The Galaxy, April, 1877 Part 15

O when shall I feel thy kisses rain down upon my face, As, a queen of love and beauty, I lie in thine embrace, Melting--melting--melting, as a woman only can When she's a willing captive in the conquering arms of man, As he towers a G.o.d above her, and to yield is not defeat, For love can own no victor if love with love shall meet?

I still have regal splendor, I still have queenly power, And--more than all--unfaded is woman's glorious dower.

But what care I for pleasure? what's beauty to me now, Since Love no longer places his crown upon my brow?

I have tasted its elixir, its fire has through me flashed, But when the wine glowed brightest from my eager lip 'twas dashed.

And I would give all Egypt but once to feel the bliss Which thrills through all my being whene'er I meet his kiss.

The tempest wildly rages, my hair is wet with rain, But it does not still my longing, or cool my burning pain.

For Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of my soul When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a queen's control.

I fear not pale Octavia--that haughty Roman dame-- My lion of the desert--my Antony can tame.

I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid: The world holds not the woman of whom I am afraid.

But I'm jealous of the rapture I tasted in his kiss, And I would not that another should share with me that bliss.

No joy would I deny him, let him cull it where he will, So, mistress of his bosom is Cleopatra still; So that he feels for ever, when he Love's nectar sips, 'Twas sweeter--sweeter--sweeter when tasted on my lips; So that all other kisses, since he has drawn in mine, Shall be unto my loved as "water after wine."

Awhile let Caesar fancy Octavia's pallid charms Can hold Rome's proudest consul a captive in her arms.

Her cold embrace but brightens the memory of mine, And for my warm caresses he in her arms shall pine.

'Twas not for love he sought her, but for her princely dower; She brought him Caesar's friendship, she brought him kingly power.

I should have bid him take her, had he my counsel sought.

I've but to smile upon him, and all her charms are nought; For I would scorn to hold him by but a single hair, Save his own longing for me when I'm no longer there; And I will show you, Roman, that for one kiss from me Wife--fame--and even honor to him shall nothing be!

Throw wide the window, Isis--fling perfumes o'er me now, And bind the Lotus blossoms again upon my brow.

The rain has ceased its weeping, the driving storm is past, And calm are Nature's pulses that lately beat so fast.

Gone is my jealous frenzy, and Eros reigns serene, The only G.o.d e'er worshipped by Egypt's haughty queen.

With Antony--my loved--I'll kneel before his shrine Till the loves of Mars and Venus are nought to his and mine; And down through coming ages, in every land and tongue, With them shall Cleopatra and Antony be sung.

Burn Sandal-wood and Ca.s.sia, let the vapor round me wreathe, And mingle with the incense the Lotus blossoms breathe.

Let India's spicy odors and Persia's perfumes rare Be wafted on the pinions of Egypt's fragrant air.

With the sighing of the night breeze, the river's rippling flow, Let me hear the notes of music in cadence soft and low.

Draw round my couch its curtains: I'd bathe my soul in sleep; I feel its gentle languor upon me slowly creep.

O let me cheat my senses with dreams of future bliss, In fancy feel his presence, in fancy taste his kiss, In fancy nestle closely against his throbbing heart, And throw my arms around him, no more--no more to part.

Hush! hush! his spirit's pinions are rustling in my ears: He comes upon the tempest to calm my jealous fears; He comes upon the tempest in answer to my call.

Wife--fame--and even honor--for me he leaves them all; And royally I'll welcome my lover to my side.

I have won him--I have won him from Caesar and his bride.

MARY BAYARD CLARKE.

THE DRAMATIC CANONS.

II.

In our late inquiry[2] into the secrets of dramatic success, our researches were princ.i.p.ally directed toward the ascertainment of such general and technical rules as might recommend themselves for the treatment of all dramas, whatever the nature of their subject, tragic, comic, or melodramatic. The limits of s.p.a.ce unavoidable in a magazine article prevented anything more than a fragmentary treatment of that part of the subject, indicating the general line of argument that seemed to be the soundest in the light of the present day, and presenting for consideration twelve technical rules, more or less general, which we shall here summarize for the sake of convenience, to make clear what follows:

[2] "The Galaxy" for March, 1877.

