. From the first instant 
 that she was upon the stage your attention was riveted 
 and concentrated upon her ; it was impossible to look at 
 anything else. She first attracted by the inimitable 
 grace and dignity of her attitudes, and when the spell 
 was potent, defied you to resist the fascination or re 
 move your eyes. For with her, as with other great 
 actors, the pantomime was even greater than the de 
 clamation. The charm consisted more in the wonderful 
 meaning she was able to throw into every movement 
 than in the sonorous tones of her voice, thrilling as its 
 accents were. The glittering fire of her eye, the world 
 of expression in her mouth, the electric motion of her 
 limbs, all these were incomparable. The idea that it 
 was necessary to understand French, in order to appre 
 ciate her, is absurd ; passion speaks a universal language, 
 and needs no interpreter ; and if Rachel had uttered
 
 Rachel. 269 
 
 not a word, her acting would still have been consum 
 mate art. 
 
 But art only : her attitudes, although inimitable, were 
 so exact, that by no possibility could one of them have 
 been unprepared. The awful minuteness in the delinea 
 tion of the death scene in " Adrienne" was always the 
 same ; from the nervous twitching at the bosom which 
 first indicated the action of the poison, to the last atti 
 tude as she sat in her chair, her eyes set and every limb 
 fixed with a rigidity that life never knew before. The 
 same gesture always occurred at the identical moment, 
 and always exactly in the same place ; when you had 
 seen her once, you had seen her always. Then that 
 wonderful voice of hers, always true, gave like an in 
 strument, always the right note at her call ; her into 
 nations, like her movements, were never changed. But 
 as she had reached absolute perfection, she could not 
 change the slightest gesture, look, or tone, for the bet 
 ter. Then why change ? You could not quarrel with 
 her for not deviating from what was superlatively great ; 
 only this proves that she was impassive, intellectual, 
 cold ; not impulsive, and fitful and inspired. 
 
 Neither was she versatile ; her greatness was only 
 transcendant within her own sphere. No human being 
 ever surpassed her rendering of classic roles. The fear 
 ful curses that Camille calls down on Rome, uttered with 
 an earnestness that made the blood curdle in one s 
 veins ; the shame and torture of the guilty Phedre over 
 whelmed with passion for her husband s son, and the 
 ecstatic radiance that beamed from the face of Paulino 
 when she cried : " Je vois, je sais, je crois " all these 
 were effects such as will never be equalled. But they
 
 2 JO The Vagabond. 
 
 were not such as come home to the heart of mankind 
 they were ideal and distant ; classic, beautiful, or terri 
 ble ; but Rachel could not play a modern woman in love : 
 she had no talent for comedy ; her Lesbie was not wor 
 thy of comparison with her other roles ; her representa 
 tion of Adrienne only became transcendent when she 
 became tragic ; her Tisbe was exquisite, and beautiful 
 to look at, because she could not be ungraceful, and 
 dressed with superb taste, but what was this compared 
 with the scorn of Hermione ? Others play Tisbe, but 
 who will attempt Camille ? 
 
 Two things seem to me to have distinguished Rachel 
 from all the actors whom I have seen or read of. The 
 first is the classic severity with which she embodied the 
 ancient characters, the awful feeling of fate with which 
 she could invest them, the reality which she gave to the 
 fables of antiquity. Mon plus beau rdle de Camille, she 
 rightly styled that in which she first played in America. 
 The statues that have come down to us do not so realize 
 one s notions of Grecian queens or Roman maidens; the 
 ideas we had of Hermione and Virginia were not so true, 
 or so exact, or so exalted as those she gave us. No one 
 probably ever shared, in equal degree, this power to 
 vivify antiquity, to recall the interest which was felt by 
 the Greeks in the amhpitheatre of Athens three thousand 
 years ago, when they shuddered over the same crimes 
 and wept over the same woes that have moved the entire 
 cultivated world of to-day. 
 
 The other peculiarity is one of her art, or her tempe 
 rament, rather than of her intellect or taste. It was the 
 emotion she was able to express in limb and form. 
 Others whom I have seen have crowded as much and as
 
 Rachel. 271 
 
 varied meaning into their faces ; eyes have glared as 
 intensely, mouths have been as mobile and as passionate, 
 nostrils have dilated as fiercely, cheeks have faded and 
 reddened at will like hers ; but no frame ever was so 
 instinct with feeling ; no step had such significance ; 
 no hands were so full of expression. Think of the writh 
 ing in that chair of Camille, of the utter relaxation of 
 nerve and form into the agony and abandonment of 
 grief; think of the unutterable scorn with which she 
 dragged her robe from the clutch of OEnone, in " Phe- 
 dre / think of her attitude as she sang the " Marseil 
 laise," and tell me who can equal these ? 
 
 Who, indeed, that heard and saw Rachel when she 
 sang the " Marseillaise " will soon forget it ? She chanted 
 the great song in a low monotone, the orchestra accom 
 panying her, but so subdued as in no way to obtrude 
 upon the ear. She had been playing Camille, and wore 
 her tunic alone, the outer garments thrown off, the 
 Roman head-dress laid aside, and came close up to the 
 audience. A woman singing her national hymn in a 
 strange land, an actress chanting to republicans the 
 strains forbidden in her own home, but which she had 
 sung in those stormy days of February she infused a 
 meaning into the famous "Marseillaise" that Rouget de 
 Lisle never dreamed of. She looked the very genius of 
 revolutions. The tri-colored flag was on the stage, and 
 while chanting the last words, Rachel snatched it up, 
 wrapped it round her, fell on her knees, and kissed the 
 folds. Of course she acted every word of the song ; of 
 course she made one feel that he had never really heard 
 the "Marseillaise" before. But even this must pass 
 away. Ilfaut done quitter tout.
 
 AN AMATEUR OPERA. 
 
 " Know you the musicians ?" 
 " Wholly, sir." 
 "Who play they to?" 
 " To the hearers, sir." 
 
 Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 NEW YORK society is divided into so many sets, that 
 not often does one subject agitate its different circles ; 
 especially during the last season of small parties and 
 panic reels, has it been more divided than ever. The 
 Charity fete before the holidays, and at the close of the 
 winter the Bachelors ball, united all the coteries, it is 
 true ; but with these exceptions, each set has revolved 
 in its own sphere, as regularly as a solar system. The 
 vagabonds, who, comet-like, shoot out of their legitimate 
 circle, and intrude within the influence of stranger 
 luminaries, or where a foreign sun is central, are few and 
 exceptional ; not to be taken as types. However, one 
 theme has for a month past been common to all the 
 drawing-rooms in town. At evening or morning visits, 
 at wedding matinees and charity raifles, at Landers 
 parties, at caudle parties, and on the promenade, wher 
 ever society has congregated, people have talked about 
 the amateur opera. At first a few faint whispers got 
 around ; then the names of the singers were known, and 
 the talent of the composer was discussed. Some re-
 
 An Amateur Opera. 273 
 
 membered that the opera had been sung a summer or 
 two ago at a country house on Long Island ; others were 
 sure it was entirely new. By-and-by, one or two for 
 tunate individuals had copies of the libretto sent them, 
 tastefully bound in green, with the compliments of the 
 author : a pleasing, pretty libretto, too, with plot enough 
 and character enough for a comic opera, with dramatic 
 situations, with language sufficiently characteristic and 
 amusing, with abundance of heroines and heroes, so that 
 any number of fashionable amateurs might participate. 
 
 Soon the rehearsals began : the amateurs learned 
 their parts, and sang snatches occasionally to a friend. 
 Some critical acquaintances were even invited to attend 
 a rehearsal, and gave such glowing accounts, that others 
 were anxious to share the pleasure ; and before the opera 
 was really given, half the connoisseurs in town had heard 
 it. All who had the open sesame, agreed that the mu 
 sic was charming ; but the verdict was not a fair one, 
 cried the outsiders. " Invite us if you would be cer 
 tain of impartiality." However, it must be piquant, 
 everybody said, to have your acquaintances perform in 
 opera ; to see them in costume and character ; to watch 
 them act and to criticise their voices ; to compare them 
 with artists. Doubtless, too, the amateurs had their 
 enjoyment. Think of the triumphs of the little stage ; 
 of the delight in receiving the applause of such select 
 audiences ; of being assured by historians, and critics 
 and millionaires, that they only need make a public de 
 but to eclipse all the prima donnas and primo tenores of 
 Irving Place or Les Italieus. So the interest increased 
 
 All the world was anxious for tickets ; the perform 
 ers were beset with notes begging for invitations ; the
 
 274 The Vagabond. 
 
 composer and author and host combined received visits 
 from strangers who would fain become his guests ; and 
 at last, in order to gratify everybody, or (more import 
 ant) offend nobody, it was determined to take a public 
 room, and sing the opera on a regular stage. The pub 
 lic, however, was to be excluded ; the whole thing was 
 scrupulously to be kept out of the newspapers ; none 
 were to be admitted save those whose names were sub 
 mitted to the inspection of the elegant Amphitryon ; 
 so everybody was delighted at the prospect of going. 
 But, alas, for the frailty of human expectations ! The 
 dress rehearsals had taken place at the theatre ; the 
 cards were engraved ; we were all promised our invita 
 tions ; and the ladies were determining whether to wear 
 bonnets, or to go en grande tenue, when fell disappoint 
 ment came. The young ladies who were to sing, got 
 frightened at being before the footlights ; they rushed 
 off the stage ; they never could face such an ordeal. 
 Besides, the thing was too much talked of. As soon as 
 all one s friends thought themselves secure of invitations, 
 all one s friends began to make remarks ; and the result 
 was, that no performance could be given except in a 
 private house. The fifteen hundred invitations dwindled 
 down to five hundred, and these must be issued for three 
 different evenings. Those who had sixty cards to dis 
 tribute were cut down to four, and some who were an 
 ticipating front seats at the opera, thought themselves 
 lucky to get in at a dress rehearsal. Oh ! how some of 
 us wished we hadn t talked so much. Those of us who 
 went, however, didn t care. In fact, we relished it all the 
 better for the exclusion of our acquaintances. And so 
 last week the opera was given.
 
 An Amateur Opera. 275 
 
 " Flora, or the Gipsy s Frolic, tis called. The plot 
 is pretty. A group of villagers are singing good-na 
 turedly and unnaturally, as they always do in operas ; 
 a pretty, soprano peasant, with a satin petticoat, and a 
 lowly but handsome tenor for a lover, is smitten with 
 the attentions of a baritone count, in a fine, red coat and 
 with a martial air. The peasant Annette jilts her young 
 tenor, who, by the way, has as delicious and delicate a 
 voice as Brignoli. She is charmingly coquettish, and 
 sings sweetly and expressively ; while her father and 
 mother, two worthy, quarrelsome, but loving folk, make 
 manifest their dispositions, also in song, and in some 
 capital acting of a comic sort. But the count is not to 
 have it all his own way. A gipsy with a fine voice and 
 such a pink skirt, predicts trouble to the baritone, to 
 the tenor, and in fact to all the various singers ; she 
 says a malicious word to each, enough to stir up some 
 mischievous sentiment, makes the peasant anxious for 
 the gentleman s notice, sets the mother crazy for a bran 
 new bonnet ; and then goes to her most important task, 
 that of exciting jealousy in the bosom of the high-born 
 Lady Flora, the intended bride of the red-coated count. 
 Fine ladies, the gipsy finds as susceptible to naughty 
 feelings as poorer folk; the Lady Flora fires with jea 
 lousy, makes herself very miserable, and her audience 
 very happy by singing a mournful contralto song, full 
 of pride and love and sorrow and tears (les larmes 
 dans la voix), and when the count next appears, resents 
 his inconstancy. The peasant too makes her swain love 
 lorn, plagues him and sends him to sing his grief in a 
 sweet, expressive strain, while Mr. and Mrs. Popinjay 
 quarrel away in a really characteristic and clever duet.
 
 276 The Vagabond. 
 
 The high-bred singers, chorus and all, for the choruses 
 too are ladies and gentlemen, look a little awkward at 
 first, when gazed at by their acquaintances, and cannot 
 always refrain from a smile or a glance as they catch 
 the eye of a friend. The peasants in their hoops and 
 diamonds sing, however, very true, and at last get quite 
 rustic in their manner. After a really fine performance 
 of a solo or a duet, the performers receive a call, and 
 come out to curtsey or bow in recognition of the delicate 
 plaudits of the audience. It looks funny to see some 
 belle of the winter acknowledging an encore, and slip 
 ping back behind the scenes; or a fashionable man bow 
 ing before the footlights. During the entr acte the per 
 formers mingle with the audience, more anxious perhaps 
 to receive their compliments and show their finery, than 
 to keep up the stage illusion; but illusion there had 
 been none. The pleasure was of another sort than 
 that occasioned by ordinary theatrical representations. 
 It consisted in discovering a friend in that fine lady 
 metamorphosed into a peasant, or recognising tones you 
 had heard in society ; or detecting feelings that you 
 fancied might have existed, but could previously have 
 only suspected in the actors of the amateur opera. 
 
 But the curtain is raised again. The wicked gipsy 
 having wrought all this mischief, repents of what she 
 has done, and sets to work to undo it. She makes the 
 Lady Flora sure that her lover is true, induces Annette 
 to return to her fond swain, and in the general rejoicing 
 old Popinjay is so delighted, that he promises his wife 
 the bonnet which had been the theme of all their quar 
 rels ; so, of course, all ends merrily. 
 
 The opera lasts three hours, and contains many
 
 An Amateur Opera. 277 
 
 pleasing strains ; several bits of melody that can be re 
 membered, and a drinking chorus that has been a favor 
 ite at more than one club-house in town for a year or 
 two past. The music is quite dramatic, and at times 
 really sweet and characteristic. It is very carefully sung, 
 having been rehearsed daily for many weeks ; indeed, 
 had the amateurs been artists they could not have 
 worked harder. Daily, from eleven to three, have some 
 of the first ladies in New York been engaged in their 
 duties ; daily have gay men devoted themselves to the 
 ta.-k. And they acquired a facility of execution, a fa 
 miliarity with their parts, that made the performance as 
 fine a one of this description as has ever been known in 
 New York. The choruses, too, were excellently given, 
 a number of fine amateurs consenting to lend their valu 
 able assistance for the occasion, by kind permission of 
 their parents. 
 
 It is well known that a really high degree of musical 
 cultivation exists in New York; very many young ladies 
 sing with a skill and taste that are quite admirable; 
 several sweet, fresh, and even sympathetic voices are 
 familiar to the frequenters of musical parties, while a 
 fine taste in such matters is usual. Private concerts are 
 not rare, but an exclusively amateur performance is less 
 common, while an operatic one is unprecedented. Pri 
 vate theatricals have occasionally varied the monotony 
 of balls and receptions ; readings, too, sometimes occur; 
 but an amateur opera has never before been given in New 
 York. The singing of the opera was the same that has 
 frequently been heard ; but the acting was at once sur 
 prising and delightful. The naivete, the modest simpli 
 city, with a dash of coquetry of the peasant ; the tear-
 
 278 The Vagabond. 
 
 ful pride and jealous anxiety of the lady; the manliness 
 of the count ; the capital humor of the old innkeeper, 
 and the petulance of his wife, displayed dramatic talent 
 that was hardly looked for in the ladies and gentlemen 
 who assumed these parts. The gipsy and the peasant 
 lover, too, were well performed, and the choruses did 
 not fail to do their part to make the production of " The 
 Gipsy s Frolic " one of the most pleasing events that 
 has of late occurred in New York society.
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER. 
 
 " Get him to say his prayers." 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
 MONTAIGNE has a chapter about cannibals, in which he 
 contends bravely in behalf of those much abused indi 
 viduals ; he sets forth their numerous good qualities, and 
 palliates their little peculiarities, proving quite to his 
 own satisfaction that they are a very good sort of peo 
 ple, after all ; and he tells the story of Pyrrhus, when 
 he met the Roman army and exclaimed : " I know not 
 what kind of barbarians these may be, but the disposi 
 tion of their army has nothing of the barbarian in it." 
 
 Nearly half of those who have heard of Mr. Beecher 
 regard him as a monster worse than any cannibal ; they 
 would be more surprised than Pyrrhus to discover so 
 little of the barbarian in him. For it has happened to 
 him, as to many others who become identified with a 
 doctrine, or are considered the embodiment of an idea, 
 that he is lost sight of in the doctrine ; according as 
 people hate or like his teachings, they hate or like him ; 
 he is praised or censured not at all with reference to his 
 personal qualities, but as men s prejudices or convictions 
 prompt. The radicals swear by him, while the conser 
 vatives cross themselves at the mention of his name ; but 
 it is the abolitionist who is offensive, and the temperance
 
 280 The Vagabond. 
 
 advocate who draws good houses. His absolute merits, 
 his abstract traits are forgotten in the struggle that 
 rages over the doctrines he has espoused. Yet the fact 
 that he has become so completely identified with those 
 doctrines proves his power; plenty of other people 
 uphold them, yet are not instantly and for ever asso 
 ciated with them. But who can mention Henry Ward 
 Beecher, and not think of his politics and his principles ? 
 He is they and they are he ; they in him and he in them. 
 The very identification that makes his individual traits 
 less remarked springs from the marked character of 
 those traits. 
 
 His success also renders him worthy of notice ; his 
 position is established ; his mark is made ; there is no 
 denying the fact of his prominence. People may quar 
 rel over his notions and abhor his dogmas ; they may 
 disapprove every one of his actions, and reject every 
 one of his teachings, but they cannot ignore either him 
 or them. There he stands ; abrupt and offensive, it may 
 be, but secure. To have obtained this prominence indi 
 cates ability ; to have rendered himself so obnoxious to 
 praise or blame, is the surest proof of character. 
 
 It strikes me that Mr. Beecher is especially a man of 
 the times ; a man fitted for the very position he holds in 
 the public eye : not for the ministerial position ; I do 
 not think the pulpit his sphere ; he seems to me a stump 
 speaker who has mistaken his way and stumbled into a 
 church ; he would be more at home in a congress than 
 in a synod ; in the state assembly than in the general 
 assembly ; in the House of Representatives, with his 
 feet on the desk, interrupting the speaker, or talking 
 against time, than reading psalms and discussing texts.
 
 Henry Ward Beecher. 281 
 
 That he himself feels this, is apparent from his con 
 stant dragging the topics of the day into his sermons. 
 It is notorious that he preaches politics, temperance, 
 abolition, what you will, or rather what he will, more 
 than religion. Ultra opinions are declaimed in the most 
 ultra style ; the brawls of the hour are introduced into 
 sacred places, and the mud and mire of politics besmear 
 the robes that should be kept pure. The influence of 
 religion itself is injured, its sacredness lessened, its effect 
 curtailed by such a course. Immoderate and indecorous 
 as Mr. Beecher frequently is, he forgets or neglects the 
 precepts of his master to insist upon his own notions, or 
 to overthrow his own opponents ; the Christian minister 
 recalls the warning of the heathen poet : 
 
 "Nee deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
 Incident." 
 
