J. W. Rumple.
The edifying efforts made by Congress to throw guards about the ballot would be encouraging were they based on a little knowledge of the fact, and the reason for it. As it is, the be-it-enacted agreed on is little better than a solemn protest. Our learned law-makers would enjoy greater progress if they would remember that we have had for a century all the law necessary to punish such corruption, and that the trouble lies in our inability to enforce its provisions.
What is really wanted is a tribunal to try and enforce the stringent enactments already in existence. This does not now exist. When a candidate for Congress corruptly purchases enough votes to secure his return to either House, he knows that such Chamber, being the judge of such applicant's qualifications, forms a court without a judge to give the law or an impartial jury to render a verdict. The Committee on Elections in either House is made up of the Democratic or Republican party, and so the jury is packed in advance.
This is not, however, the only evil feature in the business. There is probably no organized body so ill-fitted for adjudication upon any subject as Congress. Returned to place by parties, the members are necessarily partisans. Their tenure of office is so brief that they have no time in which to learn their legitimate duties through experience, and these duties are so numerous, to say nothing of being encroached upon by services entirely foreign to their positions, that they have no opportunities for study. The consideration then of any subject from a judicial point of view is simply impossible. It is "touch and go" with them, and the touch is feeble, and the go hurried. It seems that a case of purely judicial sort has no place in Congress; and yet we have seen an instance—for example, in the New Idria contention—where the courts had been exhausted, from an Alcalde to the Supreme Court of the United States, and yet the complainant, worsted in every one of these tribunals, came through the lobby into Congress, and for over ten years kept that body in a tumult. Of course this was kept alive by the corrupt use of stock to the extent of ten millions, based on the credit of a company that would be such when Congress gave its illegal approval. This fact alone proves the dangerous and uncertain character of a legislative body that takes on judicial functions.
When a contested election goes before the standing committee called into existence as a court, it passes into a secret committee-room, where the so-called evidence, put on paper, is supposed to be considered. What would be said of a jury impanelled avowedly from the party of one side, and then made into a court to sit and deliberate with closed doors against the public?
It is true that the finding is shaped into a report and goes before the House. But no member of that body, especially of the House of Representatives, has either time or opportunity to read the evidence, or even to listen to the arguments made by contestants upon the floor. That tribunal has lost all power in its loss of public confidence. It not only brings the law into contempt, but itself into such disrepute that its findings are worthless. This is the condition of Congress in public opinion. So far as contested elections are concerned, it is regarded with contempt. To make matters worse, and pay a premium on vice, the losing party is allowed the same mileage and pay given his successful competitors.
If all contests were turned over to the United States courts, to be tried in the locality where the wrong complained of was done and the witnesses live, there would be few contested elections, and some chance given to punish bribery and other corruption.
Again, the prohibition against the subscription or payment of money has exceptions that open wide the doors to corruption. To say that money may be used for any purpose is to leave the evil precisely where the law-makers found it. It were better to have the government furnish the tickets, as the government supplies the ballot-boxes, rents the polling-places, and pays the officials for their services. The ballot is as much a necessity to the machinery of election as the boxes; and because it would be difficult and troublesome to supply them is far from saying that it is impossible.
Then, to punish both bribe-giver and bribe-taker in the same way is to throw a guard about the iniquitous transaction. The bribe-taker should go acquit. Of course this would be in a measure opening a door to blackmailers, and make the candidacy extremely dangerous. Such it ought to be. The sooner we put a check on the shameless solicitations for office the better it will be for the Republic. Let the offices, as of old, in the purer days of the fathers, seek the man—and not the man, as now, the offices. If the effect of this would be to drive timid, decent men from office, it would not be worse than the present system. A candidate for the House of Representatives must not only pay his two years' salary in advance to "heelers," as they are called, but must get drunk in every saloon in his district. We cannot make matters worse, and there is a chance in a change for an improvement.
True reform to be effectual must be radical. A compromise with evil is a surrender to hell. To cut a poisoned shrub even to the ground relieves the eye for a time, but the root is made more vigorous by the trimming. The constitutional governments of Europe have rid themselves of bribery and other corruption by digging out the roots. This is the only course open to us. When members of the House can bribe their way to place, when Senate chairs are sold in open court, when it calls for only two millions to purchase the Presidency, and all done by men of high social position, we have reached the lowest level, and our great Republic is a mere sham and a delusion. We are not menaced with the loss of liberty and guaranteed rights. They are gone.
The purchase of the Presidency in open market, now generally recognized, is less disheartening than the apathetic indifference in which such corruption is regarded by the people. In all communities men may be found to buy, and men to sell, the sacred privilege upon which our great Republic rests; but it is rare—so rare that this experience is almost without precedent—that good citizens, knowing the nature of their free institutions, are willing to have them destroyed without an effort in behalf of their preservation.
To get at not only the fact but the reason of it we must remember that politics to the average citizen has all the fanaticism of religion, and all the fascination of gambling. We have the country divided in two hostile camps, and in these organizations themselves we have lost the objects for which they were organized. This is the tendency of poor human nature the world over. It is probably more pronounced in religion than in any other form. A man will not only fight to the bitter end, but die as a martyr, for a sect whose dogmas he has never read, or, if read, fails to comprehend. Politics is our popular religion. Taking the great mass of our citizens, we are pained to write that it is about our only religion.
We say that we have two hostile camps, in both of which the objects for which they were organized have been entirely lost. The ordinary Republican can give no reason for being such save that he is not a Democrat, and the Democrat has the same reason, if it may be called such. Each will avow, without hesitation, that the other camp is made up of knaves and fools. The folly of thus designating over half our entire voting population does not strike the partisan.
Parties, however, are not called into existence and held together through intellectual processes. They are founded on feeling. For years and years the brightest minds and purest characters preached, with burning eloquence, upon the wrongs of negro slavery, and got ugly epithets and foul missiles in return, if indeed they were listened to at all. At a moment of wild frenzy an armed mob at Charleston shot down our flag. In an instant the entire people of the North rose to arms, and a frightful war was inaugurated. The flag sentiment outweighed the Abolition arguments.
It is not our purpose to give the philosophical view of that contest. We use it only, so far, in illustration. The sectional feeling that brought on that armed contest continues in another direction, and divides the two great parties. It is so intense that each is willing to see the republic under which we live utterly destroyed, so that one may be conquered or the other defeated.