I. The subject of a play should be capable of full treatment in fifteen scenes at most.

II. It should be acted without the aid of narrative.

III. It should have a connected plot, one event depending on the other.

IV. The interest should hinge on a single action or episode.

V. Furniture and set-pieces should be kept out of front scenes if possible.

VI. The best dialogue should be put in front scenes.

VII. They should end in suspense to be relieved by the full scenes.

VIII. Fine points should be avoided in opening a play.

IX. Act I. should open with a quiet picture, to be disturbed by the bad element, the other characters successively coming in, the excitement increasing.

X. Act I. should end in a partial climax of suspense.

XI. Each act should lead to the other, the interest increasing.

XII. The interest should be concentrated on few characters.

The reasons for some of these arbitrary rules will appear plain to even a cursory observer. The others will recommend themselves, I think, after an examination of the models cited in the article itself, to which the reader is referred. It must not be supposed, however, even by the lay reader, that a subject so extensive can be exhausted in so short an essay. Old actors and dramatists, in the light of their own experience, may even doubt whether a theme so abstruse and difficult can be treated at all, save by one of lifelong experience, and may be inclined to sneer at the presumption of any person who attempts to write on methods of attaining dramatic success before having attained it himself by a grandly popular drama. It seems to the present writer, however, that the inquiry is open to all, and if conducted on the inductive method, with plays of acknowledged popularity for a basis, may result in the settlement of some points around which he, in common with other hitherto unsuccessful dramatists, has been groping for years.

In closing the first part of our inquiry, we remarked on the fact that the interest of a successful play increases gradually from act to act, and that it is usually concentrated on a few people. The next question that presents itself in our treatment of the play as a whole is as to the best method of attaining this increase of interest from act to act, and how it is done in successful plays. The suggestion in rule X. seems to be the one most generally used by old dramatists for this purpose--that is, the employment of the partial climax as a means of exciting suspense. It may be said to be one of the most difficult points in dramatic construction to decide when to bring the curtain down at the end of a play; and the fall of the drop at the end of each act offers nearly equal difficulties. Is there any guide to a solution of this question in the handling of well-known plays? If there is, let us endeavor to find it.

The first thing to be remarked is that we cannot apply to Shakespeare for the information. The experience of nearly three centuries in the acting of Shakespeare's plays has resulted in making the acting editions very different from the original plays in arrangement, in the suppression of whole scenes and acts, the subst.i.tution of others, the amalgamation of plays, the taking of all sorts of liberties with the action. Only in one thing do they remain at all times faithful to the original author, in the preservation, for the most part, of his language. Familiar instances will occur in the "Merchant of Venice,"

where the play is now always closed with the trial scene; a few sentences between Ba.s.sanio and Portia, clumsily tacked on, being regarded as preferable to the original closing in a final act of light comedy. The amalgamation, in the acting edition of "Richard III.," of parts of "Henry V." and "Henry VI.," and the suppression of the historical ending after Richard's death, were changes made by Colley Cibber, which have stood the test of time, and have made the play a traditional success whenever well acted. In each case experience showed that the following up of a scene of tragic intensity by either comedy or narrative made the scene drag. In other words, it was an _anti-climax_.

It is noticeable, by the by, that these instances of clumsy construction and consequent alteration occur most frequently in Shakespeare's historic dramas, where he was fettered by familiar facts, and thought less of the play than of the chronicle. Such plays of his as deal with popular legend or stories, already polished by tradition into poetic justice, and moulded by instinct into a dramatic form, have suffered much less in the adaptation; some, such as "Midsummer Night's Dream,"

"As You Like It," hardly needing alteration. While I do not suppose that in these or any other play Shakespeare consciously worked on any philosophic principle of construction, previously thought out, it is evident that his artistic instinct, left to itself, prevented his making any serious mistakes in technique, a matter which has advanced considerably since his day. I believe that, had Shakespeare lived to-day, he would have written much more perfectly constructed acting plays, while at the same time his vast knowledge, or rather lightning appreciation of the various phases of human nature, would have been just as great. When he wrote, the English drama was in its infancy, but three centuries of actors, managers, scene painters, and carpenters have made great advances in technical experience since those days; and no genius, however great in the essentials of painting the pa.s.sions, can to-day attain success if ignorant of the technical secrets of managing scenes. We have noticed the changes made in "Richard" and the "Merchant of Venice," to avoid the anti-climax. Let us take a modern stock play, the "Lady of Lyons," to ill.u.s.trate the opposite of dramatic construction. The first act ends with Claude scornfully rejected by Pauline, burning for revenge, offered a chance, ready to grasp it. Down goes the drop. The second act closes with his revenge almost completed, his remorse beginning. He is _going_ to be married--_not married yet_.