 But if not fitted for the pulpit, he is fitted for his place 
 in the public eye. He was born to be a leader, a party 
 leader ; to control men s minds, and feelings and actions : 
 he is regarded as a leader, as a master mind. His fol 
 lowers think of him ten times oftener, the public think 
 of him ten times oftener as a man and a politician than 
 as a Christian or a clergyman. He has all the qualities 
 of a man of mark ; immense energy ; perseverance never 
 tiring, never flinching ; fearlessness that sees all chances, 
 and takes them all, whatever they be. A condensation 
 himself, an exemplification of many of the recognised 
 traits of the American character ; with the traits inten 
 sified that so many around him share ; when these look 
 on him, they behold themselves and approve. He is
 
 282 The Vagabond. 
 
 eminently and emphatically of this age and this country, 
 and herein lies the secret of much of his success. For 
 he would never have calmly considered what the age 
 demanded, and then shaped his course accordingly ; he, 
 above all men, could not conform to circumstances ; he 
 happened to be born in a time and country where just 
 such qualities as he possesses could be turned to best 
 account, but he would do and be just what he does and 
 is, no matter where or when his lot might be cast. And 
 say what we will, few of us calculate our chances and 
 make our conduct correspond with the result. Even 
 those to whom we give credit for acuteness and long 
 sightedness, only follow their natural bent, and then 
 make their philosophy tally with their practice. Talley 
 rand was a philosopher and a diplomatist by nature, not 
 from principle ; he found his reasons for following the 
 course he did, after his career Avas settled. If it had 
 been his interest to act as Henry Ward Beecher does, 
 do you suppose he would or could have acted so? 
 
 But Mr. Beecher is a man of genius as well as a man 
 of the times. He wields that unaccountable and sympa 
 thetic influence which, wherever and whenever exerted, 
 is instantly recognised and felt. This it is that makes 
 one man more popular than his fellows of equal talent 
 and character ; this it is that secures its fortunate pos 
 sessor regard, though much that he does be disapproved 
 or disliked. This magnetic influence we have all expe 
 rienced. The eye of some man we know, the tone of 
 his voice, the charm of his manner, make it impossible 
 to refuse him anything, however unreasonable, or exor 
 bitant, or preposterous in him to demand. You may be 
 angry with him, but he can soothe you in spite of your-
 
 Henry Ward Beecher. 283 
 
 self; you may determine to affront him, but you find it 
 impossible. This sympathetic power in private life has 
 scarce a name ; but when allied to other gifts is called 
 genius. Combined with speech, it constitutes eloquence. 
 
 It is the exclusive gift of nature ; the most consum 
 mate art is powerless to attain it ; indeed, tis frequently 
 distinct from and opposed to art ; those possessed of it 
 are often not only inartificial, but grossly natural. This 
 native eloquence is Mr. Beecher s greatest charm ; he 
 subdues, or enthralls, or moves or astounds his hearers; 
 he condenses an idea into a word ; he flashes a brilliant 
 simile across an obscure theme, and it is light for ever ; 
 he flings a profound thought out in clear and cogent 
 language ; he stirs you up to all sorts of queer intentions 
 utterly contrary to those of your whole life ; he extorts 
 sympathy and emotion and tears from his bitterest oppo 
 nents, but tis all by chance. He is a rough diamond ; 
 his brilliancy is all his own, and not the result of the 
 lapidary s skill. He is careless of style ; he constantly 
 ofl ends a nice taste by incongruities of illustration, and 
 slovenly, unfinished figures ; at times he speaks bad 
 English, and uses both bad rhetoric and bad logic ; he 
 violates all the rules of the schoolmen, except when he 
 conforms to those which pretend to do what rules can 
 never accomplish, and then he conforms by inspiration. 
 They conform to him, not he to them. 
 
 His fine command of language, forcible but never ele 
 gant ; his flow of ideas, always interesting and sometimes 
 strikingly and splendidly original ; his lively fancy, so 
 lively that its images are as often homely and belittling 
 as elevated; his wit, or rather abundant humor, and 
 that other trait never far off when humor is at hand
 
 284 The Vagabond. 
 
 his true pathos ; his genuine and genial sympathy with 
 misfortune, and his downright hearty earnestness, are 
 characteristics all of Henry Ward Beecher. Besides 
 these, he possesses a susceptibility to the finest influences 
 of art and nature ; he is alive to the beauties of natural 
 scenery, and, if he could throw aside Puritan prejudices, 
 would enjoy the opera as keenly as Dr. Bellows or 
 George Sand. I can fancy him applauding the roulades 
 of La Grange with infinite zest, or weeping over the 
 woes of Camille with as just an appreciation of Miss 
 Heron s genius as that of the most inveterate play-goer. 
 
 But where is the cannibal ? where is the barbarian ? 
 Ah ! he eats human flesh ; he has his faults. He is rough 
 and unrefined in diction ; his manner as a speaker is ener 
 getic but ungraceful ; his gestures are awkward though 
 animated ; his voice harsh and under little control ; his 
 inflections are frequently incorrect and his intonation 
 displeasing. His taste is never subdued nor cultivated ; 
 never catholic nor enlarged ; his ideas are not philoso 
 phical nor well-digested. He is a man of action. Ac 
 tion, action, action makes up his notion of life as well 
 as of oratory. The controlling, directing, restraining 
 influence of judgment, without which energy and intel 
 lect are no better than locomotive engines off the track, 
 seems to be lacking. With all his intuitions, with all 
 his insight into general character, with all his knowledge 
 of man, not of men, w T ith all his jumping at conclusions, 
 and often at right ones, with all his genius, he is con 
 stantly off the track. 
 
 His independence is that on which he prides himself 
 most ; it has done him the most harm and the most good. 
 A certain degree of this is indispensable to a man s sue-
 
 Henry Ward Beecher. 285 
 
 cess ; but what if it is offensive, unchristian, unministe- 
 rial ? What if it amounts to a disregard of another s 
 tastes and feelings and interests ? if it makes him careless 
 even of the effects of what he says and docs, and so 
 work against himself? if it, makes him abrupt and 
 affrontful, so that he injures any cause he defends quite 
 as much as he aids it? He stands out prominently, 
 indeed, but so does a scarecrow.
 
 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 " Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy 
 In sceptred pall come sweeping by." 
 
 11 Penseroso. 
 
 IT has been of late very much the fashion to speak 
 slightingly of tragedy : people of taste and accomplish 
 ment decry the stilted walk of the buskin, and prefer 
 the easy gait of the sock. Or, at any rate, tragedy must 
 be modern and real : we must have every-day life and 
 every-day people : Camilles and de Varvilles only, it is 
 said, can interest us now-a-days. I confess I have been 
 tinctured with this heresy. I, too, have fancied that the 
 display of passion on the tragic stage was overdone ; 
 that the demonstrative performances of Kean and Gar- 
 rick might have been well enough for Johnson and 
 Addison, and that sort of people ; that Mrs. Siddons 
 was all very well, but rather too pompous or too grand ; 
 that the stage must represent only ordinary life and 
 ordinary incidents. I have leaned towards realism. 
 Peccavi. 
 
 There is, however, something to be said in favor of 
 this view. When you have no great actor to dispel 
 your theories, you may go on and prove how mouthing 
 and ranting constitute acting; how the sentences of 
 Shakspeare and the situations of Massinger are unna 
 tural ; how Lear is ridiculous and Richard extravagant.
 
 Edwin Booth. 287 
 
 You may fancy that lago is too wicked and Overreach 
 too miserly ; you may say how charming is comedy 
 while you have no tragedian. And for a long while 
 there has been no man on the English or American stage 
 to contradict such notions. Forrest is full of feeling ; but 
 he certainly never elevates nor refines by his perform 
 ances. His conceptions are not intellectual ; the effects 
 he produces are by physical means ; his eye is the hyena s, 
 not the eagle s ; he moves, but inspires not ; horror, 
 rather than sublime terror, is the emotion he excites. 
 Macready was a stately elocutionist, and all the rest 
 have been second-rate. As for the women, Miss Gush- 
 man is not the one to disabuse you of these ideas ; and 
 Miss Heron is very likely to confirm them. With all 
 her intensity of feeling, with all her power over your 
 nerves, she yet, like Forrest, neither elevates nor refines. 
 She finishes to the coarsest and minutest detail, she has 
 an abundance of womanly instinct, and a great ability 
 to express it, but it is impossible not to feel that there 
 is another and a higher sphere of art than that which 
 she essays. 
 
 Edwin Booth has made me know w r hat tragedy is. 
 He has displayed to my eyes an entirely new field ; he 
 has opened to me the door to another and exquisite 
 delight ; he has shown me the possibilities of tragedy. 
 Though he has not yet done all that he has pointed at, 
 there are moments in his acting in which he is full of the 
 divine fire, in which the animation that clothes him as 
 with a garment, the halo of genius that surrounds him, 
 not only recalls what I have read of others, not only 
 suggests, but incarnates and embodies my highest 
 notions of tragedy. The two last acts of " Richard HI.,"
 
 288 The Vagabond. 
 
 in which he walks around, the moody, restless tyrant, 
 or slumbers uneasily and wakens wildly ; the tremen 
 dous energy of the battle-scene ; the rush on and off the 
 stage ; the fight with Richmond on his knees ; and the 
 awful writhings afterwards, so different from the animal 
 contortions of Mr. Forrest, are instances of tragedy in 
 its highest and most legitimate domain. There is no 
 cold, debasing realism here : there is the poetry of 
 the stage, the realization of your ideas of the Richard ot 
 Shakspeare a royal murderer, a kingly monster, a man 
 at once magnificent in intellect and terrible in passions. 
 
 A peculiarity of his Hamlet proves at once his ori 
 ginality and the refined ideality of which I have spoken. 
 His conception of the ghost scene differs widely from 
 any I have seen or read of. Instead of representing 
 Hamlet as overcome by animal fear, or even by a super 
 natural dread, as most, if not all, actors have done, 
 Booth portrays him awed, of course, at the tremendous 
 visitation, but still more imbued with a filial and yearn 
 ing tenderness. The tones of his voice, especially when 
 he falls on his knees to the ghost, and cries out, 
 " Father !" the expression of his face, and, above all, of 
 his eye, embody this new and exquisite conception, and 
 seem to me more affecting even than the fright of Gar- 
 rick could have been, which Fielding says made all the 
 spectators also fear. . Booth makes them share, instead, 
 his tenderness. 
 
 Those who fancy that the age of tragedy is gone, 
 maintain especially that Shakspeare is degraded and 
 belittled by being acted. Of course when the text of 
 the greatest of dramatists is uttered by inferior men, it 
 is mangled. Of course tame or ignorant bunglers mur-
 
 Edwin Booth. 289 
 
 der Lear, and Henglers mouth in " Hamlet ;" but the 
 most susceptible natures, the keenest intellects, those 
 most alive to the subtle meaning of the poet, or mot,t 
 affected by the passions of the play, must all the more 
 acknowledge and appreciate really great acting. Ol 
 course some things cannot, from their very nature, be 
 well played. Dainty images of Ariel and Puck 
 are better never embodied ; the exquisite utterings of 
 Miranda may be quite as fitly considered in the closet ; 
 yet it is a delight to have even these suitably repeated, 
 while the strife of emotions, the grander passions of a 
 Macbeth, an Othello, or a Richard, get fuller utterance 
 at the hands of an inspired genius, than they ever find 
 embodiment in brain or heart of mankind generally. 
 
 Charles Lamb, I know, says that any words would do 
 as well as Shakspeare s ; if they had the plot and situa 
 tions, that Banks or Lillo could write another " Ham 
 let," which would prove quite as effective on the stage 
 as that which contains the line, " I ll call thee Hamlet, 
 Father, Royal Dane ;" as the play which is full of op 
 portunities like those afforded by the entire scene with 
 Ophelia, that with Gertrude, or the interview with the 
 Ghost. He says the exquisite language of the poet goes 
 for nothing ; that the coarse outlines of the character 
 are all the tragedian can grasp. Was this so when Gar- 
 rick, in " Lear," gave the curse with such effectiveness 
 that the whole pit rose involuntarily and in tears ? Was 
 this so when Edmund Kean recited the lines in " Othello," 
 " Then, oh ! farewell," in such a way that Hazlitt declared 
 those who had not heard it could have no idea of perfect 
 tragic acting ? Did it make no difference what words 
 were utt ered then ? 
 
 13
 
 290 The Vagabond. 
 
 Then take good plays, Shakspeare s especially, which 
 I constantly hear it said are unfit for the stage, are too 
 fine for acting, take those which are acknowledged to be 
 the greatest, and do they not receive from great acting 
 a still greater development ? The dramatic truth, th<3 
 intensity of interest, the hurried action, the accumula 
 tion of incident, the marvellous development of charac 
 ter, and above all, the portraiture of passion, make them, 
 beyond all plays that ever were written, fit for the stage. 
 The energy of Richard III., in the last two acts, cannot 
 by any possibility be so imaged by the mind as it is 
 brought vividly before the eye in a theatre. The words 
 get new life and significance when uttered with their 
 suitable concomitants. How much more forcible to see 
 the defeated king staggering around when he cries, " A 
 horse ! a horse ! My kingdom for a horse !" than to read 
 the lines calmly at home ! How much more meaning can 
 be infused into the few Avords " What do they^in the 
 north ?" than most people find in them alone. I con 
 fess I am not of those who get from the genius of the 
 stage no keener appreciation of lines and words that I 
 have studied often before. I have heard things said of 
 whose intensity of import I had no previous conception. 
 I read a play again before I go to see it performed, so 
 as the better to judge or appreciate the rendition. I 
 read it again afterwards to recall the delight the player 
 has afforded me ; to bring up the 
 
 " strange powers which lie 
 
 Within the magic circle of the eye ;" 
 
 to summon the echo of the tones that moved me so in 
 the theatre.
 
 Edwin Booth. 291 
 
 There is one advantage that the stage has, which I do 
 not remember to have seen noted, but by means of 
 which it will, I think, be acknowledged to add a force 
 and grace to the most exquisite or moving language. 
 How many emotions are too subtle, too transient, too 
 shaded for expression in words ! How many degrees of 
 passion are as incapable of such embodiment as the 
 flash of the lightning on the canvas of the painter, or 
 the roar of Niagara, even by the brush of Mr. Church ! 
 And yet every shade of feeling can be expressed on the 
 human countenance. The look that comes over Rachel in 
 "Polyeucte," when she says " Je vois,je sais,je crois," 
 is as indescribable as the thunder, Avould have been a 
 revelation to Corneille of his own meaning. And shall 
 this be called a mimicry, afurberia della scena ? I have 
 heard the play of Ristori s countenance in "Myrrha" 
 described as still more prodigious, though I cannot 
 imagine it ; and all critics have agreed that action and 
 gesture can express many sentiments beyond the reach 
 of words. Churchill says of Garrick : 
 
 " Whilst in each word I hear the very man, 
 I can t catch words, and pity those who can." 
 
 Rachel s pantomime Avas always to me more expres 
 sive than her tones. Kean was frequently inaudible or 
 incomprehensible in his broken sobs of passion ; and I 
 have watched young Booth through an entire act without 
 knowing or thinking of a word he said. (It was not in 
 Shakspeare, however.) This, some may say, will prove 
 that Lamb was right ; that the words are of no conse 
 quence ; but the words first suggest the idea to which 
 the player gives further utterance. Is it heresy to talk
 
 292 The Vagabond. 
 
 of an actor giving fuller utterance to Shakspeare s 
 ideas? If the human constitution is capable of passions 
 too fleeting, too intricate, too tremendous to get entire 
 embodiment in the language even of a Shakspeare, may 
 not another genius incarnate those emotions in another 
 form, which the poet has first completely suggested? 
 
 I find on the tragic stage rarely, yet there it is, the 
 actual representation of the ideas of the poet ; the union 
 of lofty passion and historic character ; of exquisite sen 
 timent and sublime poetry ; the begetting of an idea by 
 one genius, the bringing it forth by another ; the union 
 of soul and body, of spirit and matter; the manifestation 
 of the divinity of poetry in the flesh ; what otherwise is 
 intangible and unnatural, only perceptible to the eyes 
 of the soul, actually vivified to the bodily sense. Such 
 manifestations of course are like all manifestations of 
 genius, apparent only in two or three men in an age ; 
 even in these obscured or imperfect ; but when I can 
 see them, I throw aside my books. My soul is reached 
 through the medium of my senses. When I get into 
 another world I shall perhaps be so ethereal as not to 
 need palpable images or external means. As it is, I am 
 content with what comes through eye and ear, if it at 
 last reaches the brain and heart the very man.
 
 THE BEAUX. 
 
 " Here comes Monsieur le Beau." 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 ONE of the court preachers at the time of the Fronde 
 began his discourse by dividing it into thirteen heads, 
 whereupon the congregation very naturally manifested 
 signs of dissatisfaction ; but, observed the wily priest, 
 " at present I shall omit a dozen of them." So I could 
 readily find thirteen varieties of beaux to discuss with 
 my fair readers, who, because of my theme, will doubt 
 less favor me with an unusual share of attention, this fine 
 Sunday morning ; but at present I shall omit half-a-score 
 of them. 
 
 The three species of beaux most common in New York, 
 those most distinctly marked, and whose habits are most 
 generally known, are the old beaux, the foreign ones, 
 and the dancing men. Every belle will admit that for 
 one of another description than these, she has met a 
 dozen of the sorts I mention. Let her think who pay 
 the most frequent visits, who are the most regular at the 
 opera, who send the finest bouquets, who walk on Sun 
 day mornings, who attend all sorts of entertainments in 
 the daytime, and go wherever they are asked (which is 
 everywhere) in the evening. It certainly is not the men 
 of great intellect ; these go to dinners, and occasionally
 
 294 The Vagabond. 
 
 to receptions, or to some extraordinary fete, but that is 
 all; it is not the men of business; these go nowhere, 
 and nobody wants them, for they think and talk of 
 stocks and of trade in all places and under all circumstan 
 ces ; it is not the important men, who go into society only 
 when they have an object, who give balls to politicians, 
 or suppers to their wives as these pass through town on 
 their way to the capital ; it is not the purely literary 
 men ; for many of them have no access to society, and 
 those who would be courted and feted, find it compara 
 tively dull ; not even vanity takes them often within its 
 magic circle. So the clever, brilliant women have to 
 play off their battery of wit and charms on effete Pen- 
 dennises, on foreigners who so often are unworthy, or on 
 the jeunesse doree of male fashion youths with fine 
 manners and fine clothes, with means and family, with 
 everything in the world but brains. 
 
 Some of the women like the old beaux : these are 
 mostly bachelors of a certain age, or widowers ; they 
 are bald in spots, or else wear toupees of a glossy jet ; 
 they are precise in dress, but not precisely fashionable. 
 Their collars are very stiff, but they never dare wear 
 them in the newest mode ; their cravats are adjusted 
 with scrupulous exactness, but they look got up, and 
 the old fellows are so afraid of disturbing the knots that 
 they can t turn their heads to one side or the other. 
 They are all ugly; generally ghastly ; youth being gone, 
 and one or two teeth besides, whose absence gold cannot 
 supply, one or two wrinkles having come, and the dye 
 sometimes wearing off before tis detected by the sufferer; 
 these devotees of the beau sexe are not so irresistible in 
 person as the last crop of dandies. Besides, they have
 
 The Beaux. 295 
 
 the rheumatism, and can t dance the German foi three 
 hours after supper ; the field of their triumphs is not the 
 ball-room ; they stand around the doors and look on, or 
 they hand ices across the table, or pick out French 
 mottoes with superlative elegance ; sometimes, to prove 
 how much agility is left, they skip through the Lanciers 
 while everybody else walks ; but when the redowas, those 
 fascinating, fearful dances, that the young women persist 
 in liking, when these are reached, your old beaux must 
 yield the floor. They may have been turning the most 
 courtly compliments, they may have been smiling the 
 most winning smiles, they may have been making the 
 most favorable impression or the most excruciating wit 
 ticism, but some dolt with heels, and long-winded 
 enough for the waltz, snatches the beauty a\\;ay, just 
 before the pith of the joke or the point of the story, and 
 leaves our poor old friend disconsolate and alone. 
 