We are all agreed that the ballot is the foundation-stone of our entire political structure. On this was built the form of government given us by the fathers, and was the grand result of all the blood and treasure, of life and property, so patriotically poured out in the Revolution that made us independent. Yet this ballot is openly assailed, its processes corrupted with money, and its usefulness entirely destroyed, without arousing the indignation of an outraged public. Men of wealth, of high social position, members of churches, and leaders in what are called the better classes, subscribe and pay the money knowingly that is to be used in the purchase of "floaters in blocks of five" or more, while voters, well-to-do farmers, and so-called honest laborers are organized willingly into blocks and shamelessly sell that upon which they and their children depend for life, liberty, and a right to a recompense for toil. When the result is announced bonfires are burned, and loud shouts go up amid the roar of artillery, expressive of the joy felt in such a triumph.
These men of means—it makes no odds how the means are accumulated—are not aware that in this they are cutting away the foundations under their feet, and that, too, with ropes about their necks. Their only security, not only to the enjoyment of their property but to their lives, lies in the very government they are so eager to destroy. We have called attention to the fact that humanity suffers more from an inequality of property than from an inequality of political rights. These last are rapidly getting to be recognized and secured in constitutions throughout the civilized world. Kings and emperors have come to be mere figure-heads above constitutions, and the political dignity of the poor man is generally acknowledged. But the poor man remains, and the castle yet rears its lofty front above the hovels of the suffering laborers. Humanity is yet divided between the many who produce all and enjoy nothing, and the few who produce nothing and enjoy all. This is the inequality of property, and governments yet hold the sufferers to their hard condition. It is called "law and order," as sacred in the eyes of the Church as it is potent in courts of justice.
There is no government so poorly fitted to the execution of the hard task of holding labor down as this of the United States. In Europe through the dreary ages the masses have been born and bred to their wretched condition. With us, on the contrary, there has been a great expenditure of toil and treasure to teach labor its rights. In Europe great armies are organized and kept upon a war footing for police duty. We have no such conservative force upon which to rely in our hour of peril, and yet so far our government has held sway through our habitual respect for that which we created. These wealthy corruptors are rapidly destroying this respect. They are teaching the people that their ballots are merchantable products, and their ballot-box a rotten affair.
Violence follows fraud as surely as night follows day, or a thunderstorm a poisoned atmosphere. The day is not distant when these millionaires will be hunting holes in which to hide from the very mobs they are now so assiduously calling into existence. God in his divine mercy forgives us our sins when we are repentant, but the law that governs our being—called nature—knows no forgiveness. The wound given the sapling by the woodman's axe is barked over, but that cut, slight as it seems, remains, and may hasten decay a hundred years after. The wrong done the body politic may fester unseen, but it festers on all the same.
Fortunately for the people there is yet a feature in the situation that gives us hope. We are blessed with no inconsiderable body of men of sufficient sense and conscience to rise above party control and vote in support of good measures and honest, capable men. These are not men dominated by one idea, and devoted to some one measure that is to remedy all our political ills. These are "cranks," so called, because they believe that human nature is constructed like machinery—something like a coffee-mill that has a crank that, if turned and turned vigorously, will put the entire machine in good running order. To some this is temperance, to others the tariff, to a third our common-school system: and so they give their lives to a vociferous demand for help to turn the one peculiar crank.
We refer, not to such as these, but the thoughtful, patriotic few who rise above party obligations to a consideration of their country's good. These men are not organized into a party,—unless the fact of two men thinking and feeling alike make a party,—and, as compared to the Republican and Democratic camp-followers, are few in number. But, in the evenly divided condition of the two organizations, these men hold the balance of power, and are dreaded in consequence. Had it not been for the money used by Republicans, and the treachery practised by a few leading Democrats, these independents would have given New York to the Democracy, and Grover Cleveland would be President for the next four years.
These men are derided, scoffed at, and held in high disdain by the partisans of both parties. They are called Mugwumps; and when this strange epithet is hurled at them the assailant seems to feel relieved. This is no new thing. Among the traditions of the Church is one to the effect that as the devil talks he spits fire. All reformers are treated to this. It is well remembered that in the troublous times of '61 the Mugwumps, then denounced as Abolitionists, came to the front and carried the government through its dark hour of peril to a triumphant close. They were brave, brainy, patriotic men, not disturbed by the abuse heaped upon them.
We are comforted to observe the power of these few men as proved in the debate on the civil-service law of the House when an appropriation was called for to sustain the Commission. The debate proved what we all know—that probably not a member of the House but regards the reform in utter loathing and wrath. And yet, when the vote was taken, but a small minority were willing to put themselves on record in opposition. The same clear appreciation of the evil consequences attending this corruption of the ballot, and the conscience that makes itself felt as that of the people, are forcing a reform in that direction. The time is not distant when the now much-reviled Mugwumps will be regarded, as are the Abolitionists, as the true patriots of the day. God would have forgiven Sodom and Gomorrah could five righteous men have been found in either city: this not out of regard for the five, but from the evidence afforded that if that number existed, these wicked places could not be altogether lost.
The dignity of this unnecessary and disagreeable body was somewhat disturbed by a Senator in a wild state of intoxication, who from his place in the Chamber assailed in unseemly language the presiding officer.
Great consternation fell upon the British House of Commons when the discovery was made that an entire session had been gone through without "that bauble," as Oliver Cromwell called it, being upon the table. When Doctor Kenealy, friend and attorney of the Tichborne Claimant, was about being sworn in as a member of Parliament, it was observed that he had a cotton umbrella under his arm. A horror too profound for utterance fell upon the House, and all proceedings were arrested until the obnoxious compound of cotton and whalebone was removed.
We refer to these events for the purpose of impressing upon our delegated sovereigns from sovereign States, that unless the proprieties are preserved their dignity cannot be maintained. What would be thought of the British House of Lords if Lord Tomnoddy, for example, were to roll in very drunk, and make personal remarks touching the integrity of the presiding officer? The thought of such an event threatens insanity. The British Empire would totter, the throne shake, and the House of Lords disappear forever.
The inebriated Senator was not arrested, or even rebuked. We all know why. On his one vote depends the Republican control of the Senate. To seize upon, arrest, and cart away, under charge of drunken and disorderly conduct, the Republican majority of the Senate was so preposterous as not to be entertained.