 How delightful, then, for him to watch the syren 
 whirled giddily round in the arms of a youngster ; how 
 he looks carefully about to see if any one has detected 
 his discomfiture ; how he picks himself up, and turns to 
 some matron near by, whose diamonds never attracted 
 him while the bright eyes were blazing so much more 
 brightly right down into his soul ; how he talks very 
 bitterly about the impropriety of the waltz, and in 
 wardly determines to practise it the very next morning, 
 to learn that fearful leap of the redowa, that has been 
 introduced since his days of dancing ended. 
 
 Ah ! no, the ball-room is not the scene of his triumphs ; 
 nor the dinner ; though, of course, Monsieur le Beau 
 is aufait in all matters of the table ; but the visit, the 
 reception, the opera, the ordinary soiree, where he can
 
 2()b The Vagabond. 
 
 talk his small-talk, can get off his studied impromptus, 
 can repeat to every lady in the room the same compli 
 ment, and perhaps recite his oi iginal poem on the death 
 of a canary bird. For he thinks himself intellectual ; 
 he criticises new books as well as new singers ; he 
 gathers ideas from the newspapers, and retails them in 
 society ; he does even write verses quite often some 
 times tolerable ones, more often intolerable ; he does not 
 deny being the author of some stinging satires handed 
 around occasionally ; and until " Nothing to Wear," 
 or " Gems from Japonicadom," or " Aquarelles," or the 
 "Potiphar Papers," were formally acknowledged, he 
 could never be brought to say that he was not guilty of 
 the impeachment. The dear old fellows are satirical, and 
 critical, and hypocritical, you must know. They are 
 not so old as Polonius, and have not "grey beards and 
 wrinkled faces," and the other appurtenances that Ham 
 let tells of; but, like Polonius, they declare " mobled 
 queen is good ;" and like him, they think " beautified 
 is a vile phrase." Like him, too, they sometimes enact 
 Julius Caesar at the capitol ; they have a talent for 
 charades and tableaux : no such thing is complete unless 
 they are concerned, nor no dejeuner d la fourchette un 
 less they sit down ; no wedding unless they are there 
 to look at the cadeaux, no caudle scarcely, unless they 
 hold the baby. 
 
 But you should hear them recite poetry ; they do it 
 with so much feeling and sentiment; they gesticulate 
 so gracefully ; lay their hands on their hearts with such 
 an air ; look at the prettiest girl in the room with such 
 a glance, and at the close turn their eyes meekly up to 
 heaven, or down to the carpet, so as not to be eiub^r-
 
 The Beaux. 297 
 
 rassed by applause. And they receive compliments so 
 modestly ! Men of such genius cannot be unconscious 
 of their gifts ; there is no good in disclaiming what is 
 patent to all the world. But twas Heaven made them 
 different from other people; no thanks to themselves. 
 They have only cultivated what the gods first bestowed ; 
 they sometimes think if they were compelled to work 
 they might do and be something in the world ; and did 
 you ever hear their lines on Miss Julia s pimple ? or do 
 you know what a good thing they said about Mrs. Twee- 
 die s mole ? 
 
 The readiness with which they catch at a really clever 
 remark made by somebody else is an instance of their 
 remarkable genius. I was in a box at the opera on the 
 night of Piccolomini s debut, while a woman of sense 
 and taste was criticising the new singer s manner ; " She 
 has so much abandon." The beau without a word of 
 acknowledgement, without even an " Oh, yes !" or a 
 " Very true !" coolly exclaimed : " And then there is 
 such an abandon about her," and I have no doubt he 
 went all around the house talking of Piccolomini s aban 
 don. Yet the women rather like these old drones ; the 
 foolish women, and you know there are some such in so 
 ciety, look at them with amazement ; regard their accom 
 plishments as fabulous ; never express an opinion until 
 they have learned what Monsieur le Beau thinks of the 
 dancer, or the picture, or the poem : while the clever 
 women tolerate them as some relief after the ordinary 
 vapidity with which they are surrounded. They are 
 the fashion, too, and^ must be asked for that reason, 
 if for no other ; for whoever gets the reputation of 
 supreme fashion, need give himself no further trouble j 
 13*
 
 298 The Vagabond. 
 
 he is feted and caressed and courted till his day is 
 over. 
 
 The dancing men are, however, more fashionable still 
 than their venerable confreres. These are they with 
 colorless hair and meaningless eyes, who get curled 
 every day in the Aveek but one, and then have no time, 
 or something occurs, and they are seen with dishevelled 
 locks, sadly in need of a friseur; these are they with 
 little feet and delicate hands ; with the most aristocratic 
 bearing ; who wear English clothes in the street a sort 
 of coarse stuff that costs more than broadcloth ; who 
 belong to the most exclusive circles ; who are educated; 
 who never speak incorrectly ; whose manners are irre 
 proachable ; who are in years from twenty-one to twen 
 ty-nine ; who don white cravats on grand occasions, like 
 the Bachelors ball or their cousin s wedding ; who are 
 not often seen in the theatre, and, in fact, not very much 
 known out of their own set. Very many are young 
 men of fortune, some have been abroad, and all speak 
 two or three languages. It is not at all necessary, how 
 ever, that they should be rich. There are just as many 
 people of high fashion whose means are not independent 
 as there are of real wealth. Tis only the Potiphars who 
 worship the golden calf so exclusively ; in fact, I think 
 some of those most sought after in the best circles are 
 absolutely poor. But to return to our sheep. These 
 lambs are not Brown s men (and I confess I think 
 Brown s men altogether mythological ; you hear of 
 them, but who ever met one ? ) they Avere properly in 
 troduced by their own families ; everybody knows who 
 they are, and Avhat they are ; and they are nice enough, 
 only so vapid. They do dance divinely; they im-ent
 
 The Beaux. 299 
 
 new figures in the German, and never get tired in the 
 redowa; they are au fait in etiquette, quiet in de 
 meanor ; but did you ever know them make an original 
 remark. Haven t you wondered what they were saying 
 in such low tones during the pauses of the Lanciers, or 
 while they sat still in the German ? They seem to flirt ; 
 but I don t think they really do. The girls like them 
 to dance with, to walk with and to bow to, because 
 these supremely fashionable young men confer distinc 
 tion by their attentions. The mothers know this, and 
 like to have a dozen dangling ; but oh ! what a penalty 
 they pay ! A woman of great talent, and one of the 
 leaders of society, said to me the day after she had 
 given a party, excessively aristocratic and excessively 
 stupid : " My dear Mr. Vagabond, you and two others 
 were the only men with brains who were at my house last 
 night." I wonder to how many more she made the 
 same remark. 
 
 Then the foreign beaux ! The day for these is gone 
 by ; they are not so much admired as a few years ago. 
 Too many adventurers have been intruded into respect 
 able houses ; too many forged letters of introduction 
 have been presented ; too many coarse men have been 
 taken out by well-known families, and afterwards dis 
 avowed. Still, even when these men are adventurers, 
 they are people who have paid attention to their man 
 ners ; they are people with a natural aptitude for society, 
 and with some accomplishments, generally with a know 
 ledge or taste in musical matters ; they can dance, and 
 either sing or play ; they are often handsome, have fine 
 black eyes and heavy moustaches, and it is such a good 
 chance for the young ladies to practise their French. So
 
 300 The Vagabond. 
 
 the success that undeserving foreigners have often met 
 with is not surprising ; while those who are really what 
 they pretend to be, though they do not now always re 
 ceive so gracious a welcome as would have once been 
 accorded them, have still no reason to complain of cold 
 ness or inhospitality. There are still houses where you 
 will meet more foreigners at a reception than Ameri 
 cans ; where more French is talked than English ; where 
 men may be found who bear titles, but do not claim 
 them ; people with historic names and no pretence. 
 These are as charming as the old men of real culture, or 
 the young ones who can talk as well as they dance, and 
 whose ideas are as brilliant as their behavior. Of si sic 
 omnes !
 
 GEORGE BANCROFT. 
 
 "This strange, eventful history." 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 THERE are two methods of writing history ; one, that 
 of the annalist Avho registers every event with scrupu 
 lous fidelity, omitting no circumstance that can possibly 
 throw light on the characters or actions of his subjects ; 
 who adorns his theme with picturesque and learned 
 descriptions, and paints in glowing colors the manners 
 of the times, as well as the individual traits of his per 
 sonages ; who decorates his page, perchance, with all the 
 graces of style, and makes himself famous for his elo 
 quent and animated composition, his simple and pictu 
 resque, or, itmay be, his rich and ornate language ; but 
 Avho confines himself to description and narration ; who 
 neither seeks to account for wondrous deeds, nor pry 
 into the secret springs of character, nor to deduce les 
 sons from the remarkable events he chronicles. The 
 other method is that of the man who either writes with 
 an aim, to magnify a character, to defend a revolution, 
 to uphold a party, or to damn with everlasting infamy 
 some opponent ; or who at least has settled convictions, 
 and finds it impossible or undesirable not to indicate 
 them in his writings. He considers history to be philo 
 sophy teaching by example, and believes it to be the
 
 qo2 The Vagabond. 
 
 v-J O 
 
 province of the historian to expound her lessons. He 
 affects no blindness to faults or merits, and though he 
 strives to be and believes himself, and often is impartial, he 
 scruples riot to administer praise and blame. He does 
 not hold the scales and leave it to others to declare the 
 result ; he does not sum up the good or bad in a character, 
 and neglect to announce the conclusion. He. pronounces 
 judgment on the various individuals who pass in review 
 before him ; he does more ; he traces the results of 
 events ; he portrays the consequences of certain actions, 
 and points them out as a warning or a beacon to man 
 kind. He deduces opinions from his studies, and up 
 holds them by arguments drawn from those studies. 
 He also searches out the causes of the momentous 
 occurrences whose history he narrates ; he seeks in the 
 great principles of nature, in the fundamental character 
 istics of man and of his Maker, the reasons for many cir- 
 cumstances that appear unaccountable. One relates 
 faithfully, but refrains from biassing the opinion of his 
 readers except so far as facts may have an influence ; 
 the other openly places facts in such a position that they 
 shall maintain his views. One sifts, and balances, and 
 tries and measures ; the other is often an advocate 
 rather than a judge, and always an executioner. This 
 one is content with the painter s skill and the artist s 
 fame ; that one seeks also to convince and persuade, and 
 would fain be recognised as a teacher and a philosopher 
 as well as an annalist ; the former spreads out a recital 
 of facts, the latter dives into the recesses of opinion. 
 One is always clear, uncontroversial, and allows every 
 reader to determine for himself; the other is too often 
 heated and unfair, sums up for one side, and alas ! some-
 
 George Bancroft. 303 
 
 times distorts and conceals the truth, to make it seem to 
 warrant his conclusions. Yet the former, when most 
 excellent in his sphere, must always be content with a 
 lower rank than that assigned to the profound and elo 
 quent philosopher who not only sets before mankind the 
 course of events, but is also able to expound their causes 
 and point out their effects. 
 
 America has furnished a brilliant example of success 
 in each of these departments. One, the elegant and 
 learned scholar who has given the world such fascinating 
 narratives of life in the middle ages, and such lively, 
 picturesque descriptions of those romantic times in Ame 
 rican history when the conquest of a barbaric empire 
 was twice accomplished by a handful of European chi 
 valry. Another, the profound thinker and eloquent 
 writer, who first has related worthily to his countrymen 
 the progressive rise of the modern republic ; who, with 
 penetrating vision, has detected in slight circumstances 
 the source of a mighty torrent of events ; who has 
 grouped into symmetrical and harmonious positions the 
 growing colonies, and shown the consentaneous develop 
 ment of principles and sentiments, of national character 
 and embryo power, resulting, at last, in the edifice of 
 empire whose domain stops not with the shore, nor is 
 bounded by the elements, but reaches across the conti 
 nents and beyond the seas. 
 
 Mr. Bancroft s work is the great American classic ; 
 its theme the finest that could at this moment engage 
 the student or the philosopher. The states of antiquity 
 and the provinces of modern dominion have all furnished 
 worthy subjects to the contemplation of the learned ; 
 but no nobler study can be imagined than the problem
 
 304 The Vagabond. 
 
 afforded by America. Tis trite because so often ban 
 died by the incompetent ; but when elevated to its pro 
 per dignity, and treated by one who has fitted himself 
 for his task by long and arduous research, by profound 
 contemplation, and by extensive intercourse with affairs ; 
 when viewed from the lofty stand-point assumed by Mr. 
 Bancroft, and then so nobly discussed, with such ardor 
 and mingled impartiality, the proportions of the theme 
 are developed in their true grandeur, and convince one 
 that they equal any ever attempted by historian. 
 
 The great research of Mr. Bancroft is perhaps first 
 evident to one who carefully reads his volume ; the delv 
 ing into old records ; records not carefully treasured up 
 as the archives of a state or the heir-looms of an adminis 
 tration, but thrown aside into lumber-rooms, existing in 
 tattered correspondence, or only in obscure traditions ; 
 scattered over a country reaching thousands of miles, 
 or hidden in the closet of any one of twenty cabinets 
 abroad, whose predecessoi s, some centuries ago, assisted 
 to colonize America; disjecta membra confided to fami 
 lies now, perhaps, extinct ; all this curiously noted and 
 studied ; a piece of information gathered here ; a hint 
 from this speech ; a word from that document ; a clue 
 found yonder ; a ray of light detected there ; volumes 
 ransacked for a single name ; journeys travelled to verify 
 a date ; correspondences carried on to ascertain one cir 
 cumstance these must be evident to the most casual 
 observer. And then the skill with which the kernel 
 has been extracted from the chaff; the penetrating mind 
 which, out of a mass of material so incongruous, has 
 instantly discovered what tended to elucidate its pur 
 pose ; the peculiar ability for gathering from so many
 
 George Bancroft. 305 
 
 unlikely and distinct quarters what would converge upon 
 a single point, is also most remarkable. Continuous ap 
 plication is a trait of the mere annalist ; but the ability to 
 extract the gist of a matter, to perceive the use to be made 
 of a fact, to discover the growth of an opinion, the origin 
 of a party, the expansion of a sentiment by the light of 
 some apparently indifferent or insignificant cimimstance, 
 this is a characteristic that belongs to the historian alone. 
 
 The ardor which Mr. Bancroft brings to his work is 
 one of his most prominent commendations. He appre 
 ciates its importance to his country and to the race ; he 
 also perceives its grandeur, and his is a mind susceptible to 
 impressions of sublimity and beauty in no ordinary 
 degree. He takes in the entire scope of his subject, its 
 infinite relations to the past and the future ; he foresees 
 how it may affect the ultimate destiny of man. He is 
 himself full of lofty thought : while so practical as to 
 neglect no detail, he is yet imbued with a belief in the 
 progress of the race, and a noble sympathy with every 
 true reform ; he shares the hopes and aspirations that 
 were and are the redeeming trait of the splendid French 
 idealists, and fancies that the noblest of those aspirations 
 may be realized in America. Profoundly impressed with 
 these ideas, he devotes to his task at once a far-seeing 
 vision and a fervor which fit him to do ample justice to 
 so grand a theme. 
 
 He may at times trace fanciful connexions and deduce 
 his conclusions from very distant premises ; he does occa 
 sionally evince a tendency to the visionary character that 
 is the result of too great a fondness for the ideal ; but this 
 is at times to be expected ; and he manifests but few 
 instances of biassed judgment. His opinions are, like
 
 The Vagabond. 
 
 those of all mankind, sometimes influenced by his wishes 
 or his fancies; but few of his temperament are so calm 
 and equable as he ; few who ardently engage in a cause 
 can yet be so impartial, be so just to its opponents. lie 
 has but little bitterness, except for the foes of right ; 
 he indeed, sometimes, makes scarcely that allowance 
 for the frailties of human nature that we expect from a 
 philosopher ; but his indignation is so generous that one 
 is apt to be caught up in it before he is aware. 
 
 With all these characteristics of mind Mr. Bancroft 
 combines the splendid talents that give his history its 
 peculiar fascination. He is eloquent and rhetorical in 
 the last degree ; he sees the poetical side of his subject, 
 and at intervals presents it in glowing language to the 
 apprehension of his readers ; yet his imagery is not 
 offensively nor too frequently introduced ; his embellish 
 ments arc reserved for telling occasions; but when these 
 arrive, after, by lucid expositions and dispassionate nar 
 rative, by cogent reasoning and an indisputable array of 
 facts, he has brought your mind into a proper state, he 
 launches out into strains of bold and animated declama 
 tion that to most readers are irresistible. 
 
 The grand and epic unity of his subject, evolved only 
 by him, from the fragmentary history of a dozen scat 
 tered colonies, its gradual development, the care with 
 which he has traced a kindred in feeling if not always 
 in race, the p*ans he chants after a triumph of justice, 
 the tribute he pays to talent and virtue wherever found, 
 his earnest love for truth, his profound impression of 
 the right of man to freedom, his noble aspirations, his 
 generous sympathy with the oppressed, his manly indig 
 nation at wrong; his fervid patriotism and kindling in-
 
 George Bancroft. 307 
 
 terest whenever his country is particularly concerned ; 
 his largeness of soul, that takes in all mankind ; his eye 
 for the picturesque, evinced in exquisite descriptions of 
 natural scenery ; his delicate perceptions of musical 
 beauty, bespoken by the measured elegance of his style, 
 and the lofty eloquence with which he rises at times 
 almost into the sphere of the poet, all indicate that 
 George Bancroft has not mistaken his vocation all lit 
 him most admirably for the task of relating to his 
 couutrymen and the world now living, as well as to 
 posterity, the history of the republic whose existence, 
 whose growth, whose magnitude, and whose future are 
 alike the admiration and the mystery of modern times.
 
 THE PRIMA DONNAS. 
 
 "Here come more voices." 
 
 Coriolanus. 
 
 THE town is infested with prima donnas ; there is one 
 at the Academy with a train behind as long as the pro 
 cession of Ranquo s children, including those that were 
 imaged in the glass : there are two on the unaccustomed 
 boards of Burton s theatre, and the parquet that last 
 applauded the fun of Matthews or the wit of Brougham, 
 now is filled with admiring cognoscenti who listen 
 eagerly to Gazzaniga s declamation or Colson s French 
 performances. There has even been an opera at Wai- 
 lack s; oratorio singers essaying to enter the domain of 
 profaner art ; and I read in the newspapers of English 
 opera shortly to be given here, the American singer, Lucy 
 Escott, coming home to enchant her countrymen. This 
 is not all : Mrs. de Wilhorst is expected to arrive by 
 the next steamer, to make a new debtit, and Parodi is 
 about to bid us another last farewell. Germans, Italians, 
 French and Americans the hardest to please, should 
 find something agreeable in this embarras de choix. 
 
 How different from the days when Bertucca reigned 
 supreme at the Astor Place ! Her right there was none 
 to dispute; no rivals with just the attractions which she 
 did not possess ; whose novelty would compensate with 
 the inconstant crowd for the lack of every other quality.
 
 The Prima Donnas. 309 
 
 Bertucca was the first opera singer I ever heard ; my 
 memory goes no further back than the Astor Place era ; 
 I have read, indeed, in history, of Palmo s opera house, 
 and of the Greek chorus in the time of ^Eschylus ; I 
 know that there were singers in this country whose 
 names may be seen still in the old files of the New York 
 Mirror : I have heard that Malibran sang at the Bowery 
 theatre a quarter of a century ago. Think of that, ye 
 leaders of the ton! the Bowery theatre, now given over 
 to melodrama of the bloodiest and noisiest sort ; where 
 actors sink who cannot be tolerated on Broadway ; the 
 favorite resort of those who eat peanuts and applaud 
 red fire ; the Bowery theatre was once crowded with 
 fine folk, and its walls have echoed to the dulcet strains 
 of Rossini s " Barber." Yes, Malibran sang there ; per 
 haps as great a prima donna as has sung in NCAV York 
 since. I know it to my cost. The first night that I 
 heard Jenny Lind, I was with an old aunt, who, unfor 
 tunately, had listened to Malibran in that dim and dis 
 tant past when the Bowery theatre was fashionable. I 
 remember distinctly, that when the singer, who, to my 
 unpractised ear, was absolute perfection, and whose 
 notes I had been drinking in with entranced attention, 
 closed her first song, and I was gasping for breath, Aunt 
 Sally turned round to me and said : " Ah ! she isn t 
 equal to Malibran." What was Hecuba to me ? What 
 did I care for Malibran ? Twas the cruelest speech I 
 ever heard ; it dashed down all my extacies ; it spoiled 
 my evening ; and I never heard Jenny Lind afterwards 
 without thinking of Malibran. I take good care, in my 
 turn, to interrupt none of Gassier s unfledged admirers 
 by talking of Bosio.
 
 310 The Vagabond. 
 
 But revenon* d notre Bertucca. I shall never forget 
 her singing in "Lucia," on that first night that I sat in an 
 opera house. I knew that Mr. Willis didn t admire 
 her, and had called her, in the Home Journal, a painted 
 French doll, but I thought her a yoiing and pretty girl. 
 She wasn t buxom then, and hadn t become Madame 
 Maretzek ; I thought her voice full, and true and flexi 
 ble, that night ; but I heard Truffi the next in " Ernani," 
 and though I couldn t understand a word of the plot, 
 and I am not quite sure that I understand all of the 
 plot now, I perceived Truffi s superiority. And what 
 plots, to be sure, Verdi does select ! Who can unravel 
 the " Rigoletto," and who can tell what the " II Balen" 
 is about ? Why does the prima donna come on in man s 
 attire, and why does Amodio get so excited, and what 
 is Brignoli brandishing his sword so violently for ? 
 
 I have heard "Ernani" often since, but the confusion 
 remains. Those were times of confusion ; those were 
 the days of the lesser Astor-Place riots, when Truffi 
 and Laborde had each her admirers ; when swords were 
 drawn in earnest behind the scenes and in the lob 
 bies ; when Mr. Lupus got up in his box and called out 
 to the people on the stage. Horace Walpole did the 
 same thing in London a century ago, and tells, with in- 
 iinite glee, in one of his letters, that his friend dubbed 
 him Wat Tyler on the spot. Those were the days when 
 the famous Fry and Bennett quarrel originated, which 
 has not terminated yet. Those were the days when the 
 women went to the opera in the grandest of toilettes ; 
 when white gloves and a dress-coat were de rigueur for 
 the men; when the general public cared nothing for 
 music of the Italian sort, and when that music was not
 
 The Prima Donnas. 311 
 
 o:ie tenth part as good as what you can hear at two 
 theatres in town next week. Those days are over. You 
 may now go to the opera dressed for the street, and not 
 be remarkable ; you may go and not see an acquaint 
 ance (if tis in the summer); you may go and remember 
 the glories of Truffi, and Bertucca and Parodi ; but will 
 you regret them ? 
 
 Parodi made her debdt at the Astor Place. She came 
 out in the midst of the Jenny Lind excitement ; but she 
 had ;i furore of her own. I believe she has one still, occa 
 sionally, at New Orleans and Cincinnati; but she can 
 never make another here : she was tried and found 
 wanting, a winter or two ago. After Parodi, Bosio and 
 Steffanone sang at Castle Garden ; and will opera-goers 
 ever forget those summer nights, with moonlight stream 
 ing on the bay, Staten Island almost discernible in the 
 distance, the shipping moored around, and such exqui 
 site singers as have scarcely been equalled since, Avar- 
 bling away in the music of Bellini and Donizetti ? Verdi 
 was not the fashion then. " Lucia" and " Sonnambula" 
 were the pet operas : Bosio was the favorite singer, and 
 deserved to be so ; New York first recognised the exqui 
 site quality of a voice which has to-day no equal in 
 Europe for purity, sweetness and executive power. 
 There was the sensuous Steifanone, too, one of the 
 true lyric queens, an actress of such consummate drama 
 tic skill that only Grisi was more superb ; effective at 
 once in music and action. Steffanone was duly appre 
 ciated, though she seems forgotten now. But, amid all 
 the successes of the "Trovatore," I have never forgotten 
 that Steffanone first sang it in New York, and never has 
 it been sung so well. Neither La Grange, with her
 
 312 The Vagabond. 
 
 French method, nor Mrs. de Wilhorst, nor Parodi, LCI 
 Gazzaniga, with her intensity, nor any other, has so com 
 bined the delights of music and tragedy, in the role of 
 Leonora, as Steffanone. 
 
 But there have been others of more world- wide re 
 nown. Jenny Lind indeed, was only a concert singer ; she 
 made a fiasco abroad in " Norma," and cannot be num 
 bered among the great prima donnas ; but Alboni, the in 
 comparable, with her classical face and her delicious voice 
 undoubtedly the most delicious in the world; with her 
 lazy manner and those wonderful contralto notes of hers ; 
 do you remember how they were introduced in the 
 Brindisi of " Lucrezia ?" And Sontag, so charming, so 
 delicate, so interesting, so admirable an actress ; surely 
 no one has ever had her success since in the " Sonnam- 
 bula ;" none but she ever dared go across the stage on 
 her knees. Poor Sontag! Her sad fate will always 
 make her kindly remembered. The pet of European 
 courts, the queen, at intervals of a quarter of a century, 
 of the operatic stage, she ended her brilliant but 
 chequered career on a foreign and deserted shore, away 
 from friends, and home and fortune ; and the very form 
 that had been clad so superbly, and had once moved so 
 gracefully, and wakened such admiration, was denied 
 the commonest rites of sepulture. 
 
 But I cannot delay ; the time would fail me to speak 
 of Thillon with her curls and her eyes, and her airs and 
 her graces ; of Frezzolini ; of Catherine Hayes and her 
 Irish ballads ; of La Grange, who was the friend of so 
 many that I would not dare to speak an unkind word 
 about her if I thought it, which I don t ; of Grisi, who 
 though she came to us after her perihelion was passed,
 
 The Prima Donnas. 313 
 
 yet had voice and charms and genius enough left to show 
 us what all the world had been worshipping so long. 
 And now we have Gassier, who sings but cannot act, 
 and Gazzaniga, who acts and sings with superb effect, 
 and indeed I would rather hear her than any one now 
 in America. 
 
 It is sad, is it not, to recall these memories of pleasures 
 that are past ; to think of all the different women so 
 gifted, so beautiful, so graceful, who have sung on the 
 New York stage ; to think of the various theatres where 
 we have heard them ; the Astor Place, the Irving Place, 
 Niblo s Garden and Castle Garden, the Broadway thea 
 tre and Burton s theatre; the halls that are burned 
 down, the others where paupers and hospital patients 
 now congregate, the others that are changed into tailors 
 shops and reading-rooms. And the gay and brilliant 
 audiences ; the gentle belles, the blooming matrons, the 
 distinguished men who listened and looked ! It is not 
 well to think too much of pleasures that are gone ; we 
 shall always be comparing Malibran with Jenny Lind. 
 And if I, a young Vagabond, have such a store of memo 
 ries, what crowds of recollections must bewilder the old 
 folk who have visited every opera-house in Europe ; who 
 heard such a singer in Madrid, and such a work in Ber 
 lin ; who were at the debut of Bosio in St. Petersburg, 
 and assisted at the first night of " Le Prophete" in Paris. 
 Tis best, I say, not to remember ; I will stop my ears to 
 Bosio when I listen to Gassier s roulades ; and I must 
 shut my eyes to Grisi when I look on Gazzaniga ; and 
 on one of those September mornings, forty years hence, 
 which I hope you and I may live to see, perhaps we ll 
 get out our memories, and talk about the prima donnas 
 
 U
 
 314 The Vagabond. 
 
 who sang and who triumphed in New York so many 
 decades ago. Meanwhile, we shall go every night next 
 week ; there is music to be heard. Don t stop for the 
 recollections of Malibran that belong to others, or of 
 Grisi that are your own.
 
 ROSSINI. 
 
 Rarest sounds, 
 Do ye not hear ?" 
 
 PERICLES. 
 
 ROSSINI is not the favorite composer of New York ; 
 and, indeed, I doubt whether his star has not paled its 
 fires abroad : they tell stories in Paris about his jealousy 
 of Meyerbeer ; how he pretends to gape while he listens 
 to " The Huguenots," and falls asleep during the singing 
 of the " Ah, mon Fils." But the old man need not 
 fear : the new comers have their glories, it is true ; 
 Meyerbeer reigns in Paris, and Verdi is triumphant all 
 over Europe and America ; even Italy seems for a while 
 to have forgotten the times when Rossini was young and 
 beautiful, as well as a genius ; when the dio della 
 musica was the adored of the ladies ; when the masses 
 he composed were applauded in the churches, and 
 the priests were obliged to sing the litany to airs in his 
 operas. The hey-day of his fame is past, his beauty is 
 faded, and his youth for ever gone ; but the perennial 
 charms of " II Barbiere " cannot grow old, and the over 
 ture to " Guillaume Tell " must last while men have ears 
 to hear and souls to appreciate what is divine in music. 
 Joachim Rossini is secure of immortality. 
 
 Even now, at the very acme of the popularity which
 
 316 The Vagabond. 
 
 his successors have attained, while the " Trovatore " is 
 known by heart to those who walk the streets without 
 ever going to the opera ; while the works of Meyerbeer 
 crowd the Academy of Music for half a season ; even 
 now the managers of two different theatres in New York 
 find it worth their while to bring out three separate 
 productions of Rossini. In a city where no opera had 
 ever been sung when the master was supreme, after the 
 lapse of nearly half a century, a work is performed that 
 was hissed in Italy on its first performance. The man 
 who should think of hissing the " Barber of Seville " 
 now, would be thought mad ; but the most delicious 
 opera that ever was written was scarcely endured to its 
 close by Rossini s own countrymen. Malibran first sang 
 it in America, and every singer since has essayed the 
 brilliant, sparkling music : Grisi, Alboni, Sontag, Bosio, 
 La Grange, Gassier, all like to roll the liquid sounds of 
 "Una Voce, Poco Fa;" all are glad to join in the rapid 
 " Zitti-zitti ;" all are anxious to repeat the delicate 
 strains of the " Buona Sera." And, sure proof that the 
 musical education of our public is improving, we all 
 hasten to hear the " Barber " and the " Tell." 
 
 "Guillaume Tell," three years ago, inaugurated at 
 the Academy of Music those splendid revivals for which 
 the establishment has since become famous, and I recol 
 lect well the crowd that thronged around its doors on 
 the first night of the opera ; no more brilliant assemblage 
 has ever been seen within its Avails since, often as they 
 have encircled the fashion and distinction and beauty 
 of the land. And the crowd was not for one night 
 only; twelve performances were given in succession 
 before New York was satisfied with the opera that some
 
 Rossini. 317 
 
 people call heavy, and that others declare is not appre 
 ciated here. Last week, too, when " Guillaume Tell " 
 was again in the bills, the audience was larger than it had 
 been before during the season ; and the " Stabat Mater " 
 drew at Burton s on Sunday as crowded an assemblage 
 as either Gazzaniga or Colson in her favorite role. 
 Novelty piques the public taste, and intense passion ex 
 cites it, and Rossini is neither new nor dramatic ; but 
 because we like Verdi, shall we forget his predecessor ? 
 Because the "Ernani Involami" is exciting, is "Di 
 Tanti Palpiti " no longer exquisite ? 
 
 The " Barber," the " Stabat Mater," the " Guillaume 
 Tell," the "Italiana in Algieri," " Cenerentola," "La 
 Gazza Ladra," " Semiramide," " Otello," " Moise," what 
 a catalogue of splendors ! what a fecund and versatile 
 genius that could throw off such varied and exquisite 
 productions ! Delicious and delicate melody, exube 
 rant and superb ornamentation, elaborate science, grand 
 orchestral and choral effects, soft and flowing strains of 
 such a subtle charm, that, once heard, they are remem 
 bered for ever ; combinations for the voice such as few 
 masters have been able to rival, and an intoxicating 
 sweetness that is all his own ; these traits the most in 
 veterate unbeliever cannot deny to Rossini. True, he 
 deals not so largely in the dramatic element ; he has not 
 the wild intensity of Verdi, nor the splendid passion of 
 Donizetti ; nothing like the poisoning duet of " Lucre- 
 zia " or the wail of the " Miserere " can be found in any 
 of his works, except the "Stabat Mater." The occa 
 sional tragic force of " Otello " is transcended by the 
 genius of his successors, and the fire of Arnoldi in 
 " Guillaume Tell " is not equal to the spirit of Manrico,
 
 318 The Vagabond. 
 
 and is besides exceptional. Rossini does not seem to 
 be one of the emotional, impulsive natures, who feel so 
 deeply themselves and are half mad with excitement 
 until their agony of feeling gets utterance. He is not 
 full of the turbulent unrest that characterizes much of 
 the art and literature of this age ; he does not possesi 
 the dramatic faculty, as necessary to the composer as 
 the actor; the writer as the singer; he cannot, or does 
 not, throw himself so completely into the individual 
 whose feelings he portrays ; in his works it is Rossini 
 always whose influence you perceive : it is a delightful, 
 charming influence, but not the emotions of Semi- 
 ramide and of Tell; he is descriptive rather than 
 dramatic. 
 
 The " Stabat Mater," however, forms a grand excep 
 tion to the truth of this remark ; here, and here only, in 
 any of the works of Rossini, with which I am familiar, 
 does he seem full of passion instead of sentiment ; pro 
 foundly imbued with feeling ; at all dramatic. Whether 
 his religious feelings are deeper than any other, or 
 whether his mind or temperament was particularly 
 excited when he wrote the oratorio, certain it is that 
 there is a splendid earnestness, a magnificent pathos 
 and sympathy expressed in its music that do not distin 
 guish his other works : nothing could be more full of 
 sublimity and humanity than the " Pro Peccatis," 
 nothing more touching than the " Quis est Homo?" 
 nothing could give truer utterance to the emotions indi 
 cated in the language of the grand old Latin hymn, 
 more religious at once and entirely human, fuller of 
 grief, and love, and adoration, and repentance and aspi 
 ration, than the " Inflammatus.
 
 Rossini. 
 
 But no other music of Rossini has this elan; no 
 other lifts you out of yourself ; no other embodies those 
 undefined yearnings, those lofty aspirations that every 
 body has, but nobody utters ; no other expresses such 
 profound thought as Meyerbeer, such stirring passion as 
 Donizetti and Verdi. Rossini rather affects the grace 
 ful, the charming, the bewitching. He reminds you of 
 the fairies by his lightness, his brilliancy, his sweetness, 
 his subtle fancy, his delicate imagination, his indescriba 
 ble charm ; his intoxicating entrainement. You think 
 of Titania, or of Undine ; of mythology in all its weird 
 and graceful forms ; of moonlight, of Venice ; of romance 
 and love, but not love of the intenser sort ; intrigues 
 in Seville, serenades, harems in Algiers ; Cinderella and 
 her godmother, naughty magpies, nursery tales ; or gor 
 geous, barbaric Semiramis, with her pomp of music and 
 her elaborate overlay of feeling with florid sound. A 
 souvenir of Rossini is a pageant of music, of rolling, flow 
 ing sounds ; music for flexible and clear, pure sopranos ; 
 no need for your passionate, sympathetic voices, a La 
 Grange makes a better Rosina than a Grisi ; music for 
 frolic and fun-loving baritones, for Figaros and Bartolos ; 
 sometimes a splendid Tell joins in the procession, but he 
 is scarcely tender even w r hen he embraces Albert, and is 
 infinitely finer stirring up Arnoldi to patriotism, than 
 petting his darling boy. 
 
 But when Rossini is in his glory, in those wonderful 
 strains of the " Barber," in the music that some people 
 forget to listen to, of the finale of the first act, because 
 of the fun and bustle of the stage ; in the prodigious 
 ornamentation of the " Semiramide," involving and 
 overlaying melody with strings of pearls of sound ; iu
 
 320 The Vagabond. 
 
 the unsurpassed and unsurpassable sweetness of the 
 " Non Piu Mesta ;" in the Swiss music of " Tell," and 
 the ballet of the same opera ; the " Di Piacer" of " La 
 Gazza Ladra," and in the " Di Tanti Palpiti," there is 
 more of pure music than any other composer ever 
 lavished on the world. The others are so dramatic that 
 at times you do not notice how bare of real music they 
 often are. Many of their scenes are splendid instances 
 of declamation, but not really musical. Now, Rossini 
 abounds in music, " pure and simple." He throws away 
 little bits of melody; he scatters ah 1 over his works 
 snatches of song sufficient to make the fame of an ordi 
 nary composer. The prodigality with which they are 
 thrown around reminds one of Eastern princes scatter 
 ing gold and perfumes ; and, indeed, the music is pre 
 cious as gold, and subtle as perfume. The prince of 
 music, too, was as lavish as any of the monarchs in the 
 " Arabian Nights." He wrote the " Barber" in thirteen 
 days, the " Cenerentola" in eighteen ; his first opera 
 was composed before he was twenty. And these exqui 
 site strains came to him constantly ; his brain was full 
 of " Una Voces" and " Figaro Sus ;" he carried a paper 
 in his pocket, and in the streets, or theatres, or salons, 
 jotted down as they came to him the marvellous rnelo 
 dies that still enchant the world. A prince of some 
 enchanted story indeed he seems ; he lets you into a 
 world full of strange delights ; a sort of eastern tale he 
 tells ; dreamy pleasure he excites as real, as exquisite, 
 as subtle pleasures as the grander strains or more pas 
 sionate throbs of later rivals.
 
 THE MARRIED BELLES. 
 
 "What says the married womau?" 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra. 
 
 A CELEBRATED beauty once accused me of preferring 
 her mother s society to her own ; she declared I went to 
 their receptions and talked incessantly with mamma ; 
 she was sure of my penchant for married women ; and 
 we had a quarrel, which resulted, of course, unfortunately 
 for me. However, the beauty is married now, so I sup 
 pose I may be re-admitted to favor. Yet I am not en 
 tirely sure that the jealous spinster was wrong. I used, 
 a long while ago, to avow an open preference for the 
 mammas ; but that was when I was very young, and the 
 girls don t like boys, while women un peu passee are 
 amazingly flattered by the attentions of very young men. 
 It puts them on a sort of equality ; it takes off from 
 their apparent age. I remember distinctly that I 
 thought I made myself manly by avoiding those shal 
 low, simpering maidens (who wouldn t speak to me be 
 cause I wasn t twenty five) ; I looked down, or tried to, 
 on all but matured women ; my society was not such 
 flirting, romping creatures as were (like myself,) not out 
 of their teens, but splendid, finely-formed, elegantly- 
 mannered married belles. 
 
 I outgrew that state (it wasn t even a chrysalis pe- 
 14*
 
 322 The Vagabond. 
 
 riod of existence, it was the caterpillar time of life), and 
 passed into the mood when only my equals in age, or 
 those slightly younger, delighted my fancy ; it was still 
 with an idea of seeming old that I put on a blase air, 
 and wanted something fresh. I had seen so much, for 
 sooth, that one of the young things "just frae her mam 
 my " was a relief to me, the man of the world ; I looked 
 down graciously on the innocent artlessness and coquet 
 tish simplicity of the juveniles, and, like Rochester, in 
 " Jane Eyre," or De Sainville, in " Nathalie," was fasci 
 nated by the inexperience and naivete so different from 
 my own knowledge of the world and my natural profun 
 dity and penetration. Since those days I have had some 
 experience, in reality : I won t pretend to say how much, 
 but enough to make me modest ; to show me that the 
 women, married and unmarried, all know what they are 
 about perfectly well ; that they are born to command ; 
 that they are coquettes at sixteen, and able to combat 
 even then with a finished expert ; that I in particular am 
 a fool, and they in general are wise as serpents and not 
 harmless as doves. 
 