As force could not be used, strategy was resorted to, and the inebriate Solon was invited out to take more drinks, in the hope that a little more liquid insanity would render him hors de combat.
This is not the first instance of embarrassment of like sort. When the men who organized the Star Route dishonesty of the Post-office Department were indicted, it was found that the head and front of this offending was a United States Senator. He held the one vote that gave his party its supremacy in the Senate. To send the Republican majority vote to the penitentiary was not to be thought of—and so the court was packed to acquit.
A body that subordinates its dignity to the supremacy of a party cannot long retain that awe-inspiring respect so necessary to its existence. Our House of Lords should bear in mind that the only reason—if such it may be called—for its existence, is in this dignity. If the Senate is not the holy, embalmed mummy of a dead king once known as State sovereignty, it is naught; therefore, when a Senator endangers this title to existence by unseemly conduct, either as an inebriate or as a bribe-taker, he should be incontinently expelled. The expulsion should be conducted with great ceremony. He should be divested of his robes in the presence of the august body—robes being procured for the occasion. One might be borrowed from the Supreme Court. Then the culprit should be conducted by two assistant Sergeants-at-Arms, one having hold of each arm. The Sergeant-at-Arms should march behind, bearing the mace. We believe the Senate has that utensil; if not, that of the House of Representatives could be procured. At the main entrance the Sergeant-at-Arms should fetch the mace into a charge, and planting the eagle in the small of the culprit's back, thrust him out. All the while the chaplain, in a solemn but distinct voice, should read the Service for the Dead. After, the presiding officer should give three distinct raps of his ivory gavel, and say in joyous but decorous voice, indicative of triumphant yet seemly satisfaction: "The expurgated Senate will now proceed with the business of legislating for the House of Representatives."
So necessary is dignity to the existence of this august body, that the presiding officer should have an eye continually to it; and when a Senator, in debate, makes himself ridiculous, he should at once be called to order. When, for example, the Hon. Senator from Vermont (Mr. Edmunds) gave his grotesque picture of a common American laborer being possessed of a piano, and a wife in silk attire, in his own cottage home, he should have been promptly called to order. The presiding officer should have remarked that the picture, being imperfect, was in a measure untrue, and as such could not be entertained by the Senate. The Senator, however, has the privilege of amending his sketch by saying that the laborer has not only the luxury found in a piano and silk-clad wife, but a mortgage on the premises. This, although improbable, is not impossible for a common laborer; and if the Hon. Senator will vouch for the fact that he knows one such, his statement may go on record for what it is worth.
This would serve to abridge the liberty of speech guaranteed to us by the Constitution. But we must remember that the same larger freedom exercised in a bar-room, or upon the streets, or on the floor of the House of Representatives, is a menace to the dignity of the Senate; and in view of this, freedom of speech is somewhat circumscribed. When, therefore, the Hon. Senator from Indiana (Mr. Voorhees) shakes his senatorial fist at the Hon. Senator from Kansas (Mr. Ingalls), and calls him an anathematized offspring of a female canine, or words to that effect, he fractures the dignity of the Senate, and further adjudication does not turn on the truth of the utterances as in a court, for we are forced to remember that it is one-half of the sovereign State of Indiana shaking its fist at one half of the sovereign State of Kansas. This is very like the old story of the sheriff of Posey County, Kentucky, who being agitated in a robust manner by an angry citizen, called on his assailant to desist, as he was "shaking all Posey County."
How long the practical common-sense citizens of the United States will submit to this worn-out superstition of a Senate is a question that strikes every thoughtful mind. The body was born of a narrow sectional feeling, long before steam navigation and railroads made the continent more of one body than was a single colony before the Revolution; and was a concession to State sovereignty, with the new and accepted principle of home rule found in State rights. It further confuses and demoralizes the civil rule of the majority under the Constitution, as it gives to Rhode Island or Delaware the same power held by New York or Pennsylvania.
It was believed by the framers of our government that it would be a conservative body, and serve as a restraint upon the popular impulses to be expected from the House. This has not proved to be the fact. The tenure of office given a Senator is of such length that it weakens the only control found in public opinion, and this august body is more extravagant, corrupt, and impulsive than the more popular body at the other end of the Capitol. If any one doubts this, let such doubter follow any appropriation bill, say that highway robbery called the River and Harbor Appropriation, or pensions, from the House to the Senate.
The Senate has long since survived its usefulness, if it ever had any; is to-day an object of contempt; and the sooner we have done with it the better off we shall be.
There is a deep-felt apprehension indulged in by a class of our citizens over the grave diplomatic complication found in the dismissal of Lord Sackville West, and the refusal on the part of Her Gracious Majesty of England to refill the vacant post at Washington with another lord. Our national dignity is menaced so long as Mr. Phelps, envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary residing at or near St. James's, is permitted to remain. As soon as Sackville "got the sack," to use a vulgar but expressive phrase, a reasonable time should have been given Her Gracious Majesty to fill the place; and failing, the Hon. Phelps should have been promptly recalled. This would have been hard on the Hon. Phelps, but with our flag insulted and our eagle scoffed at by an empty legation at the national capital, the Hon. Phelps should have been prepared to wrap the star-spangled banner about his diplomatic body and die—if need be—to the fierce screams of the eagle. He might, after such a glorious demise, have been consigned to that corner of Westminster Abbey that Dean Stanley reserved for a distinguished American. It is true that we, in common with the American people, have designated Senator Ingalls as the one selected for that honor, and we are prepared to kill him any time, and forward his remains to the spot, provided the Westminster people are willing to receive them. But this is carrying us from our diplomatic mutton.
Under the circumstances, it is a comfort to know that all this apprehension of these sensitive citizens is quite uncalled for. This because we have no diplomatic service, no diplomatic agents, and therefore no complications to speak of.
The framers of our government, through some oversight, neglected to supply us with a diplomatic service. They saw, it is true, no use for such; nor was it possible to have a government as a trust, and give it such powers.