 I think I do appreciate married belles, however, at 
 least as well as their younger rivals. I certainly have 
 much to warrant me in such appreciation. From the 
 days of Helen of Troy the married women have borne 
 the palm. Didn t Paris prefer Venus to Minerva ? 
 Wasn t Eve married when the devil came after her ? 
 Didn t Mary of Scotland eclipse Elizabeth the virgin ? 
 Don t the married belles rule society ? Can t they go 
 where they please, receive whom they please, like whom 
 they please, make whom they please, and mar whom 
 they please ? Are not the maids, young and old, trying
 
 The Married Belles. 
 
 all, as hard as they can, to be married ? Isn t it the aim 
 and object of the young belles and blues and wall-flowers 
 to reach the very position they so affect to despise ? That 
 French gallant was certainly at fault, who knew not after 
 marriage where to spend his evenings. I could have told 
 him. With some married belle, to be sure, who would 
 find a flirtation with him infinitely more piquant, and 
 his attentions infinitely more acceptable because they 
 were claimed by another. Then his wife would not be 
 lonely; all the beaux would crowd around her in her 
 turn ; he need not have hesitated on her account to spend 
 his evenings elsewhere. They manage these things better 
 in France, is an old saying ; but this Frenchman lacked 
 the national quickness, surely. 
 
 The married belles! oh, yes! I confess myself an 
 admirer. I know many mothers whom I prefer to their 
 daughters; mothers whose charms of person and man 
 ner are not at all on the wane ; whose smile is no less 
 radiant, whose complexion is no less dazzling, whose 
 eye is to the full as speaking, whose movements are as 
 graceful, and whose fascinations of behavior are as con 
 stant as any of Mademoiselle. I can think of half a 
 dozen famous belles, whose names are known all over 
 the country, and whose perihelion is not passed because 
 the rubicon of marriage has been crossed ; belles whose 
 age is fabulous ; the outset of whose career is lost in 
 the mists of antiquity ; who were belles in your grand 
 mother s day ; women about whom the last generation 
 used to talk, and the next generation is crowding now 
 to pick up their fans and fasten their bracelets. Those 
 wonderful Washington belles ! what has time to do with 
 them? To be sure they paint and they patch, they
 
 324 The Vagabond. 
 
 powder and they puff, and their toilette is said to be the 
 work of a day ; a work of art, indeed it is ; their younger 
 rivals tell all sorts of stories about their dressing-rooms, 
 and bribe their maids, and shrug their shoulders, and 
 speak of the eighteenth century ; but there they are ; 
 the revolutions of parties, the flight of years, the changes 
 of coteries affect them not ; each successive season sees 
 them feted and followed ; they set the fashion ; they have 
 the most distinguished men in the country at their feet, 
 and at their levees ; they leave whole crowds of younger 
 belles behind them in the race. 
 
 But these women are exceptions, scarcely to be 
 taken into account. There are others not as old as 
 Ninon de 1 Enclos, but as fascinating ; women who boast 
 of having been queens for a quarter of a century ; who 
 have been sought after at half the courts of Europe, 
 who are known in every city in the land, and when they 
 are in New York receive a hundred visits a day, yet 
 retain a freshness of feeling, a youthful enthusiasm that 
 some girls lose in their first season ; Avhose hearts are 
 not rendered callous by adulation ; whose amiability 
 is not lost by contact with the world. I was paying a 
 visit last week to one of these, and there came in, the 
 oldest and one of the first literary men in America. He 
 had not met the lady in a quarter of a century, but he 
 persisted in calling her by her Christian name ; he told 
 her she was as young in heart as she was still in appear 
 ance ; he, with one foot in the grave, a man nearly 
 eighty, repeated his visits six times in as many days, and 
 renewed each time his expressions of delight at the 
 naturalness and heartiness of the married belle. 
 
 Whether it is that the married women know what a
 
 The Married Belles. 325 
 
 wonderful fascination youth possesses, and as this fadeg 
 endeavor by graces of manner to atone for the unavoid 
 able deficiency, or whether experience alone brings the 
 charm that is so delightful, I don t pretend to say, but the 
 charm exists. Some of these belles are not women of 
 talent ; some are inordinately vain, and some are ex 
 ceedingly shallow ; some whose sway is universally ac 
 knowledged, stumble at times in their English, to say 
 nothing at all of French ; some have a reputation for 
 cleverness that they don t at all deserve, but which no 
 body takes the trouble to contradict; some are weari 
 some in exacting adulation, and others make the most 
 exorbitant demands on the time and the labors of their 
 admirers; send you on fearfully long errands, and re 
 quire fearfully expensive compliments ; ask outright for 
 them, too. But for all, there is an attractiveness that I 
 confess I often find irresistible while it lasts. 
 
 Then there are the young married belles. These have 
 the advantage ; they have the freedom, the ease, the po 
 sition which marriage confers ; they can go out with the 
 beaux ; they can receive as much homage as you choose 
 to pay ; they have all the prerogatives of one condition, 
 and lose none that belong to the other. Their beauty 
 has not faded, but seems often to receive an enhance 
 ment ; their manner is more bewitching, their accom 
 plishments are more engaging, their society is more 
 piquant. After the first year of married life is over, and 
 the honeymoon, if there was any, is past ; when Ma 
 dame begins to weary of one slave, and to long for that 
 universal sceptre which she knows is her right ; when 
 the lover subsides into the husband, and the beauty sees 
 no sign in her glass that she is subsiding into the wife,
 
 326 The Vagabond. 
 
 then awful beauty puts on all its charms; then she 
 comes forth in state, a queen Juno, not Venus ; and 
 the men must beware. She knows how they may be 
 won, how they may be conquered ; she has learned to 
 teaze and to trifle, to invite and to repel, to charm like the 
 serpent in spite of resistance, to subdue, to trample, and 
 to sting ; she can be imperious or indulgent, implacable 
 or pliant, enticing, complaining, mocking, earnest, fickle, 
 what she will. There is yet no sense of waning powers 
 to sour her temper or sharpen her features ; there is no 
 anxiety for success to render her too empressee ; there is 
 no absorbing passion to swallow up all her thoughts, 
 and feelings, and fancies, and render her unconscious of 
 everybody in the world but one : she is not in love ; or 
 if she is, she don t deserve to be, and is not a belle ; she 
 is only flirting, or playing, or coquetting, or not even 
 these : she is enjoying her triumphs 
 
 " Cui in maim sit quern esse dementem velit, 
 Quern sapere, quern sanari, quern in morbum injici, 
 Quern contra amari, quern accersiri."
 
 BOSTON. 
 
 " I ll view the manners of the town, 
 Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings, 
 And then return, and sleep within mine inn." 
 
 Comedy of Errors. 
 
 BOSTON was not entirely new to me a fortnight ago, 
 when I applied to myself the language of Dromio s 
 master, and set out to deliver my letters not exclu 
 sively to "traders." I had "gazed upon the buildings" 
 before. I had seen the Common and the State House ; 
 had visited Faneuil Hall, and Mount Auburn, and was 
 not liable to be lost, even in the defiles around Court 
 street, or the labyrinth of lanes leading out from Tre- 
 mont Row. But I had not "viewed the manners of the 
 town ;" I had not seen the people at home ; I had not 
 mixed in those circles reputed so blue and so frigid, so 
 learned and so formal, that southerners proclaim pedan 
 tic, and foreigners call the most delightful in America. 
 So all was strange and interesting to one with the pro 
 pensities of a Vagabond curious, ever anxious to see 
 and hear some new thing, ready to go whithersoever any 
 one would take him, to know whomsoever he should 
 chance to meet, to experience whatsoever should be pre 
 sented to his eager apprehension. 
 
 A New Yorker may be either the best calculated per 
 son in the world to enjoy and appreciate Boston, or the
 
 328 The Vagabond. 
 
 worst. Coming from the hurly-hurly of the metropolis, 
 from the whirl and confusion of its streets and its opera, 
 from the splendor of its Fifth avenue dinners and the 
 intensity of its Wall street life, from the excitement of 
 its politics and the glare of its hotels, the crowding and 
 jostling of its entire life, he may find Boston tame and 
 insipid by comparison. He may hanker after the bril 
 liant shops, the excited population, the hurry of busi 
 ness, and the rush after pleasure that he has left behind. 
 He may call the Bostonians stiff and precise ; he may 
 find a lack of life, or fancy that he detects a narrowness 
 of feeling, a provinciality of tone in their society ; he 
 may long for the cosmopolitan influences of New York. 
 And, indeed, there is all the difference between the two 
 cities that there is between a capital and a smaller town. 
 The attrition produced by contact with so many minds 
 of such various degrees of talent and culture ; the 
 humanizing effect of a world where none lead, where 
 no one circle is absolutely first, where neither politicians, 
 nor men of letters, nor artists, nor merchants, nor 
 religious people give the tone, but where all are fused 
 into one grand whole ; the influence of so many influ 
 ences, the result of so many combinations, the enlarg 
 ing of the mind, the sharpening of the faculties, the 
 quickening of the wits; the readiness for emergencies, 
 whether of actual life or of social repartee ; the confusion 
 Avhich yet, like the colors in a kaleidoscope, becomes 
 harmonious in a word, the great life of the world, all 
 this distinguishes New York ; gives it its attraction, its 
 fascination for natures fitted for life and actualities; and 
 indeed draws within its influences and assimilates in 
 character and taste even those of different temperament,
 
 Boston. 329 
 
 who are placed at all near the maelstrom. If the outer 
 most eddy reaches them, they are sure to be caught ere 
 long in the maddest circle of the whirlpool. Besides this, 
 the outward splendor, the gaiety, the prancing, dancing 
 life, with the loud accompaniments of inspiring music 
 intoxicates ? and one procession comes so quickly after 
 another, one draught is put to the lips so soon after the 
 first is drained, that you have no time to clear your eyes 
 or your head ; you live in an entrainement. Some, it is 
 true, weary of the whirl, but tis only those who are not 
 used to it ; the confusion soon ceases to stun, and only 
 excites ; and those who at first were anxious to get out 
 of the uproar, soon find its exhilaration necessary to 
 their existence. 
 
 It is not wonderful that such find a comparatively 
 small and quiet place like Boston uninteresting. And, 
 indeed, to one who should go thither and see nothing of 
 its people, I imagine the city would soon prove insipid. 
 The shops, and shows and streets, are dull after the 
 pageantry of Broadway and of Stewart s, and the 
 throngs who go to see Piccolomini. But to one who 
 obtains access to the delightful society to be found in 
 Boston, who finds his way among the people of high 
 culture, of refined taste and real talent, who are the 
 leaders and controllers there, I can imagine nothing 
 tame. The peculiarity of the intellectual people there 
 is, not, perhaps, that they are more intellectual than the 
 literary men and women here, but that they have more 
 influence. Mind and education are better appreciated ; 
 here it is talent and tact, and, above all, success that 
 sways. Not wealth, as so many say and think, but 
 success in almost any department of life, is the passport
 
 330 The Vagabond. 
 
 to our society, the touchstone to all men s admiration in 
 ]STe\v York. In Boston, intellect has the same influence ; 
 here, a man may have an immensity of genius, and if he 
 does nothing with it, if there is no result attained, to 
 prove its possession, it does him little service. Here, 
 too, there are perhaps as many cultivated people as in 
 Boston, but they are lost in the crowd ; they do not 
 lead ; they are only one component part of the great 
 whole. In Boston they govern ; their influence is seen 
 and felt in society, in the newspapers, in State street, 
 in the theatre, in the churches, at Mount Auburn, every 
 where. Boston is essentially an intellectual place. Not 
 having the same themes of actual life and business to 
 engage their attention, or at least not so many of them, 
 the Bostonians turn their minds more to abstract topics ; 
 they discuss such more fully and more often ; they live 
 more with books and with the past, than we men of the 
 world and of the present. 
 
 How few houses in New York could one enter, as 
 I did one in Boston, and find the entire conversation 
 for a long and delightful evening confined to subjects 
 connected with literature and art ; persons, except as 
 regards their genius or their talent, scarcely mentioned ; 
 events not so much discussed as causes ; generalities, 
 not individual cases considered ; and a general tone 
 given to the party that marked at once the highest 
 culture and the most refined taste. And yet as many 
 women as men were present ; young and pretty women, 
 too ; well dressed and who wore fine diamonds and 
 appreciated the charms of the toilette ; but I saw none 
 of the vanities and flirtings that make up an evening in 
 New York. People absolutely forgot themselves, and
 
 Boston. 331 
 
 talked for the sake of exchanging ideas. Of course, 
 ideas were then struck out fast and brilliant ; wit, and 
 geniality, and anecdote enlivened the oftentimes pro 
 found and original veins of thought ; poets said nonsen 
 sical things, and men with famous names were not 
 anxious always to maintain their reputation. 
 
 And this not at one house alone ; at a dozen houses I 
 met the same sort of people, and heard the same sort 
 of talk. I doubt if you would at a dozen houses in 
 New York. All this does undoubtedly give a greater 
 air of refinement to Boston society than is often seen 
 in New York ; the people are not so brilliant in manner, 
 are not so ready, so more than ready, nor are they so 
 empresse ; the eagerness, the hurry, the splendor so 
 often verging upon ostentation, the brilliancy that so 
 often is false, the parade that is, alas ! sometimes vulgar, 
 in New York, these the Bostonians have not ; but quiet 
 elegance, or, if not superlative elegance, yet perfect and 
 well-bred ease. I saw no stiifness among those who, in 
 the same station elsewhere, would be expected to be at 
 ease ; I found no frigidity to complain of; I confess I 
 often said to myself: "This is almost better than New 
 York." I was glad to breathe an atmosphere of cul 
 ture ; I was glad to be among people who thought 
 before they talked, and not only at the same moment ; 
 I was glad to have an opportunity myself to think, to 
 rest from the turmoil of the life NCAV Yorkers lead. I 
 was glad to find people who get time to read ; who will 
 discuss, and not think it pedantic, books absolutely a 
 hundred years old ; who talk of historical topics not 
 actually suggested by some occurrence of to-day ; who 
 are interested in themes not altogether present. I con 
 fess I felt ashamed in this society to remember how lit-
 
 332 The Vagabond. 
 
 tie time one finds here for study and reflection ; how 
 soon the taste for it subsides ; how soon you forget to 
 reproach yourself for neglecting the inner culture ; how 
 absolutely we live for the senses and the outside : we 
 refine, it is true, but we are sensualists still. 
 
 The difference in this very respect is apparent in the 
 theatre. We go to the opera, and in the delights 1 
 addressed to eye and ear, in the pageantry of the stage 
 and the intoxication of sweet sounds, or even in the 
 excitement that great music produces, there is not often 
 any intellectual pleasure. The Bostonians appreciate 
 music, too, but do not therefore undervalue the theatre. 
 The most cultivated and talented people there make it 
 their duty to support the drama, as a means of elevating 
 and sustaining their own culture and taste, and that of 
 the community. They listen to a play as carefully as 
 they would read a poem or study a picture. And they 
 look upon players differently ; they regard an actor of 
 ability as a man of talent or genius, and receive him into 
 their houses; he has shown that be has mind, and is 
 therefore their equal ; he is an artist, and they reverence 
 art and welcome its professors. Art is not with them 
 solely an amusement ; and they strive to elevate it by 
 acknowledging, so long as they are worthy of acknow 
 ledgment, those who practise it. I knew of a sympo 
 sium at the house of one of the first women in Boston, 
 whose name is as familiar here as there, where poets of 
 European reputation, wits, and scholars, and critics and 
 statesmen were invited solely to meet an actor ; a man 
 of rare and exquisite genius, and so a most desirable 
 acquaintance for such as these. That man has been in 
 New York, but I never heard of a party being offered 
 him, except by a Vagabond.
 
 THE PREACHERS. 
 
 " What, art thou devout ? "Wast thou at prayer ?" 
 
 Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 WITH no class of men is the professional uniform 
 more significant of a sameness in character than with 
 those who wear the gown. The fact that some denomi 
 nations prefer black coat and white cravat to floAving 
 robes and graceful scarfs, by no means excludes the 
 plainer preacher from the criticism ; on the contrary, 
 the strictness with which the etiquette of dress is ob 
 served by the clergy generally, is quite emblematic of 
 the ordinary evenness of their minds and almost univer 
 sal tediousness of their sermons. Here and there, it is 
 true, in a procession of priests or soldiers, you may see 
 one conspicuous above his fellows, whose form the garb 
 sanctioned by custom shall set off to unusual advantage, 
 and the folds of canonical drapery or the strait-laced 
 military suit serve only to display his natural grace or 
 manliness ; but ordinarily, it is the surplices and epau 
 lets that attract attention, not the individual men. So 
 in glancing over the crowd of preachers in New York, 
 one is surprised to find the same traits belonging to so 
 many, the same remarks applicable to nearly all. The 
 list of those pre-eminent for talent or attainment is soon 
 exhausted. They sing the same tunes in nearly all the
 
 334 The Vagabond. 
 
 churches, though set to different words. However, one 
 man shall play " Old Hundred" so that you fancy you 
 never heard it before, and another read the Litany in a 
 manner that makes you discover new beauties in a com 
 position familiar to you from your cradle. 
 
 I weary soon of listening to platitudes ; I have but 
 slight respect for insipid sermons ; I will not go to hear 
 him who preaches in the finest of churches and to the 
 most fashionable of congregations, if his voice is disagree 
 able, or his style slipshod, or his matter commonplace. 
 And we have all been preached to so long, we have 
 heard the same things said so often, that it requires a 
 man of more than ordinary ability to interest his hear 
 ers. The most devout attendants fall at times to count 
 ing the panes of glass, or criticising their neighbors 
 dress. What then is to be expected of vagabonds? 
 But there are men who never allow you to go to sleep, 
 who never fail to enlist the attention of the most care 
 less, who are sure to interest the most indifferent. Of 
 this class is Dr. Hawks. 
 
 His taste has attained that degree of perfection, than 
 which there is none higher, which prefers simplicity to 
 ornate rhetoric ; and though he has at his command the 
 most elaborate and splendid eloquence, he is chary of its 
 display, so that when the finest touches are introduced, 
 it is always with the greater effect from their infrc- 
 quency. Many a man with his gifts would be constantly 
 obtruding them upon us, till weariness and disgust 
 would greet the oft-recurring simile and never-ending 
 declamation ; lont the wiser scholar makes us always 
 wish for more. His rhetoric is only the cap-stone of his 
 oratory, a crowning grace superadded to more solid ad-
 
 The Preachers. 
 
 335 
 
 vantages. Unlike most orators, he begins with logic ; 
 carefully-considered, well-digested thoughts are wrought 
 up in perspicuous English, symmetrically and lucidly 
 arranged. His studies are apparent from their general 
 effect, from the chastened tone pervading all his efforts, 
 and the ripened character of his productions, rather than 
 from any parade of allusion or quotation. Neither the 
 crowded imagery of Jeremy Taylor nor the sounding 
 declamation of the great French preachers characterizes 
 the most accomplished pulpit orator of New York ; but 
 rather a Ciceronian elegance and force. Everything is 
 excellent, but no effort is visible ; the finish is every 
 where apparent, but it is the care that the sculptor be 
 stows in rounding the form and giving the last touch to 
 Hebe or Apollo, not the adorning of the tailor, though 
 he dresses his block in coronation robes. 
 