The diplomatic service pertains exclusively to a personal government. It originated in a sovereign delegating certain powers, attributes of the crown, to official agents whose duty was to reside near the courts of other sovereigns, keep a watchful eye upon their movements, report the same to their masters, and, from time to time, negotiate treaties of advantage to their own sovereigns. To give these diplomatic agents dignity and influence they were clothed with sufficient power to commit their sovereigns to their official acts. This is not possible with us. The sovereignty in our great republic is in the people; and it finds expression, in this direction, through the Executive and Senate. It cannot be delegated. When, therefore, a treaty is negotiated between us and any foreign power, it is necessary to send a special envoy to Washington to deal with the Executive. This has to be sanctioned by the Senate: and our absurd House of Lords has served notice on the world that the President himself cannot commit our government to any treaty.
Why, then, are our diplomatic agents, so called, sent abroad as ministers? Ministers resident and chargés d'affaires are merely clerks of the State Department—no more, no less—who are sent abroad to play at being diplomatists and get laughed at by the courts they approach.
The diplomatic corps of Europe, being an important part of their several governments, is made up of men possessed of fine intellect and great culture. To meet and associate with such, we send prominent politicians who, being such, are ignorant of their own government, its history and character, let alone those of Europe; and they are tolerated from a good-natured wish to be agreeable, where there is no profit in being otherwise. We do not suffer in this so much from our lack of good breeding—for it is difficult for a prominent American to be other than a gentleman—as we do from the ignorance of our official agents. Ex-President Grant, for example, in his famous trip round the world, posed at every court he approached as a royal personage. General Badeau ("Adjutant-in-waiting"), acting as grand master of ceremonies, arranged the household, and exacted from all comers the etiquette due a sovereign. If our good citizens could have known the ripple of laughter and ridicule that followed the result, in which our great man was spoken of as "the King of the Yankee Doodles," they would be more ashamed than proud of the performance.
It is this ignorance of ourselves and our political fabric that places us in a false position before the world. The clerk of the State Department sent abroad by our government as a diplomatic agent, instead of putting up at a hotel and opening an office in a common business way, sets up an establishment and "takes on airs." As most of the diplomatic business is done in a social way, he attempts to entertain on a salary entirely inadequate to such work. As a court costume is necessary—which means the sort of livery the diplomatic agent affects in the presence of his own sovereign—and as we, having no king, have no livery, our department clerk borrows one, either from some European court or the theatre, and dances attendance in that.
No man ever stood higher in the estimation of the world, on account of his genius, than James Russell Lowell. That esteem was considerably shaken, in the eyes of an admirer, when, calling on his minister at London, he found the poet's slender legs encased in tights, and his little body clad in a gorgeous coat covered with gold buttons. Of course, Mr. Lowell could masquerade in any dress and remain the brilliant poet and patriot; but the significance of this livery, its shallow pretence and humble admission, made the admirer sick.
The clerk of our State Department sent abroad under this state of facts finds nothing to do. He is not interested in the business of the foreign diplomatic corps; and if he were, his government has no hand in the game, nor is the agent sufficiently instructed to take part even were he interested. He is tolerated by those with whom he comes in contact, and his strange associates repay their good-nature by the amusement they get out of the poor fellow.
There is no provision in our government for such an absurdity. The framers of our Constitution provided none; and if our recollection serves us right, it was not until 1856 that Congress recognized its existence by a law fixing the rank and compensation.
The thing ought to be abolished. When Andrew Jackson was first elected President, he went to Washington fully resolved to put an end to the absurd business. The politicians were too much for Old Hickory—and so they are to-day too much for common-sense, the letter and spirit of our government, and the dignity of our people. With a House of Lords at home and a so-called diplomatic corps abroad, we are an object of contempt from the rising of the sun till the setting thereof.
Sensationalism in art, as in literature, no doubt has its uses. It serves to present old truths in a new light, and by a startling grouping of ascertained facts helps to overcome the inertia of the average man and make him think. There is a value in novelty, provided it is rightly used, which is an important aid to the playwright or scenic artist. But where sensationalism is manifested by a distortion of facts, a falsification of history, or a violation of the principles of human nature, its effect is demoralizing both to the artist and the spectator, the author and the reader. Such an innovation has been attempted by Mr. Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry in their presentation of "Macbeth" at the Lyceum Theatre, London. It is excellent acting, faithful reproduction of historic costumes, exquisite scenery, but—it is not Shakspere. Nor is it human nature.
Had it been only occasional alterations of the dramatist's lines, or even the unnecessary division of the play into six acts instead of five, or the cutting out of some of the characters, the genius of Irving and Terry might have been pardoned the perversion. But when they attempt to represent the ambitious, plotting, fiendish murderess whom Shakspere has depicted, as a loving, devoted wife, who only seeks to further a little job of killing for the purpose of promoting her husband's interests, they meet with an infallible critic in the heart of every intelligent spectator. It is against human nature, and no amount of wonderful declamation or scenic magnificence can gloss it over. The purpose of art is to portray nature, to refine it if you will, but never to contradict. Lovers of the drama will be bitterly disappointed that Mr. Irving, after having devoted the best years of his life to the former, should at this late day, for the mere sake of innovation, resort to the latter.
Shakspere, the great philosopher of human nature as well as the greatest dramatist of the centuries, knew full well that unlawful ambition which includes crime excludes the tender, womanly devotion of the true wife, and, far from picturing Lady Macbeth as an admirer of her husband, shows her as sneering at him for his want of courage:
And this:
Irving and Terry's play is not human nature and is not Shakspere; but, overlooking these points, their conception is well carried out. It is a wonderful spectacle. The resources of stage machinery have been taxed to their utmost, and the English press is one chorus of admiration at the marvellous landscapes, and at the quaint ornamentation and the low, groined arches of the old Saxon castle. It is a pity that these valuable adjuncts were not called unto the aid of a more correct interpretation of the great ideal.
And now we are likely to have an epidemic of Macbeths. Margaret Mather has tried it at Niblo's, and Mrs. Langtry has been incubating a new presentation, like Terry's, with a "few innovations." Irving's reputation as a stage manager is such that when his "Macbeth" comes to America everyone will want to see it.
But will it ever come to America? For now, forsooth, there are some members of the dramatic profession in this country who avow their intention of appealing to Congress to regulate American taste by law, and to exclude foreign actors under the contract-labor statute. This brilliant idea originated in the fertile brain of Mr. Louis Aldrich, and was nursed by the Actors' Order of Friendship. Into this Order Messrs. Booth and Barrett were initiated with darkened windows and mysterious rites, for the express purpose of fixing the stamp of their approval upon the scheme. A delegation appeared before Congressman Ford's Immigration Committee and begged that the proposed undemocratic exclusion law shall contain a provision against the landing of foreign pauper actors.
But these gentlemen lacked in logic what they possessed in assurance. They were willing to except "stars" from the operation of the law. Well, why not exclude "stars"? Do they not compete quite as much with American talent as the humbler aspirants of the stage? Even a "star" of the magnitude of Louis Aldrich himself would probably find his rays outshone in the presence of the brighter effulgence of an Irving or a Coquelin. It is the "stars" who compete most with native talent, and on this principle they should be the first excluded. Besides that, if they are excepted, who is to define a "star"? It would be amusing to see the Supreme Court of the United States gravely sitting in judgment on such a question. By all means, Mr. Aldrich, return at once to Washington and amend your petition. Let Mr. Ford include "stars" also in his bill. And then let every protectionist crank in the country have absolute exclusion of every possible competitor and of all kinds of goods that he wants to sell, and pay a bounty to the farmers for their crops, and then we shall all be able to raise ourselves by our boot-straps into a region of perfect happiness.
Of course there are two sides to every question, and, not wishing to do an injustice, we will give the one maintained by the petitioners. We have a law prohibiting the importation of labor contracted for abroad. This law the courts hold is applicable to cooks, coachmen, and ministers of the Gospel. Now why should an exception be made in behalf of a theatrical manager who contracts for a lot of actors, more or less cheap, in London, to play for him in the United States? Mr. Aldrich does not ask that the man, be he star or stock, who comes of his own motives shall be prohibited; but he does protest against the importation of the cheap histrionic labor which is brought here, precisely as other skilled or unskilled labor is got over, to compete with the same labor in the United States. In other words, it is not a question of taste, but one of bread.
Another fact is overlooked that has a decided bearing on the question. In all matters of art we are such a set of snobs that we cannot recognize any merit in our artists until after they have been indorsed by English critics and English audiences. If any law can be enacted to correct this miserable condition, let us have it at an early day. We know that the greatest actress known to the English-speaking world—our Clara Morris—has failed to secure the fame and fortune to which her genius entitled her simply because she neglected to secure English approbation—which would have been heartily given her had she ever appeared in London.
Nor is it true that English stock is preferred to the American product because of its superior excellence. Mr. Daly has shown the absurdity of this claim by taking his admirable company to London and carrying off the honors. In the face of this and every other fact, we are told that the English comedian doing the society drama is superior to ours because of his superior social position. That is something to be relegated to the things which amuse. There is an adaptability about the American that makes him at home in all conditions. It is possible for an American actor to wear a dress suit with an ease that is rivalled only by the French. What is the good of calling on an Englishman to do on the stage what no Englishman can accomplish in private life? If there is a John Bull on earth who can wear a dress suit with ease and elegance, he has not yet been discovered.
There now, we have given both sides.
Mr. Edwin Booth offered his brother-actors a much better kind of protection when, on New Year's Eve, he presented to them "The Players'" club-house, with its fine library and its treasures of dramatic art. After all, education and self-development are the only legitimate means of attaining success; and he who offers his fellow-beings facilities for improvement and self-help is a far greater benefactor to them than he who endeavors to apply restrictive methods. Such an institution has been Mr. Booth's dream for years. It is a spacious house at No. 16 Gramercy Place, adjoining the residence of the late Samuel J. Tilden. Mr. Booth purchased it for $75,000, and spent $125,000 in alterations. The library is probably the finest collection of dramatic literature in the world. Twelve hundred volumes were presented by Mr. Booth, and two thousand by Lawrence Barrett, besides a large number of rare works given by Augustin Daly, T. B. Aldrich, Laurence Hutton, and others. It was a touching scene when, a few moments before the old year died, Mr. Booth placed in the hands of Augustin Daly for the Players' Club the title-deeds to this magnificent property, and blushing like a girl before the assembled actors, listened awkwardly to the simple words which Mr. Daly spoke in reply. Then just after the midnight bells had rung he turned and lit the Yule log, and the players began the enjoyment of their new home.
A few days afterwards Mr. Booth closed his very successful metropolitan engagement at the Fifth Avenue Theatre with "The Fool's Revenge," Lawrence Barrett appearing in "Yorick's Love," and both the tragedians started on a Southern tour.
Miss Mary Anderson appears in a late issue of a sensational publication as a severe censor of society ladies addicted to attempts upon the stage. We say Mary Anderson; for her name appears at the end of the article, and as she is a woman, we will not venture to say that the property claimed is not her own. Some rude critics have charged that Mary did not make this up out of her own fair head; and throughout the profession a state of mind exists that is not complimentary to the would-be authoress.
The queerest part of the business, however, is, that such strictures should come from Miss Anderson. She raided the stage as a society woman, and struck at once for the honors. There was, if we remember rightly, no long, weary preparation and laborious training for the footlights. She went from the parlor to the greenroom, and she went in with a flourish. She was of Kentucky birth, and Henry Watterson, whose bright intellect is only surpassed by his good heart, not only indorsed the ambitious society girl, but made up his mind to put Mary down the American throat whether the people would or not. Mary was not unpalatable to the American taste, but Watterson is her father—that is, dramatically speaking.
Then Stepfather Griffin came in. Stepfather Griffin was born a theatrical advance and advertising agent. He did not know this. If we were to dwell on what Stepfather Griffin does not know, we should fill all the space of this magazine for the year.
P. Griffin "caught on" to the provincial condition of our artistic, literary, and dramatic life, which makes the approval of England necessary to American success. So Poppy G. transported his American star to London. He found the Prince of Wales necessary; and Labouchere, M. P. and proprietor of Truth, taught the paternal agent how to work the oracle. The Prince of Wales is a corpulent, good-natured son of Her Gracious Majesty who rules all the earth save Ireland. He is ever open to the advances and blandishments of an American woman, or African woman, or any sort of woman, provided she is lovely; and being approached, he expressed his desire to know the star of Columbia. "Now," said Labouchere, "having got that far, the thing to startle England and capture Americans is for Mary to decline an introduction on high moral and republican grounds." This was done, and Great Britain was startled and the Yankee Doodles were captured. She returned to her native land with an English troupe, and made Yankee Doodle go wild.