 What, however, more than the absence of florid 
 embellishment, probably surprises those who hear Dr. 
 Hawks for the first time, is the comparatively unimpas- 
 sioned nature of his discourses, and the careful reason 
 ing that marks them. He certainly is not celebrated for 
 his argumentative powers, yet these really distinguish 
 him as much as any showier qualities, and are full as 
 carefully cultivated. The admirable arrangement and 
 beautiful progression of his ideas, are also remarkable ; 
 each thought is in its proper place and assigned its due 
 importance. The rules of the masters in logic and rhe 
 toric are scrupulously observed; the orator first con 
 vinces, then pleases, and then, perhaps, persuades. 
 
 But his rhetoric, though sparingly used, is not forgot 
 ten. When the proper moment arrives, it is introduced 
 in the most felicitous manner, and with the most felici-
 
 336 The Vagabond. 
 
 tous result. The perorations, especially, of his sermons 
 are remarkable for splendid effects of oratory. In fact, 
 throughout you feel that you are listening to a master 
 of his art. The care that has been bestowed upon his 
 efforts is the more manifest, the more you examine them 
 or the closer attention you pay. But this very perfec 
 tion inevitably suggests an idea of the labor and study 
 that must have conspired to attain such perfection. 
 The very grace of elocution reminds one of Bossuet, 
 who was said to visit the theatre nightly in order to 
 model himself in the best schools of delivery. 
 
 Dr. Hawks impresses you as an elegant and eloquent 
 man, whom robes become, who reads the liturgy with 
 exquisite grace and meaning, who is imbued with the 
 learning of his profession, and knows how to use it 
 well. But he does not impress you as a man deeply in 
 earnest to convert his fellows. His thoughts and ener 
 gies seem directed to the elaboration of his subject as a 
 literary theme, towards accomplishing perfection in 
 diction and gesture, rather than to urging upon his 
 hearers the awful importance to them of what he 
 preaches. So his reading, though in accordance with 
 every suggestion of the most cultivated taste, lacks the 
 unction that plainer men can infuse into the language 
 of the Prayer Book, and his preaching has everything 
 but soul. He is a Paul without his inspiration ; a Chry- 
 sostom without his sacred fervor. Whoever desires an 
 intellectual entertainment of the highest order, can be 
 gratified by one of Dr. Hawks s highly-finished dis 
 courses ; whoever seeks a soul-stirring utterance of 
 vital truths, an energetic preaching such as sends you 
 home uneasy and thoughtful, must seek for it elsewhere.
 
 The Preachers 337 
 
 He fights with earthly weapons, well tempered and 
 polished ; but that one sharper than a two-edged sword 
 is reserved for other hands. He ministers in the outer 
 courts in sumptuous robes, but never enters barefoot the 
 holy of holies : his services are the rich man s offering 
 at the treasury, which a widow s mite shah 1 outweigh. 
 
 An orator, a preacher more diametrically opposite to 
 him than Dr. Tyng it is impossible to imagine. Earnest, 
 energetic, impassioned ; full of his subject, forgetful of 
 himself; anxious to persuade rather than to convince his 
 hearers ; careless of style and manner, except as they 
 may conduce to his great end still, his absolute since 
 rity, the feeling with which he utters his convictions 
 makes him always interesting. His own warmth affects 
 his audience. Though he does not possess the sympa 
 thetic quality, the magnetic influence of voice and eye 
 that some great orators wield, he lacks no other essen 
 tial of eloquence. An extended command of language, 
 correct, nervous, terse ; an abundant stock of images, 
 apt and forcible though not remarkable for elegance ; 
 a style not brilliant nor studied, but direct and telling ; 
 a manner simple but animated ; these distinguish Dr. 
 Tyng. His appearance is in his favor. In the pulpit he 
 looks like a Knox or a Luther, preaching doctrines, per 
 haps distasteful, but which he does not for that, attempt 
 to sweeten or disguise : his figure is tall, his attitudes 
 fine, and his lively gesticulation is seen to excellent 
 advantage in his own pulpit, w^hich is so constructed 
 that the speaker s whole person is frequently conspicu 
 ous. As he walks rapidly from one side of the platform 
 to the other, and throws up his arms or brings them 
 down forcibly and repeatedly, as if hammering an argu- 
 
 15
 
 338 The Vagabond. 
 
 raent, the folds of his drapery cling to his form, and fol 
 low the varying outlines of his person, always clothing 
 him with dignity, if not with grace. 
 
 He cares not to tickle the ear with sweet sounds and 
 rounded periods, though he seldom offends it by abrupt 
 readings or inharmonious language. He is not anxious 
 to gratify a fastidious taste with pretty conceits and 
 fanciful similes, yet a correct one can seldom object or 
 fail to be pleased. He does not search for novel ideas 
 nor indulge in elegant meditations, but brings argument 
 upon argument, simile after simile, word after word, one 
 upon the other, and drives the nail right home. You 
 cannot go to sleep under his preaching. His voice is 
 harsh and grating at times, but well-managed ; his 
 inflections being invariably admirable. Those who are 
 close observers are aware of the vast importance of this 
 last ; a careless or ignorant speaker inflicts more pain on 
 a cultivated ear by his neglect or violation of the rules 
 of inflection than by any other means. It is a delight to 
 hear Dr. Tyng on this one account. 
 
 He is doctrinal ; that is, he preaches what he believes, 
 he explains and applies it ; but he is not really argumen 
 tative. He does not reason from causes, but from 
 effects. He is not profoundly learned, and is remarka 
 ble rather for vigor than for originality or depth of 
 thought, and would not, perhaps, affect a scholar so 
 quickly as a man of the world. His reasoning is clinch 
 ing : he rather overcomes an argument than removes it. 
 He cannot dispel doubt, nor enlighten a dark mind, 
 lie does not answer the inquiries of a thoughtful and 
 speculative man ; but, at the time, he overwhelms all 
 opposition. He pours out such a torrent of words, and
 
 The Preachers. 339 
 
 so amplifies or repeats an idea that you think it must 
 have force. 
 
 He preaches the old orthodox matter in the old 
 orthodox way. If you have new-fangled ideas, he 
 knows nothing of such. He cannot handle a new 
 disease or a delicate patient ; if the right hand offends 
 him, he is for cutting it off; if the right eye offends him, 
 he would pluck it out. He deals in no metaphysical 
 niceties, no refinements of sentiment or expression. He 
 has no charity for anything or anybody. Believe and be 
 saved, refuse and be damned ; aut Ccesar out nullus / 
 no rendering to CaBsar the things that are Caesar s, and 
 to God the things that are God s. Ye cannot serve two 
 masters. As a matter of course, he is a Calvinist : he 
 would have been a Puritan had he lived in the time of 
 the Commonwealth ; fought and prayed like Balfour of 
 Burley ; a true Saul of Tarsus breathing out threaten- 
 ings and slaughter, or a Paul preaching with the same 
 ardor with which he had persecuted ; a martyr, if it 
 were necessary, to die at the stake, or if lie Avere an 
 inquisitor, would burn the heretics with right good will. 
 He is of such stuff as those are made of who govern the 
 world.
 
 PICCOLOMINI. 
 
 " Her pretty action did outsell her gift, 
 And yet enrich d it too." 
 
 Cymbeline. 
 
 PICCOLOMINI fascinated me directly; so those who want 
 a calm and dispassionate criticism must look to some 
 other Vagabond. I shan t pretend to write one. I 
 know, indeed, that the new prima donna has not as 
 much voice as Jenny Lind, nor as much execution as 
 La Grange ; I have been sorry for her when she was 
 singing the " Brindisi," in " La Traviata," and sorry for 
 myself when she came to the " Gran Dio ;" but never 
 theless I like her. I liked her before she had sung at all. 
 Didn t you ? I paid her a visit, on the Sunday after her 
 arrival, in company with a fine lady, who persisted in 
 sending up her card, though the servant declared Picco- 
 lomini was at breakfast or at church ; but the card would 
 be sufficient in most houses here, or elsewhere, to secure 
 its owner admission, and it brought the Princess Picco- 
 lomini down stairs forthwith. She looked charming and 
 eager ; my friend spoke to her in Italian ; and these were 
 the first words spoken to the stranger in her native 
 tongue by an American ; this was the first visit she had 
 received, and she accepted the omen for good. Her face 
 lighted up, as few faces can, at the familiar sounds, and
 
 Piccolomini. 
 
 341 
 
 the two handsome women kissed each other with hearty 
 good will. I was prejudiced immediately: (tantalized 
 too. The wicked king in Hades had the good things very 
 near his lips, you know, but couldn t reach em.) 
 
 Piccolomini was as frank and as natural as you would 
 suppose ; she told how anxious she was ; how she had 
 often and always longed to see America ; how, now she 
 was arrived, her fears were great lest she might not suc 
 ceed. I saw her again, on the day before her debut ; it 
 was at rehearsal ; when I entered the auditorium, she 
 was singing in the second act of " La Traviata ;" crying 
 and sobbing away in tune and time: she wore a walking 
 dress, and her pretty little hands, " pretty because little" 
 as Moth says in " Love s Labor Lost," were cased in 
 dark gloves ; her attire was not at all calculated to make 
 her or any one else forget Piccolomini in Violetta ; but 
 her form was full of action, and her voice full of feeling ; 
 she wrung those little kidded hands in bitter angxiish, 
 and cried as earnestly as if she were indeed losing one 
 lover, instead of gaining a thousand ; two or three 
 chorus singers (women) sat behind me in the parquet, 
 and fell a crying too : then they poked fun at each other 
 for being so foolish, and at a rehearsal ! but I thought 
 to myself what a triumph was this, to force the very 
 chorus singers to wipe their eyes. So I went on the 
 stage after the scene, and complimented the singer. She 
 was more nervous than ever ; asked eagerly about the 
 people out-doors; whether the house- would be full; if 
 the feeling towards her was kindly ; thanked me earnestly 
 for my good wishes ; and as I left, held out that same 
 little hand, and cried, " Merci cette visite !" And what 
 do you think I did to the hand ?
 
 342 The Vagabond. 
 
 And how pretty she looked the next night ; how she 
 gazed around at the great house, that never looked finer 
 than on the night of her debut ; how she seemed half- 
 frightened and half-encouraged at her reception. She 
 courtesied so gracefully, she smiled so bewitchingly, 
 and then began to sing. Well, there is no doubt that 
 people were somewhat disappointed at her voice ; they 
 expected more of it ; greater compass, greater volume, 
 greater flexibility, greater power ; for indeed Piccolo- 
 mini is not a great singer ; but she is a woman of 
 genius ; she has not a great voice, but she has a sympa 
 thetic one ; she has the power of expressing feeling in 
 musical notes ; she cannot turn you out tunes with the 
 facility of Madame Gassier, whose voice is as completely 
 under her control as if it were a hand organ, and as 
 soulless, too ; but she can infuse a meaning into her notes 
 that one cannot be deaf to ; that goes straight to the 
 heart. This power has very nearly been forgotten by 
 the public. Since the " Traviata," Piccolomini has sung 
 almost exclusively, in comic operas, and her faculty of 
 sympathetic singing has scarcely been called into play ; 
 but she possesses it in a large degree. Her singing in the 
 second act of the " Traviata" is an operatic triumph, is 
 full of feeling and exquisitely effective. Indeed, because 
 she acts so much better than she sings, her musical 
 abilities are underrated here. Admit that her voice is 
 not powerful, that it lacks volume, and what other 
 requisite is absent ? She sings true, her voice is pure, 
 is eminently sweet, and fresh ; her method is correct, her 
 phrasing perfect ; her appreciation of the composer s 
 idea always admirable, and always indicated. If some 
 times the deficiency of her vocal powers prevents an
 
 Piccolomini. 343 
 
 entire rendering of this idea musically, does not her 
 dramatic talent take up the idea and completely deve 
 lop it ? 
 
 Of course, no one denies her dramatic talent ; but, 
 because she is so irresistibly bewitching in comedy, the 
 public again fails to do entire justice to her action in 
 serious operas. She herself prefers such ; she likes the 
 role of Violetta better than that of Zerlina ; she prefers 
 weeping to smiling ; she likes to fling her beautiful arms 
 and toss her beautiful hands in all the "loveliness of 
 tragic sorrow," (as Mr. Fry calls it,) better than fasci 
 nating us by the coquetries of Serpina or the naughty 
 naturalness of the Vivandi&re. She is very anxious to 
 sing in an opera of Donizetti s, the libretto of which is 
 founded on Chateaiibriand s novel of " Les Martyres," 
 and the plot of course is tragic. She clapped her hands 
 and looked as delighted as a child when she told me that 
 she would soon appear in this opera. First she described 
 it to me ; told me how delightfully tragic it is, how mov 
 ing the music, how fine the role of the martyr. " And 
 will you sing it ?" " Yes !" with a beaming eye and a 
 childish glee. "This season?" "Yes!" more delighted 
 than ever ; and I vowed, if she should, I d go every 
 night to applaud. 
 
 By the way, have you noticed her applaud when she 
 is not on the stage ? She claps away for Gazzaniga so 
 vigorously that I m half afraid she ll fall from her chair. 
 She throws bouquets, she waves her handkerchief, and 
 is entirely forgetful of herself. She laughs and cries just 
 like an ordinary auditor. I went into her box on the 
 night of " Robert le Diable ;" she told me she was one 
 of the public now\ I asked her how she liked being one :
 
 344 The Vagabond. 
 
 Very well, but she d rather be on the stage. " Oh, I as 
 sure you, there is nothing like the stage ; ah, me ! the 
 applause ! Ce sont les plus belles choses du monde, les 
 applaudissements!" And she looked like a little Corinne 
 as she spoke. I m sure she deserves to be crowned at the 
 capitol. For was there ever any more exquisite senti 
 ment than that portrayed by her in the first act of the 
 " Traviata ; " anything more delicate or more natural 
 than the first feeling of love indicated on her mobile 
 face ; anything more sadly, truly, beautifully done than 
 the parting with her lover in the same opera ? She is 
 not a Violetta, however; no lorette was ever so refined 
 in bearing; no Traviata ever so shiinkingly, modestly, 
 delicately loved, as she. 
 
 But what archness, what supreme comic genius in 
 the music lesson of " La Figlia del Reggimento.- 
 How she worries and mimics her old aunt; how wick 
 edly she stands and picks out the feathers in the 
 old lady s coiffure ; how she lays her music on the back 
 of the marchioness ; how she pats her foot in lillipu- 
 tian rage ; how she tears and twists her sheet of paper 
 with vexation ; how she looks at the corporal impatiently 
 and finally rushes to his arms to sing the rat-a-plan ! Then 
 her Zerlina ! whether in the ball-room, smoothing her 
 clothes and gazing in wonder at the dancers, or coquet 
 ting with the Don, or making up with Masetto, she is 
 the very ideal of comedy ; as irresistibly, as provoking- 
 ly funny as it is possible to imagine, but so exquisitely 
 refined with it all ; twisting her face into all sorts of 
 pretty grimaces ; winking and blinking, frowning and 
 pouting, coaxing and wheedling ; but always as pretty, as 
 the Bible says, " as apples of gold set in pictures of silver."
 
 Piccolomini. 
 
 345 
 
 And that saucy, rattling, mad-cap, Serpina ; and that 
 Viodel of waiting-maids, Susanna; surely these were 
 never so portrayed before ; no wonder Almaviva forgets 
 his countess for such a servant ; no wonder Hubert was 
 fool enough to let his housekeeper have her own way. 
 Oh ! she must have been a princess. Whether the pass 
 port is right or not, I don t know; whether the Cle- 
 mentinis are related to the Piccolominis or not, I don t 
 care, but this little Maria is a princess by nature. She 
 has a passport that is quite as good here as in Sienna ; and 
 people understand it too, who never studied Italian, any 
 more than she has English. Apropos : You should hear 
 her speak English, or try to. That tiny little mouth gets 
 all pursed up and puckered in her attempts to pronounce 
 the words stuck so full of consonants, and she laughs 
 merrily at her own mistakes. One morning she had 
 been practising some difficult passage in the " Figlia del 
 Reggimento," and ran up to the piano, to try it again. 
 She repeated the strain several times till it was perfect, 
 and then turned to me with the air of a conqueror, and 
 exclaimed in very pronounced style, " All d right !" And 
 so she is " all dright." 
 
 The public thinks so. Everybody thinks so. The 
 young men are in love with her, of course; they 
 say one of the most fashionable fellows in town has 
 proposed to marry her ; and I know an old fogy who 
 hasn t missed a night at the opera since her debut. He 
 seems cold and careless enough ; you would never sus 
 pect him of sensibility ; but the princess or the prima 
 donna, or the woman, has taken him captive ; has found 
 out the way to his heart, and grandpa wipes his glasses 
 very often when she sings Violetta, and laughs till he
 
 346 The Vagabond. 
 
 cries when she acts Serpina. He leaves his business tc 
 go to the matinees, and I don t doubt his slumbers are 
 disturbed by dreams of the Piccolomini. Then the wo 
 men are not jealous ; even the big ones do not scruple to 
 acknowledge her tiny charms ; and the little ones are 
 ready to worship her for proving how charming a little 
 woman can be. Nobody supposes that she is the greatest 
 singer in the world ; nobody is humbugged, nobody is 
 mistaken ; but everybody is fascinated. They go to see 
 the most bewitching little body now in America; to no 
 tice her wonderful manner, to laugh at her thousand 
 tricks of behavior, to be delighted with her smile, with 
 the twinkle of her eye, the grace of her movements, and 
 the soul that is everywhere evident in her action. Pic 
 colomini has succeeded as few prima donnas ever have 
 done ; and the reason is because she is full to the brim, 
 overflowing with feeling ; sprightly or sentimental, ex 
 quisitely comic or delightfully tragic, but always true, 
 always natural. Like Imogen, indeed, her action does 
 outsell her gift, which is her voice ; but how enriches 
 it besides !
 
 A NIGHT WITH THE BOOTHS. 
 
 " Insignia ipse, digno patre natus." 
 
 GREA.T actors seem to be regarded with a peculiar 
 and personal interest. The world wants to hear about 
 their doings off the stage as well as on ; the " Memoirs 
 of Rachel" is the most successful book of the season, 
 and anecdotes of Roscius or pictures of Garrick are pre 
 served as carefully as royal autographs or originals by 
 Guido. The fleeting triumphs of the stage are thus 
 perpetuated by tradition ; and the fame of the mimic 
 sovereigns is sometimes as lasting as that of the real 
 monarchs who lorded it so loftily. And, indeed, now 
 that both are gone, wherein is George III. better off 
 than Garrick ? The tinsel crown lasted its owner as 
 long as that which blazed on the head of the Defender 
 of the Faith ; the sceptre of each has passed into other 
 hands. 
 
 I spent a night, not long ago, with young Booth at 
 the old country place of his father, rummaging the 
 theatrical wardrobe ; reading letters from Edmund Kean 
 and the elder Mathews, from Elliston and Macready ; 
 looking over playbills printed in 1810 ; picking out the 
 history of a lifetime from fragments of dresses and 
 leaves of books, and reading a remarkable character 
 from manifestations made only to its intimates. It i?
 