Now Mary is absolutely the worst actress ever sent sweeping from the drawing-room to the footlights. Possessed of a tall, angular figure, and blessed with a sonorous and in some respects pliable voice, she has the fatal gift of imitation. No actor can win the highest honors of his exalted profession who is a mimic. The actor capable of giving expression to the thought of his author really assists that author in the creation of a character. He or she is the creator. Now the mimic is one who reproduces second-hand the work of others. We are cursed with a traditionary assortment of characters that have come down to us from the Kembles; and any one capable of filling what Shakspere or Bacon or somebody called the rôle of "a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more" can win applause through mimicry, but never be great. We first saw Mary as Meg Merrilies, and the reproduction of Cushman was something marvellous. And so we have had it ever since. As Fechter said of Booth's Hamlet, that "he played everybody's Hamlet but his own," so it may be said of Miss Anderson, that she reproduces in an acceptable way the wearisome line of old characters that have come to be stage properties.
Mrs. James Brown Potter, who has been playing to New York and Brooklyn audiences in Tom Taylor's heavy drama, "'Twixt Axe and Crown," shows considerable improvement over her acting of one year ago, but she chose a very inappropriate piece for her reappearance. Mrs. Potter reads her lines very well, is a very beautiful woman, and possesses that indispensable adjunct of the modern actress, a very handsome wardrobe. But she is not fitted for the part of Lady Elizabeth, who in her youthful prison exhibits the same wilful capriciousness and headstrong pride that she afterwards showed on England's throne. Mr. Kyrle Bellew as Edward Courtenay, the romantic lover of Elizabeth, played his rôle quite well. Mrs. Potter is naturally better suited to fragile, feminine, girlish parts than she is to the heroic, and there is plenty of room for improvement; but she is painstaking, persistent, and has time before her.
Edward Harrigan's drama of "The Lorgaire," the only new play of the month, is a passable sketch of Irish life. It is much more ingeniously devised than any of his previous efforts in this line, and since it was first put upon the stage has been much improved, many offensive lines being eliminated.
Adolph Müller's new comic opera, "The King's Fool," was first witnessed by an American audience in Chicago at the Columbia Theatre on Christmas Eve. Its scene is laid at the court of Pampeluna, and the plot is the development of a conspiracy to secure the succession to the throne, the rightful heir being brought up as a girl, the Salic law forbidding the accession of females. The king's fool discovers the imposition, the young prince regains his throne, and the conspirators are punished.
A very enjoyable selection of pieces has been put on the boards at Daly's Theatre, including "The Lottery of Love," "Needles and Pins," "She Would and She Wouldn't," and "Rehearsing a Tragedy." Ada Rehan scored her usual successes. Daly's Theatre is one where the spectator is always sure of a pleasant evening's entertainment. At the Standard "Miss Esmeralda" replaced "Monte Cristo, Jr." The new play was in every way brighter and wittier, and offered more opportunities to the talents of Nellie Farren and the admirable Gaiety Company. Margaret Mather in her repertoire produced at Niblo's Garden shows steady improvement. She makes a lovely Juliet, but in the difficult part of Peg Woffington she is a failure. The "Yeomen of the Guard" is withdrawn from the Casino, not from any lack of popular favor, but because Manager Aronson has been obliged by a contract to restore "Nadjy" to the stage. Herr Junkermann has been giving several very creditable presentations at the new Amberg Theatre, to the delight of our German citizens.
Most admirable, yet most difficult and incomplete, was the first production in America of Wagner's "Rheingold" at the Metropolitan Opera House early in January. The stage machinery was very complicated, and the illusions were perfect. As the curtain rose the depths of the Rhine waters appeared to fill the scene, the sun's struggling rays caused the precious gold to gleam; and the three Rhine maidens appointed by Wotan to watch it were seen gracefully swimming about the treasure. From this novel opening to the close, when the gods cross the rainbow bridge that leads to Walhalla, the scenery was a marvel of spectacular effect, but it did not rise to the excellence of the displays at the Bayreuth festivals. The orchestra was in best form, and the singing was the best that has been presented this season—much better, for instance, than in the previous performance of "Siegfried," where Herr Alvary's voice showed signs of wear, and Emil Fischer actually became hoarse before the close.
"Faust," "The Huguenots," "L'Africaine," and "Fidelio" were among the musical triumphs of the Metropolitan. Handel's "Messiah" was beautifully given at the same theatre by the Oratorio Society, with the Symphony Society's orchestra, under the direction of Walter Damrosch; while concerts by the Boston Symphony orchestra, by Theodore Thomas, and by Anton Seidl complete the list of delightful musical entertainments of the season.
The Cloven Hoof under Petticoats: The Quick or the Dead; Eros; Miss Middleton's Lovers.—The characteristic American novel of the day might be described as an episode clothed in epigram. It is commonly little more than an incident, slight as to plot, startling in contrasts of light and shade, and too often avowedly immoral in tone—a fragment of canvas, with ragged edges, cut at random from a picture by Gérôme, with figures questionably suggestive, and volcanic in color. It affects a myopic realism in details, not seldom of the sort which, with non-committal suavity, we have agreed to call "improper." It is nothing if not erotic. It deals with humanity from the anatomist's standpoint, and describes, with insistence and reiteration, the physical attributes of its characters, leaving the spiritual to be inferred from their somewhat indefinite actions, and that sort of mental sauntering which is termed analysis, for want of a better name. It sets its women before you in the language of the slave-market. It leaves no doubt in your mind that they are female—female to a fault. "You could not help feeling in her presence that she was a woman; the atmosphere was redolent with her. You never so much as thought of her as a human being, a sentient, reasoning personage like yourself. She was born to be a woman solely, and she fulfilled her destiny." "She was sensuous and voluptuous. You received from her a powerful impression of sex." "She was a naked goddess—a pagan goddess, and there was no help for it." Realistic this may indeed be, but it is hardly chivalrous, or consistent with that respect which well-bred and sound-hearted men feel, or, for the convenience of social intercourse, affect to feel toward that half of human nature to which the mothers, sisters, and wives of the race belong. A woman must be philosophical indeed who can accept as a flattering testimony to her personal graces such a phrase as "She is the most appetizing thing I have seen." To be regarded in the light of a veal cutlet may possess the charm of gastronomic reminiscence, but as a metaphor it is scarcely poetic.