 348 The Vagabond. 
 
 quite a history. The young actor and I started from 
 Baltimore at noon, and drove about twenty-five miles 
 before reaching the farm. We neither of us were par 
 ticularly conversant with the management of horses 
 under difficulties ; and when the harness broke, as it 
 did once or twice, Romeo and the Vagabond were 
 in a quandary indeed. The tragedian often enough 
 calls out " his kingdom for a horse," but I m sure he d 
 much rather have had a groom just then ; and when the 
 carriage stuck in the mud, we could only imitate the 
 classic countryfellow, and call on our gods, but with as 
 little success as he. Finally I turned Phaeton and held 
 the reins, while Roscius set to work and played farrier, 
 being positively his first appearance in the part. We 
 lost a shoe, and lamed a horse, and broke the tackle 
 some half-a-dozen times, but at last got safely at the fine 
 old homestead where young Booth was born. Tis a 
 beautiful spot. None of your carefully laid out villas ; 
 no grottoes, or gardens or fountains ; no gravelled 
 walks or conservatories, but such a place as I prefer to 
 anything of the more fashionable sort. A remote and 
 lonely precinct : the house stands back a long way from 
 the county road, and is approached through a wood ; 
 tis situated in an opening, and surrounded on all sides 
 by a thick growth of trees ; the whippoorwill and the 
 raccoon are neighbors ; some fields of meadow-land or 
 corn hard by, relieve the landscape, and an acre or two 
 immediately beside the house was evidently once a 
 lawn ; tis now uncared for, and overgrown with rank, 
 high grass. The building that stood when the elder 
 Booth bought the farm a quarter of a century ago, is 
 given over to a squad of negroes who labor on the place,
 
 A Night with the Booths. 345 
 
 while the dwelling-house, some six or seven years old, 
 has constituted until recently the abode of his family. 
 They now prefer a town residence, and when we reached 
 the building, it had not been occupied, nor indeed opened, 
 for many months. 
 
 We had the keys, however, and after giving our 
 horses in charge of a venerable black who declared he 
 had had " Massa Edwin himself in charge more than 
 once," we entered the mansion. Twas nearly dark, 
 and cobwebs reached across the door; most of the fur 
 niture had been removed ; in fact all but a few book 
 cases and tables. We ransacked drawers and closets 
 for old books, and letters, and journals, and pamphlets, 
 and we found them. Books in every language ; Latin 
 and Greek, French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, Eng 
 lish, all thumbed and marked, and full of apposite quo 
 tations ; the classics of each language with plays and 
 dramas by all sorts of people in all sorts of tongues. 
 Terence and Lope de Vega, Shakspeare and Tait, Ben 
 Jonson and Racine lay side by side on the shelves with 
 the production of some nameless vagabond, who had 
 sent his effort in manuscript to old Booth for inspection. 
 Plays whose names alone were familiar to me ; some of 
 which I had never heard or read ; some that had been 
 performed ; some that had been damned ; some marked 
 for the stage, with the blank page interleaved, and full of 
 directions; some with famous autographs on the fly 
 leaf; some with uncut leaves. Then there were novels, 
 and poems and metaphysical works, and especially the 
 masterpieces of Spanish literature. The Koran, too, 
 we found, and pored over it, getting authority for all 
 sorts of wickedness ; and concluded twould be a much
 
 350 The Vagabond. 
 
 pleasanter vade mecum for young men than the religious 
 book of the Giaours. 
 
 Before long, darkness overtook us ; but we were pre 
 pared for all emergencies, and had brought candles from 
 a country shop on the road. What to stick them in 
 was the question. Mambrino s basin did service better 
 than when it was transformed into a helmet, and the 
 experience of my comrade suggested other expedients 
 for lighting the scene. One was that I should serve as 
 a candlestick, after the fashion of the martyrs in Nero s 
 time : he had seen something of the sort on the stage, I 
 suppose. This, however, did not take my fancy as it 
 did his, and we compromised by sticking the candle in 
 an old shoe. Then we sat on the floor together, in a 
 closet, and revelled over our treasures. First one would 
 cry out at a fresh discovery ; then the other exclaimed 
 as he struck a vein or came upon a placer. 
 
 Letters and journals, as well as books, were open to the 
 scrutiny. Engagements offered to Junius Booth nearly 
 half a century ago ; particulars of his quarrel with 
 Edmund Kean ; invitations to the box of the elder 
 Mathews ; witty notes from Elliston were tumbled by 
 turns out of old trunks and corners, where they had 
 lain till they were mouldy. The piles of play-bills had 
 a wonderful fascination for me. The first appearance of 
 Edmund Kean and Junius Brutus Booth in the same 
 piece was announced ; the debut of Booth in America ; 
 the first night of the " Apostate," in which the son now 
 plays the part the father once declined. It was strange 
 to look at these bills that were first handled fifty years 
 ago, and three thousand miles away ; that told of the 
 pleasures of people long since in their graves. Manager,
 
 A Night with the Booths. 351 
 
 and actor, and audience, all have passed away, and hero 
 were, we two young men wondering and gossipping over 
 all that remained of what was once so interesting. 
 These little bits of paper called up the scene very vividly. 
 I could imagine the crowded house, and the green cur 
 tain, and the applauding audience, as they must have 
 appeared long before I was born ; and as I looked up at 
 the face of my companion, all aglow with interest, it was 
 no difficult task to summon the handsome, expressive 
 countenance his own is said to be so like, and to fancy 
 the person and powers of the great actor whose genius 
 as well as whose manly beauty he inherits. The plays 
 were many of them the very same in which young Booth 
 excels. I saw the bills printed when the father was at 
 the exact age of his son to-day : Sir Giles Overreach, 
 Richard III., Sir Edward Mortimer were in as much de 
 mand in England in 19, as they are in America in 59. 
 So I thought of the long career of triumphs the father 
 had gone through, and wondered whether fate had in 
 store for the youth at my side a corresponding history, 
 as she had already showered on him corresponding gifts. 
 There was a tinge of soberness in our mirth. The glee 
 with which we gloated over these strange treasures 
 could not but be tinctured by thoughts of the utter 
 oblivion into which much of what had once been so in 
 tensely present had for ever sunk ; and as we saw the 
 parts so familiar cast to names we never heard, though 
 we talked not much of sentiment, I am sure we 
 both felt it. Then, too, in the midst of these memen 
 toes of the father, we came upon a pile of play-bills 
 belonging to the son, and compared the casts ; we 
 thought of the time when some vounsrsters would be
 
 352 The Vagabond. 
 
 looking over these very lists, and we should have long 
 since mouldered. The candles were getting low, you 
 see. 
 
 We were neither of us good at snuffing them ; and 
 more than once overturned stand and all in our ill- 
 judged attempts, besides blacking our fingers. The 
 time passed away very quickly, and when Hamlet took 
 out his watch and made me guess the hour, I said ten 
 o clock, though it was past two. We had made no ar 
 rangements for sleeping; there was no bedding in the 
 house ; but we were having a night of it, and concluded 
 the adventure bravely. Armed with candles, we roamed 
 around the rooms, and finally put two sofas together, and 
 discovered an old mattrass. But the night was cool, 
 and we must have some covering ; so Roscius got into 
 the old wardrobe of his father, pulled out an ermine 
 cloak that belonged to Macbeth, and some of the trap 
 pings of Shylock or Lear, and tossed them to me. I 
 made a pillow out of the very mantle of Cassar through 
 which the envious dagger ran, and slumbered quietly 
 enough, though Macbeth had murdered sleep in the robe 
 that kept me warm. We talked away long after our 
 candles had burned out ; previous to which I induced 
 Hamlet to read me some funny stories, and when he got 
 tired of reading, to tell me more ; so I fell into a doze, 
 with his voice ringing in my ears ; and he may tell 
 of having put one auditor to sleep by his monotonous 
 delivery. I warrant you, some of his fair admirers 
 would not have slept, so long as he talked, and doubtless 
 they envy me my snooze on his arm. But twas dark, 
 and I couldn t see his eyes; besides, I had seen them all 
 day.
 
 A Night with the Booths. 353 
 
 Next morning we rose late ; the bed was so good, that 
 nnt till eleven did I heir the tragedian rouse me with the 
 first words that Sir Edward Mortimer speaks in the play. 
 We went out to the pump to make our toilettes, and 
 then opened a tin kettle containing sandwiches we had 
 brought from the country tavern. The negroes gave us 
 milk, but we had no confidence in their cleanliness, and 
 washed a broken cup and an old plate that we found, for 
 ourselves. This breakfast equipage was disposed on a 
 garden table, and Hamlet did the honors very gracefully. 
 The banquetting scene was not disturbed; no ghost 
 entered with gory locks ; but you should have seen 
 Lear washing a tea-cup, and Romeo making the beds. 
 However, he had a way of doing even these that w r as 
 worth looking at ; and moody, and morose and quiet as 
 he often is, was full of wit and geniality with me. He 
 quoted Shakspeare constantly and felicitously ; he made 
 faces for me out of all his plays ; he looked like Richard 
 when he says : " What do they in the north ?" and struck 
 the attitude of Richelieu when he launches the curse of 
 Rome. In this vein, we went to the wardrobe, and had 
 another hour of sport. 
 
 He got out old wigs one that Kean had worn in 
 Lear : the very one that was torn from his head in the 
 mad scene, and yet the pit refused to smile ; he found 
 me his father s in Othello, and put it on to show the 
 look. There was a picture of the elder Booth hard by 
 on the wall, and the likeness was mai vellous. He told me 
 the history of this sword, and a story about that red cloak ; 
 he dressed me up in toggery, and then decorated himself 
 for a farce, declaring he would have made a hit in Little 
 Toddlekins, only it was too much trouble to be funny.
 
 354 The Vagabond. 
 
 On our way to town we stopped at the cemetery, 
 where the worthy son of a distinguished father has erected 
 a beautiful and costly monument to the memory of the 
 great actpr whom he resembles. Tis an obelisk of po 
 lished Italian marble, on a pedestal of undressed granite, 
 some twenty feet high, and the work of Carew, the emi 
 nent Boston sculptor. On one side are the dates of the 
 birth and death of the tragedian, with his name in full; 
 on another, simply the word Booth ; on the third is a 
 medallion head, full of character and beauty, remarkable 
 both as a work of art and as the representation of a 
 noble, soulful face tis extremely like the profile of the 
 son. The third side also bears this inscription : 
 
 " His life was gentle ; and the elements 
 So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up, 
 And say to all the world This was a man."
 
 SOCIETY AND ART. 
 
 " O. had I but followed the arts!" 
 
 Twelfth Ni(,ht. 
 
 SIR ANDREW AGUE CHEEK is not the only man who 
 has regretfully exclaimed in his heart : " I would I had 
 bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, 
 dancing, and bear-baiting." There are those whom you 
 and I may see all around us, who say, though not aloud : 
 " O, had I but followed the arts !" There are many, 
 too, who are only made conscious of their own de 
 ficiencies when the attainments of others become con 
 spicuous : who, being naturally destitute of any taste or 
 feeling for the beautiful, do not discover the existence of 
 the beautiful till they hear those around them discussing 
 it ; who have bestowed their time, if not in fencing and 
 dancing, in making money a very laudable occupation, 
 doubtless, and one whose results are often productive of 
 much advantage to the arts, but which, if too closely 
 pursued, is apt to leave its follower in the condition of 
 the knight in the play. When I hear these fools who 
 have fine houses criticise the pictures that they can t tell 
 from daubs ; when I hear those whose eyes are stone 
 blind to the exquisite harmonies of color and the deli 
 cate graces of form, whose ears are deaf to the shading 
 in music, and much more to the soul embodied in its ex 
 pression, condemn Murillo and call Beethoven dull, I
 
 356 The Vagabond. 
 
 often want to bid them study " Twelfth Night," and 
 learn how the shallow gentleman fared even at the hands 
 of a chambermaid. 
 
 It is the fashion for people who have large houses and 
 walls inside them, to cover their walls with pictures ; it 
 is the fashion to have statuary in the halls, and statuettes 
 on the mantels ; but I know a dowager who bought a 
 couple of busts and christened them after she got them 
 home, and to this day she shows for heads of Corneille 
 and Racine, what can easily be recognised as present 
 ments of Dante and Tasso. I doubt if the good lady 
 can tell whether Dante wrote Racine or Tasso painted 
 Corneille. I have even been shown a picture of the 
 Cenci, that was painted expressly for a young and ardent 
 lover to present to his inamorata ; she looked at the gift, 
 and thought it very pretty. " But why do you call it, 
 the Cenci ? Why don t you call it Julia, after me ?" Poor 
 Julia lost her lover because she hadn t followed the arts. 
 There are people that talk about music and don t know 
 a false note when they hear it, much less a true one ; 
 they prate about Piccolomini s lack of execution, and 
 comment glibly on the peculiarities of the tenors, and 
 I am not sure but they think Formes is one of the last. 
 However, because such creatures as these exist, because 
 such ignoramuses live and move and have their being in 
 a Christian land, is not to say that all are like them. 
 This is to fall into the fashion ever to be deprecated, of 
 confounding the goats with the sheep ; of taking a vulgar 
 herd for examples of the cultivated few. 
 
 I am weary of those who, familiar only with persons 
 capable of Mtises like those I have described, imagine 
 such to be the only types of New York society. Doubt-
 
 Society and Art. 357 
 
 less there are many such people ; people with whom 
 wealth is an all-sufficient passport ; people whose time is 
 spent in dressing and feasting ; who live in grand houses, 
 and wear diamonds and ermine ; who fare sumptuously 
 every day ; who go through the routine of fashionable 
 life ; pay visits and receive them, give parties and go to 
 them, frequent the watering-places and make the grand 
 tour, and in the eyes of outsiders pass for individuals of 
 social distinction, but who have no more access to the 
 true society of this metropolis than if they lived in Kam- 
 echatka; who are well enough aware themselves that 
 their money can buy them no admission to circles where 
 many poorer folk are petted and sought. I am weary 
 of those who insist that they who make the most bruit 
 are the standards of manners. Noisy, blatant, ignorant, 
 assuming, uneasily conscious of their own deficiencies, 
 they strive to cover, by ostentatious parade, those defi 
 ciencies in culture and refinement that never can be 
 covered, and in the newspapers and novels, in the esti 
 mation of strangers who have never really seen New 
 York, they are recognised for what Mr. Curtis calls 
 " our best society. He, too, who knows so much bet 
 ter ; who is intimate in circles where real culture reigns. 
 For there are people here, in this much-abused New 
 York, who have been gently bred ; who have seen the 
 most distinguished companies abroad ; whose culture 
 and taste in literature and art are mature ; whose man 
 ners are as elegant as their accomplishments ; whose sub 
 jects of conversation, often light indeed, are always 
 graceful ; who take an interest in pictures ; who read 
 new poems and study and appreciate old ones ; who are 
 often the bearers of historic names and the inheritors of
 
 358 The Vagabond. 
 
 splendid fortunes ; honors which they Wear becomingly, 
 conscious of the advantage and consideration to be de 
 rived therefrom ; but whom noblesse oblige ; who avoid 
 vulgar wealth, but far from being snobbish, seek out and 
 delight in the association of talent, no matter how hum 
 ble ; whose position is so well established that they are 
 not afraid of injuring it; whose only object in exclusive- 
 ness is to keep themselves aloof from coarseness and 
 ignorance. They are accomplished without being pe 
 dantic ; they have travelled and are not unpatriotic ; 
 they are people of the world without being frivolous ; 
 fond of gaiety and fashion, but of an elevated and re 
 fined sort ; they do very many of the same things that 
 their imitators do, but, as Goneril says to herself: 
 
 " 0, the difference of man and man I" 
 
 Within these circles, moving on a perfect equality 
 with the most fortunate, are many families not so 
 wealthy ; many not so old ; neither birth nor fortune is 
 an indispensable requisite, though these are acknow 
 ledged of course as good things, as desirable ; as likely 
 to conduce to the culture and breeding of their posses 
 sors. New people, whose tastes and manners fit them, 
 move here ; persons of talent without any other preten 
 sions are gladly received. Do you call this a fancy 
 sketch? Do you, alas! know no such circle? Have 
 you never seen the inside of such houses ? I am sorry 
 for you ; but, because your experience is limited, don t 
 be incredulous, my unfortunate friend. Like Richard, 
 
 "Live in hope." 
 
 " All men, I hope, live so.
 
 Society and Art. 359 
 
 These are the "people whose intercourse with artists if 
 so mutually delightful; who recognize the claims of 
 art to give its student a social status ; who imitate, after 
 a fashion, Alexander, when he picked up the pencil of 
 Apelles : they acknowledge that mind fits its possessor 
 for the company of the highest. Titian and Charles V. 
 were intimate ; Talma and Napoleon. And I couldn t 
 but think last week, as I looked around on the various 
 groups at the Artists Reception, how the stamp that 
 nature had impressed on some of the men there made 
 them first ; how fashion was really paying homage to art 
 and picking up its pencil. The fact that fashion pays 
 this homage speaks volumes for New York culture. In 
 England an artist is not on a level with the first in the 
 land ; a man of letters is rarely so ; you remember 
 Clive Newcome and Frank Vance ; intellectual eminence 
 does not procure standing of another sort. Here it is 
 the intellectually distinguished who are most sought 
 after. And how worthily they bear their honors ! how 
 fitting it seems for them to receive honors ! Their man 
 ners are very naturally suitable for a courtly atmosphere. 
 How can they be anything but refined whose brains are full 
 of such exquisite fancies ? How can they be other than 
 courte HIS and dignified who are embodying such courtesy 
 and dignity in their art ? I have known men devoted to 
 art who had scarcely ever been inside of a drawing-room, 
 who were afraid of a brilliant and fashionable woman ; 
 who never had any contact with the great or the gay 
 world ; I have known some such intimately, and they 
 Avere as exquisitely refined in every idea and sentiment, as 
 free from any taint of vulgarity, as lofty in their sense of 
 honor, as innately delicate in feeling, as the most studied
 
 360 The Vagabond. 
 
 gentleman whose breeding is the result of years of polish, 
 and whose bearing is inherited like his family plate. 
 
 For that matter, I have also known men come of old 
 and distinguished races, whose estates have been held 
 by people of their name for centuries, whose family had 
 been gentle longer still, and yet they were so intrinsi 
 cally and essentially coarse, vulgar, boorish, that neither 
 blood nor culture could eradicate the taint. These in 
 stances were indeed rare on both sides ; the latter for 
 tunately the rarer. As for me, I don t want to know 
 any one because his grandfather was a gentleman, unless 
 he is one too, though I own he is likely to continue in 
 the line of descent ; and I do want to know men natu 
 rally and by instinct gentle, whether they have what we 
 call good blood in them or not. Their blood is good. 
 I was reproved once, and righteously, by a man of as 
 good blood as any in the country. It was after this 
 wise. We were talking of some distinguished woman 
 of exquisite manners, whose origin I supposed to have 
 been obscure, and inquired, " Was she a lady by birth ?" 
 " She was a lady by nature," said he. And he was 
 right. 
 
 But I am getting away from my theme ; only I have 
 long wanted an opportunity to say this much about New 
 York society ; to maintain that though there are many 
 people who are quite as bad as the bitterest satirists say, 
 there are also others of a different sort ; who may be no 
 better in reality ; I don t suppose that culture or refine 
 ment changes people s characters ; men of education 
 may be just as wicked as ignorant ones ; the finest gen 
 tleman may hate you as heartily as a blackguard, though 
 he will not tell you so in the same language. He will
 
 Society and Art. 361 
 
 kill you in a duel, but not use foul words. I don t con 
 tend that those who constitute the really elegant society 
 of New York are better Christians, or better men and 
 women than others ; but I think it hard they should be 
 charged with the sins of the others. 
 
 In the new and delightful novel of "Ernest Carroll," 
 a work written with elegance and often with eloquence, 
 and evidently the production of a scholar, the character 
 of an American is portrayed, who is imbued with the 
 tastes and feelings and sentiments, who acknowledges 
 the restraints and performs the duties and fills the ideal 
 of a gentleman ; a gentleman who is an artist, an artist 
 who is a gentleman. The author of that work deserves 
 the thanks? of American artists and American gentlemen 
 for proving that the chai acters can be combined, that 
 they have so many points in unison ; for telling the 
 world that his countrymen are not all Ague Cheeks ; 
 that some among them have " followed the arts." 
 
 16
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Sweet and commendable." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 I DON T find any American author of verse at all c oni- 
 parable with Longfellow ; nor, indeed, more than one 
 poet who writes the English tongue, no, nor the French, 
 whose works I prefer to read. Tennyson may be a man 
 of more original genius, of profounder thought, of lof 
 tier suggestiveness and deeper feeling ; but he speaks to 
 a smaller circle than his cis-Atlantic rival. Could you 
 canvass the reading world to-day, you would find ten 
 admirers of Longfellow for one of the Englishman : 
 this, too, among people of average culture and taste ; 
 among lovers of poetry. Now, the fact that a writer 
 speaks to the general heart, is sure evidence of his 
 power. As for Beranger and Victor Hugo, the only 
 recent French poets who are much known out of France, 
 perhaps the most truly poetical, the fullest of genuine, 
 simple pathos, and unstrained sentiment of any French 
 writers, early or late, Longfellow surely will not suffer 
 by juxtaposition with these. The very attributes for 
 which they will hereafter be admired, which secure them 
 now so wide a circle of appreciative readers, are those 
 which most distinguish him. 
 
 He does not, it is true, take rank with the greatest
 
 Longfellow. 363 
 
 poets ; not even with writers of the power of Byron or 
 the earnestness of Burns ; he cannot be compared with 
 the creative geniuses ; nor is he even so original as 
 Wordsworth, the Pre-Raphaelite, or so exquisitely rich 
 in fancy as the subtile Shelley. The poetic phrensy does 
 not seem ever to have inspired him ; there is no trace 
 of a lofty imagination in his works ; no trumpet words 
 that stir one to the inmost soul; no superb kindling 
 vision ; no power of utterance that embodies the eva 
 nescent glories of the poet s brain : but there are other 
 phases of power that still deserve the name of poetry. 
 There is an imagination which is delicate and graceful, if 
 not gorgeous or inspired, and which sees the ordinary ob 
 jects of nature invested with hues and forms of gentle love 
 liness ; there is an ability to set distinct and vivid pictures 
 before other minds, of objects and characters, even 
 though those characters and objects be not grand or 
 brilliant. There is a faculty of speaking soft, low words 
 that touch the heart, that bring tears to the eyes, that 
 summon up pure sentiment and genuine feeling. This 
 is akin to poetry : this .is poetry. 
 
 Mr. Longfellow possesses these powers the last in an 
 especial degree. And this is a gift utterly unattainable ; 
 he who has not true pathos may strive after it for ever, 
 but his efforts will be unavailing : it comes not at the 
 bidding of any man ; it must be innate. And who that 
 has read " Evangeline," and many of Mr. Longfellow s 
 shorter poems, but will acknowledge that the power 
 pertains to him as remarkably as to almost any living 
 writer ? He does not, it is true, stir up profounder pas 
 sion, but he touches the fountain of tears ; he lays hold 
 of some of the holiest feelings of our nature ; the
 
 364 The Vagabond. 
 
 charms of domestic life, the memories of the dead that 
 lie garnered in every heart, the budding promise in a 
 young and thoughtless child, the happy confidence of 
 the bride, the gentle loves of youths and maidens in all 
 the purple glow of early life, of these he tells, and how 
 sweetly! These he recalls to those who fancy that the 
 era of such emotions is past for them ; these he paints 
 for such as have not felt them, with a true, earnest, but 
 touching simplicity. There is nothing maudlin about 
 his sentiment, nothing overdone in his pathos : he is 
 pure, genuine, just in his taste a taste so pure that it 
 must be instinctive, and not. acquired. His sentiment is 
 not the lamentation of Sterne over a dead ass, nor the 
 womapish weakness of Mrs. Hemans, nor the lachry 
 mose sentimentality of Lamartine, but an honest, tender, 
 gentle Bathos, which cannot fail to affect any uupervert- 
 ed heart. Lines like those on "The Old Clock on the 
 Stairs," like the "Voices of the Night," and the few but 
 skilful touches in " Hiawatha," with which he describes 
 the grief of the Indian over Minnehaha s death, are 
 genuine poetry. 
 
 Another marked characteristic of Longfellow is his 
 picturesqueness ; this is, of course, in great part, owing 
 to the Distinctness of his mental vision : he has a paint 
 er s eye ; he does not .perceive so much the suggestive- 
 ness of an object or a scene ; nature does not call up to 
 him the pregnant thoughts that she sends or summons 
 to the brains of some who write ; but he looks kindly 
 on her ; he discovers her apparent beauties, if not her 
 recondite ones all the charms of her person, if not 
 those of her soul. He may not penetrate, perchance, to 
 the hidden significance which some men find in every-
 
 Longfellow. 365 
 
 thing; neither has he that peculiar intensity which makes 
 nature alive with responsiveness to its own emotions, 
 which kindles the sky and the sea and the shore into 
 another passion answering to its own ; he sees not the 
 hell of waters that Byron saw, nor the passionate storm 
 that fell on Lear ; but the calm glades where Alden and 
 Priscilla walked, the bayous of Mississippi, the wildness 
 of Hiawatha s woods, and the sterner quiet of Acadie 
 these he notes in all their freshness and their natural 
 ness. These he describes as vividly as Goldsmith, to 
 whom, in many things, he bears a close resemblance. 
 The soothing influence of his poetry, and the still life of 
 his pictures also remind me of Durand : a poem by Long 
 fellow, is like one of those landscapes you must have seen 
 representing a warm delicious day in June, with cattle 
 browsing near a sluggish stream, overhanging willows 
 that tempt you to stroll beneath their shade, fields 
 tinted with the richest verdure, and all steeped in the 
 bright but not glaring sunshine in which Durand delights 
 a picture such as, hung up in your room, would make 
 you gladder and better ah 1 day for gazing at it. Long 
 fellow s cheerfulness, his tender reminiscences of the 
 past, his trust in the future, make you think better of 
 men, and feel kindlier towards them. They lay the 
 troubled spirits, they dispel your haunting doubts, and 
 for a while, at least, exorcise all the demons. 
 
 Then his soft music lulls whatever might interfere with 
 this delightful but not enervating calm ; so flowing, sweet 
 and melodious, it is also good proof of poetic ability ; 
 for the gods send not their .gifts singly. The power he 
 has over words, the exquisite ear which detects every 
 jarring syllable ; the taste which selects at once the most
 
 366 The Vagabond. 
 
 melodious and the most fitting incarnation for his 
 thought; these are talents that are denied to most 
 writers. This power over language, different entirely 
 from mere fluency, is peculiarly evidenced by the various 
 forms into which he moulds his lines. " Hiawatha " 
 and " Evangeline " demonstrate his skill in versification, 
 whether the use of the forms is to be considered success 
 ful or not. And whatever the rhetoricians may say 
 about the inapplicability of these forms to the English 
 tongue, the world has decided, and Longfellow has 
 triumphed ; he has wedded his gentle fancies, his touch 
 ing pathos, to some of the most graceful and melodious 
 verses written in our day. He has varied his style and 
 yet preserved an individuality ; like him who plays such 
 different tunes on a chime of bells, but yet plays them 
 always so that you shall know the instrument to be the 
 same. His music is no ^Eolian harp swept by unknown 
 winds and wafting to us weird airs; he summons up 
 no Christabel, no Ancient Mariner; he pictures the 
 gentle Evangeline and her sorrows ; he sets the quaint 
 courtship of John Alden vividly before the eye. He 
 does not sound the profounder depths of our being, nor 
 lift us out of ourselves in an exaltation, but he finds 
 poetry in our homes and on our hearthstones ; he sings 
 the songs of the cradle, and of the bride tremulous with 
 excitement on the threshold of a new life ; he laments 
 tenderly and touchingly the vanished ones whose place 
 shall no moi e be filled ; he paints every-day nature and 
 every-day life, but invests them with graces and charms 
 that all may find, that all acknowledge when once his 
 touch reveals them. 
 
 The music may, perhaps, sometimes cloy; if any fault
 
 Longtellow. 367 
 
 is to be found with his sweetness, it is too constant, not 
 sufficiently relieved by passages of wilder or more une 
 qual measure. And as a man s genius is always mirrored 
 in his style, the same objection can be bro ught against 
 his works. There is not only an individuality, but 
 almost a monotony in Longfellow ; there is no mistaking 
 him ; he rings the changes till you not only recognize 
 the instrument, but the player too ; whether in the 
 trochaics or the hexameters, whether translating so ex 
 quisitely from the German, or Swedish, or Spanish, 
 whether describing the wars of Aludjekeewis, or the 
 woes of the French peasantry in Acadia, or the wooing 
 of Puritans in Massachusetts Bay, he is always himself; 
 he looks on everything with the same kindly vision, in 
 the same genial spirit. His characters are not dramatic ; 
 you see the poet in them all, not them all in the poet ; 
 he is neither many-sided nor versatile ; he cannot disport, 
 he cannot be sublime : but why should we quarrel Avith 
 a man for being himself ? If he were otherwise, the 
 gentle equability which at times delights and soothes, 
 would be lacking. You cannot have impetuosity and 
 finish ; ardor and calm. The placid lake of Geneva is 
 no less enchanting because Niagara roars and tumbles 
 on another continent ; and the pleasing melancholy of 
 stiU evening would be gone if the crash of the thunder 
 or the rent of the lightning disturbed its sober charm. 
 There are hours and times that come to all men when the 
 delicate pictures and soothing influence of Longfellow 
 and Goldsmith, are more acceptable than the turbulence 
 of Byron or the splendid fervor of Dryden. And there 
 are many who, never reaching to those loftier heights 
 whither more exalted genius soars, would rather dwell
 
 368 The Vagabond. 
 
 with humble livers in content, than perked up in a glis 
 tering sorrow. To such men, and to all men at times. 
 Longfellow will always be as welcome as most of the 
 poets whose works the world will not willingly let die. 
 
 THE END.
 
 CURIOSITIES 
 
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 RUDD & CARLETON, 
 
 130 GRAND STREET, 
 
 (BROOKS BUILDING, COR. OF BROADWAY,) 
 
 NEW YORK.
 
 NEW BOOKS 
 
 And New Editions Just Published by 
 
 RUDD CARLETON, 
 
 130 GRAND STREET, 
 NEW YORK (BROOKS BUILDING, COR. OF BROADWAY.) 
 
 X.B. RUDD ft CARLETON, UPON RECEIPT OP THE PRICE, WILI, 
 
 BI;ND ANY OP THE FOLLOWING BOOKS, BY MAIL, postage free, TO 
 
 ANY PART OF THE UNITED STATES. THIS CONVENIENT AND 
 VERY SAFE MODE MAY BE ADOPTED WHEN THE NEIGHBORING 
 BOOKSELLERS ARE NOT SUPPLIED WITH THE DESIRED WOliK. 
 
 NOTHING TO WEAR. 
 
 A Satirical Poem. By WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. Pro 
 fusely and elegantly embellished with fine Illustrations 
 on tinted paper, by Hoppin. Muslin, price 50 cents. 
 
 MILES STANDISH ILLUSTRATED. 
 With exquisite Photographs from original Drawings by 
 JOHN W. EHNINGER, illustrating Longfellow s new Poem. 
 Bound in elegant quarto, morocco covers, price $6 oo 
 
 BOOK OF THE CHESS CONGRESS. 
 
 A complete History of Chess in America and Europe, with 
 Morphy s best games. By D. W. FISKE, editor of Chest 
 Monthly (assisted by Morphy and Paulsen). Price $1 50. 
 
 WOMAN S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN. 
 The latest and best work by the author of "John Halifax, 
 Gentleman," "Agatha s Husband," "The Ogives," 
 &c. From the London edition. Muslin, price $< oo.
 
 L1HT OF BOOKS PUBLISHED 
 
 VERNON GROVE; 
 
 dy Mrs. CAROLINE H. GLOVER. " A Novel which wili 
 give its author high rank among the novelists of the 
 day." Atlantic Monthly. 1 2mo., Muslin, price $ i oo 
 
 BALLAD OF BABIE BELL, 
 
 And other Poems. By THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. Thr 
 first selected collection of verses by this author, rzmo 
 Exquisitely printed, and bound ip muslin, price 75 cents. 
 
 TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. 
 
 An Eastern Tale, in Verse. By THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, 
 author of " Babie Bell, and othei Poems." Printed 
 on colored plate paper. Muslin, price 50 cents 
 
 BEATRICE CENC1. 
 
 A Historical Novel. By F. D. GUERRAZZI. Translated 
 from the original Italian by LUIGI MONTI. Muslin, 
 two volumes in one, with steel portrait price $i 25. 
 
 ISABELLA ORSINI. 
 
 A new historical novel. By F. D. GUERRAZZI, authoi 
 of " Beatrice Cenci." Translated by MONTI, of Har 
 vard College. With steel portrait. Muslin, price $i 25. 
 
 DOCTOR ANTONIO. 
 
 A charming Love Tale of Italy. By G. RUFFINI, au 
 thor of " Lorenzo Benoni," " Dear Experience," &c 
 From the last London edition. Muslin, price $i oo. 
 
 DEAR EXPERIENCE. 
 
 A Tale. By G. RUFFINI, author of "Doctor Antonio, 
 "Lorenzo Benoni," &c. With illustrations by Leech, 
 of the Itondon Punch, izmo. Muslin, price $i oo
 
 BY RUDD AND CARLE I ON. 
 
 LECTURES OF LOLA MONTEZ. 
 
 Including her "Autobiography," "Wits and Women of 
 Paris," " Comic Aspect of Love," " Gallantry," &c 
 A new edition, large izmo. Muslin, price $1 25. 
 
 EDGAR POE AND HIS CRITICS. 
 
 By Mrs. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. A volume possessing 
 many attractions and which has created considerable in 
 terest among the literati. I2mo. Muslin, price 75 cts 
 
 THE GREAT TRIBULATION; 
 
 Or Things coming on the Earth. By Rev. JOHN GUMMING , 
 D.D., author of " Apocalyptic Sketches," &c. From 
 the English edition. FIRST SERIES. Muslin, price $i oo. 
 
 THE GREAT TRIBULATION. 
 
 SECOND SERIES of the new work by Rev. DR. GUMMING, 
 which has awakened such an excitement throughout 
 the religious community, izmo. Muslin, price $i oo. 
 
 ADVENTURES OF VERDANT GREEN. 
 
 By CUTHBHRT BEDE, B.A. The best humorous story of 
 College Life ever published. Sot/i edition, from English 
 plates. Nearly 200 original illustrations, price $1 oo. 
 
 CURIOSITIES OF NATURAL HISTORY. 
 By FRANCIS T. BUCKLAND, M.A. A sparkling collection 
 of surprises in Natural History, and the charm of a 
 lively narrative. From 4th London edition, price Si 25. 
 
 BROWN S CARPENTER S ASSISTANT. 
 
 The best practical work on Architecture ; with Plans for 
 every description of Building. Illustrated with ov- 
 200 Plates. Strongly bound in leather, price $5 oo
 
 BY BVTDD AXD CARLE! ON. 
 
 THE VAGABOND. 
 
 A volume of Miscellaneous Papers, treating In colioquia 
 sketches upon Literature, Society, and Art. By AOAIW 
 BADEAU. Bound in muslin, izmo, price $1 oo. 
 
 ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT. 
 
 A new and popular Biography of this celebrated Savant, 
 including his travels and labors, with an introduction by 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. One vol., steel portrait, price $1 2(j. 
 
 LOVE (L AMOUR). 
 
 By M. JULES MICHELET. Author of " A History of 
 France," &c. Translated from the French by J. W. 
 Pa mer, M.D. One vol., 1 2mo. Muslin, price $ i oo. 
 
 WOMAN (LA FEMME). 
 
 A sequel and companion to " Love" (L Amour) by the 
 same author, MICHELET. Translated from the French 
 by Dr. J. W. Palmer, izmo. Muslin, price $1 oo. 
 
 LIFE OF HUGH MILLER. 
 
 Author of "Schools and Schoolmasters," "Old Red 
 Sandstone," &c. Reprinted from the English edition. 
 One large izmo. Muslin, new edition, price $1 25. 
 
 AFTERNOON OF UNMARRIED LIFE. 
 
 An interesting theme admirably treated. Companion to 
 Miss Muloch s "Woman s Thoughts about Women." 
 From London edition. I2mo. Muslin, price, $i oo. 
 
 SOUTHWOLD. 
 
 By MRS. LILLIE DEVEREUX UMSTED. " A spirited an 
 well drawn Society novel somewhat intensified bur 
 bold and clever." izmo. Muslin, price $i oo.
 
 tI8T OF E0003 PTTflUSHW) 
 
 DOESTICKS LETTERS. 
 
 Being a compilation of the Original Le,.t.-rs of O K. P. 
 DOESIICKS, P. B. V/ith many comic lii-tcd illustration! 
 by John McLenan. larao. Muslir. price $1 on 
 
 PLU-RI-BUS-TAH. 
 
 A song that s by-no-aurhor. Not a parody on " Hia 
 watha." By DOESTICKS. With 1 50 humorous illus 
 trations by McLenan. I2mo. Muslin, price $1 oo 
 
 THE ELEPHANT CLUP. 
 
 An irresistibly droll volume. By DOESTICKS, assisted by 
 KNIGHT Russ OCKSIDE, M.D. One of liis best works. 
 Profusely illustrated by McLenan. Muslin, price $i oo. 
 
 THE WITCHES OF NEW YORK. 
 
 A new humorous work by DOESTICKS ; being minute, 
 particular, and faithful Revelations cf Black Arc 
 Mysteries in Gotham. 12010. Muslin, price $i oo 
 
 TWO WAYS TO WEDLOCK. 
 
 A Novellette. Reprinted from the columrs of Morris ft 
 Willis New York Home Journal. *mo. Hand 
 somely bound in muslin. Price $ oo, 
 
 HAMMOND S POLITICAL HISTORY. 
 
 A History of Political Parties in the State of New York. 
 ByjABEZ B. HAMMOND, L.L.D. 3 vols., octavo, with steel 
 portraits of all the Governors. Muslin. Price, $6 co. 
 
 ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN. 
 From the French of OCTAVE FEUILLET. An admirable 
 and striking work of fiction. Translated from the 
 Seventh Paris edition, izmo. Muslin, price $i oo
 
 -art or BOOKS PUBLISHED 
 
 THE CULPRIT FAY. 
 
 By JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. A charming edition 0f ~thii 
 world-celebrated Faery Poem. Printed on tolored 
 plate paper. Muslin, izmo. Frontispiece. Price, 50 cts. 
 
 y 
 
 THE NEW AND THE OLD ; 
 
 Or, California and India in Romantic Aspects. By J. 
 W. PALMER, M.D., author of " Up and Down the Irra- 
 waddi." Abundantly illustrated. Muslin, I2mo. $1,25. 
 
 UP AND DOWN THE IRRAWADDI; 
 
 Or, the Golden Dagon. Being "passages of adventure in 
 the Burman Empire. By J. W. PALMER, M.D., author 
 of " The New and the Old." Illustrated. Price, $ i ,00. 
 
 THE HABITS OF GOOD SOCIETY. 
 
 An interesting handbook for Ladies and Gentlemen ; with 
 thoughts, hints, and anecdotes, concerning social obser 
 vances, taste, and good manners. Muslin, price $1 25. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 A private manuscript journal of home events, kept during 
 the American Revolution by the Daughter of a Clergy 
 man. Printed in unique style. Muslin. Price, $1,00 
 
 HARTLEY NORMAN. 
 
 A New Novel. " Close and accurate observation, enables 
 the author to present the scenes of everyday life with 
 great spirit and originality." Muslin, izmo. Price, $1,25. 
 
 MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN FOLKS. 
 
 An unique and attractive little Holiday volume. Printed 
 on tinted paper, with frontispiece by Billings, izmo. 
 Elegantly bound in fancy colored muslin, price 75 cts.
 
 Date Due 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S./ 
 
 CAT. NO. 24 161
 
 00054792