In reading this class of fiction one is constrained to wonder what these ingenious weavers of verbal tapestries would have done for plot and incident—such as they are—had the Seventh Commandment been eliminated from the Tables of the Law. It is a never-failing well-spring, a Fortunatus' pocket, a theme more rich in variations than the Carnival of Venice; and it is amazing as well as instructive to the uninitiated to discover in how many original and striking ways a wife may be unfaithful to her husband, and what startling and dramatic situations may be evolved out of the indiscretions of a too confiding society-girl. But even the unmentionable has limits: the glacial smile of the nimblest ballet-dancer may lose somewhat of its fascination in the course of time; and in the overheated atmosphere of the "passionate" novel may lurk the faintest intimations of a yawn.
The fact is, this multiform, many-worded element in current fiction is not true passion at all. It is a theatrical presentation, often well set and brilliantly costumed; but too frequently you see the paint and hear the prompter calling forgotten cues from the wings. It is keen, witty, cynical; but it is not real. It is daring, flippantly defiant, paroxysmal, and redundant in explosive adjectives; but it is not true to nature. It is as different from the genuine, living human emotion as the impetuous, fervid, and unpremeditated love-making of a youth is from the cold-blooded, carefully-rounded, and artificial gallantries of an aged suitor. Real passion is always poetic; there is a delicacy in its very vehemence, and if reprehensible from the moralist's point of view, it is never contemptible. Simulated passion, on the other hand, is always coarse and undignified—even when, as in the case with many of these novels, expressed in graceful and smoothly-flowing sentences; often absurd and flavored with covert cynicism, as if it despised itself and its object. Actual passion is almost entirely wanting in American fiction. The purer school of James and Howells makes no pretence of it,—ignoring its existence in human nature, as if men and women were sentient shapes of ice,—and wisely, too; for though the lack of it in romance is a fatal defect, it is better than a poor imitation. Nathaniel Hawthorne, that isolated giant, drew from the mysterious depths of his own great soul almost the only example of true passion in the literature of this country. "The Scarlet Letter" towers aloft like the Olympian Jove among terra-cotta statuettes, perhaps the noblest work of fiction ever written. Here is passion, almost awful in its intensity; suppressed, confined; struggling like a chained Titan, and at length breaking loose and overwhelming itself beneath its own agony and despair—passion, beautiful with youth and hope, star-eyed, crowned with amaranth and clad in blood-red garments; led onward by his dark brothers, Sin and Death, in swift tumultuous flight, toward his unknown goal in the land of eternal shadows.
Compared with this lordly poem, the erotic novel of the day, with its prurient platitudes, is as a satyr to Hyperion. Putting aside all question of the moral law in the relation of the sexes, is there not something foolishly undignified in these gasping, gurgling adjectives? "Soul-scorching, flesh-melting flame of his eyes." "Flammeous breath, sweeping her cheek, stirred her nature with a fierce, hungerous yearning." "Ignescent passion." "Gloating upon her hungerly." "Gives her whole body a comprehensive voluptuous twist." "All entangled in her sweet sinuous embrace." "Languorously inviting."—But we pause upon the verge of the unquotable, daunted, stifled, in this mephitic atmosphere.
This is called Realism!—this affected posturing, at which good-taste veils the face to hide the smile of contempt or the blush of common decency—these ale-house stories transplanted to the drawing-room! Is there—is there nothing in that love, whose very name lingers upon the lips like a song—that love which has inspired all poetry, all romance from the beginning of time; which has thrown down embattled walls, taken strong cities, changed the boundaries of empires, marshalled armed thousands upon memorable fields of blood; which in every age has nerved men to great deeds and rewarded them for great sacrifices; the sunrise hope of youth, the evening meditation of the old, the spirit of home, the tender light which gleams about the hearth-stone, the glory of the world;—is there nothing, then, in this but the blind impulse which draws animal to animal—which attracts the groping inhabitants of the mire and the shapeless swimming lumps of the sea? If it be so, then thrice sacred is that art which has power to throw a mist of glamour about this hideous reality, and make it seem beautiful to our eyes! Far better the divine lie than such truth! But it is not true: for real love, even though it pass the pale of the law, and real passion, though it tempt to sin, have about them always an inexpugnable dignity; and if condemned, it is not with laughter or disgust.
The erotic in American fiction is a recent and exotic growth, not native to the soil. It is therefore unhealthy and unwholesome. It is out of place in this cold northern air. In its own climate it is a gaudy flower; in this temperate zone it is a poisonous, spotted lily, rank of smell and blistering to the touch. The licentiousness of Théophile Gautier is elevated by the power of his transcendent genius to the plane of true art. In America it sinks into a denizen of the gutter.
A remarkable feature of this noxious development is the prominent part taken in it by women. It is somewhat startling to find upon the title-page of a work whose cold, deliberate immorality and cynical disregard of all social decency have set the teeth on edge, the name of a woman as the author. We are so accustomed to associate modesty of demeanor, delicacy of thought and word, and purity of life with woman, that a certain set of adjectives, expressive of virtue and morality, have come to include the idea of femininity in their signification. It is certainly surprising, if not repellent, to find women the most industrious laborers in the work of tearing down the structure of honor and respect for their sex, which has so long been regarded as the basis of social existence. If this breaking of the holy images be but another manifestation of the revolt of women against the too narrow limits of ancient prejudice, it is only additional proof that misguided revolution easily becomes mere anarchy. While the dispensation which would confine women to the nursery and kitchen, and exclude them from broader fields of action, is happily a dead letter, it is quite certain that no condition of civilization, however liberal, will ever justify loose principles or lax manners, or what is almost as reprehensible and much more despicable, the cynicism which sneers at virtue while it prudently keeps its own skirts unsoiled. But it is probable that the women who write this kind of fiction are misled by vanity, rather than actuated by evil impulses. They imagine that in thus throwing off all restraint they are giving evidence of originality of thought and force of character; whereas they are, in fact, courting unworthy suspicion and winning only that sort of applause which is thinly veiled contempt.
In America social licentiousness is not inherent as a national characteristic, nor inherited from a profligate ancestry. Whatever his practice may be, the ordinary American is theoretically moral. He recognizes moral turpitude, at least to the extent of dreading exposure of his own backslidings. If he break the law, he nevertheless insists upon the sanctity of the law. In a word, the social atmosphere is pure and wholesome, though perhaps a little chilly; and if anyone happens to be the proprietor of a nuisance, he is very careful to keep it well concealed from his neighbors, and neutralize the evil odor with lavish sprinklings of perfumery.
With us Licentiousness is not a gayly-clad reveller, a familiar figure at feasts and pleasure parties, taking his share in the festivities, dancing, laughing, and frisking as bravely as any. He is not a jovial Bohemian, of too free life perhaps, but not half a bad fellow—a careless, reckless, roaring blade. On the contrary, he is a dark, shadowy, saturnine personage: a loiterer in lonely places, a lover of the night, skulking around corners and hiding his face in a ready mask. He dreads the law, for he knows that if detected his companions of yesterday will bear witness against him to-day, and lend their aid to set him in the stocks, to be jeered at by all the world. He is thin-blooded and pale; he shudders at the sound of his own footsteps, and shrinks from his own shadow. He knows no songs in praise of Gillian and the wine-cup, and if he did he would never dare sing them. He dresses in the seedy remains of a once respectable suit; he is an outcast, a beggar, a vagabond, down at the heels and owned by nobody. Altogether, he is as miserable and forlorn a wretch as one would care to see, and his alter ego is hypocrisy.
For this reason the licentious in American literature is and must be cold, artificial, and repugnant. The erotic becomes mere bald immorality, without grace, gayety, color, or warmth to lend it dignity or render it tolerable. In the opulent, fervid period of the Renaissance, art was born of passion and inspired by it to greatness. The erotic was a legitimate element of all works of the imagination, because it was a part of the social life of the day, and because, being genuine, it could be made beautiful. When, after the Revolution in England and the spread of Calvinism on the Continent, the minds and manners of men were brought under closer restraint, licentiousness in art began to be no longer natural and spontaneous, and therefore no longer legitimate, until in the last century it degenerated into simple indecency. When the erotic ceased to be quite as much a matter of course, in fiction or poetry, as hatred, jealousy, or revenge, and the reader learned to pass it over with a frown or pick it out with a relish, according to his natural disgust of or morbid craving for the impure, it became a blemish. It was no longer real, but an indecent imitation. Compare "Romeo and Juliet," that divine poem of passion, with the abominations of Waters and Rochester, popular in their day, but now happily forgotten, or even Wycherly, not yet quite forgotten, and mark how wide the difference between the true and the false, the natural and the unnatural.
To-day, in America at least, the physical is subordinate to the spiritual. The mind is master, and the body in its bondage, if not enfeebled, has at least become trained to passive obedience. All impulses are submitted to the severe scrutiny of reason. Categories of right and wrong, or perhaps the politic and the impolitic, are strictly adhered to. Caution is largely in the ascendant. The world's opinion is an ever-present restraining element. All these are results, or at any rate concomitants of a loftier civilization. A society guided by moral and intellectual forces is unquestionably upon higher ground than one dominated by the physical. The world is, moreover, a more comfortable place to live in than it used to be when, on account of the color of the feather in one's hat, one must unsheathe and go at it, hammer and tongs, to save one's skin.
Passion does still exist in the human heart, but it is restrained and modified by the necessities and conditions of the social life of the day. To be a fit element of fiction it must be depicted in its nineteenth-century guise—in other words, decently. To be a truthful picture it can be depicted in no other way. To exhibit it posturing, writhing, and gasping in mere hysteria is to lower it beneath the standard of wholesome and worthy art. License without love, and immorality without passion, are as unpardonable in a novel as they are in human nature.
Political Oratory of Emery A. Storrs, by Isaac E. Adams (Belford, Clarke & Co.).—The compiler of Mr. Storrs's political speeches begins his introductory chapter with some questionable generalizations which are belittling and somewhat unjust to the large class of true orators to which his hero belongs. He says: "Few examples of political oratory have been embalmed in literature. Men, too, remembered for oratorical power are easily reckoned, and tower conspicuously along the shores of time. There was once a Demosthenes, once a Cicero, once a Burke. The time will come when, looking back upon the centuries of American history, it will be said there was, also, once a Webster and once a Lincoln."
We must be permitted to observe that the line cannot be clearly drawn between political and other oratory. In a broad sense, all the great orators known to history have been political orators, because they gained their fame chiefly in discussing the great and absorbing public questions of their day.
To these belongs Emery A. Storrs. Let a few extracts from this volume of speeches suffice to show the style of his oratory. At Chicago, in the darkest hours of our civil war, he said: "I have no doubt but that this, the most wicked rebellion that ever blackened the annals of history, will be ground to powder. I have no doubt but that our national integrity will be preserved. I have no doubt but that the union of these States will be restored, and that the nation will emerge from the fiery trial through which it has passed, brighter and better and stronger than it has ever been before. It would be impossible, however, that a conflict mighty as that from which we are now, I trust, emerging should not leave its deep and permanent impress upon our future national character. It will give tone to our politics, our literature, and our feelings as a people, for ages to come."
At Cleveland, in the campaign of 1880, he said: "Have you seen any trouble with the pillars of the government? The trouble was not with the pillars—they did not rock; the trouble was with the gentlemen who were looking at the pillars of the government. They were like the gentleman who had been attending a lecture on astronomy. Going home loaded with a great deal of Democratic logic, with a step weary and uncertain, with the earth revolving a great many times upon its axis, he affectionately clasped a lamp-post and said, 'Old Galileo was right about it: the world does move.'"
The logic of Mr. Storrs's speeches on war topics, which were immensely popular, is embraced in the single sentence: "I think there can be nothing more suicidal than to intrust into the hands of these men, who sought the destruction of our national life, the direction of our national interests."
Hence the convenient 300-page volume under review will be valuable to political speakers and writers who want their party zeal warmed up by the earnest appeals of an impassioned, conscientious, and clear-minded orator. The diction of Mr. Storrs is admirable, his language is almost always felicitous, and in his logic there is a happy blending of grace and force. If his range was not wide, he was always able to concentrate learning and ability enough on any given occasion to show a masterful oratorical power over immense masses of men.