Down goes the drop. Third act--he is married, and his remorse has come.

He has deceived a loving woman, and resolves to atone by giving her up.

Down goes the drop on his resolve, still unaccomplished. Fourth act--he expiates his crime and sees a chance to regain happiness after a long, weary probation. Again the drop falls on a _suspense_. The question is--Will he stand the test, and will Pauline be faithful? The fifth act opens in gloom, and closes with the reward of virtue and punishment of vice. The reader will mark in each case how the acts end in suspense, and how, as soon as the suspense is clearly indicated, down comes the drop. This was Bulwer's first successful play, and we shall come to it again in looking at the inner secrets that guide the motives of a drama. The good construction of the "Lady of Lyons" and the faulty original construction of the "Merchant of Venice" must not blind us to the fact that Shylock was the work of a lofty genius, Claude merely the polished production of a man of talent and erudition. From the preface to "The Caxtons," and other sources, we know that Bulwer was fond of ascertaining rules and principles, and that he always did good work when once he had found them out. Shakespeare as clearly worked from pure instinct, and defied almost all rules, except to hold "the mirror up to nature." Could we only join to-day the brains of old William and the research and learning of old "Lytton," what a drama might we have at last! But lest we further wander away from our theme, it is time to propose the canon which the reader must by this time have antic.i.p.ated as self-evident:

XIII. Avoid anti-climax. When you have reached suspense bring down the drop or close the scene. When the last climax has come bring down the curtain.

Before pa.s.sing to the more particular secrets of handling scenes in a dramatic success, one other general point remains to be treated, which is the respective merits of Greek and Gothic dramatic construction, as developed, in modern times, into the French and English methods. The distinction is broad and simple. The French write all their plays, or almost all, in single-scene acts, and never employ front scenes in a regular play; the English of the old school use front scenes, and multiply the divisions of an act into as many as five in some instances. Each method has its strong and weak points. The French method is apt to become stiff and formal, the English to fritter away the action of the drama into a ma.s.s of subordinate pictures. On the other hand, the French method gives a degree of realism to each act in a drama to which it cannot pretend where the scenes are shifted. Each act becomes a living picture, revealed by the rising of the curtain and closed by its fall. As long as it lasts it is perfect, and every year of advance in the mechanical part of theatricals increases the resources of the stage in the direction of realism. In interiors particularly the advance has become very great, since the general introduction of box scenes, with a regular ceiling and walls, simulating the appearance of a room with complete fidelity. Such a scene is barely practicable and always clumsy if set in sight of the audience, and its removal is hardly possible, save as hidden by the curtain. Open-air scenes may be enriched with all sorts of heavy set-pieces, when acts are composed of one scene, which must be dispensed with if the scenes are numerous, or their removal will entail such a noise as seriously to disturb the illusion. The removal of scenes, moreover, always disturbs, more or less, the action of a drama, and unless that action be very complex, requiring several sets of characters, to be introduced in different places simultaneously, is unwise.

On the other hand, the breaking up of acts into three or more scenes offers one great advantage, that of variety, and prevents many a play from dragging. If there are two sets of characters in a play, the virtuous and the wicked, it is a very good device to keep them apart, acting simultaneously in different scenes, during the action of a play, to be brought together only at the climax; and such a method has been employed by the best artists, with a gain in interest that could not have been obtained with the single-scene act for a basis.

The greatest masters of dramatic construction that have made their appearance in the present century are probably Bulwer Lytton and Dion Boucicault; and each has left good examples of treatment in both schools. Bulwer, in the "Lady of Lyons" and "Richelieu," both romantic plays, with the regular villanous element, has used the front scene to advantage wherever he found it necessary. In "Money," on the other hand, a scientific comedy of the very first order, the five pictures succeed each other with no disturbance but that of the curtain. The plot of "Money," be it observed, is quite simple, the characters few, the intention that of the old Greek comedy--a satire on manners.

Boucicault, in his latest success--the "Shaughraun"--and in his other Irish dramas, notably the "Colleen Bawn," uses three and even five scenes in an act, with perfect freedom, while in others, almost as successful in their day, such as "Jessie Brown," "Octoroon," the French form seemed to him to be preferable. Some principle must have guided him in this distinction, as it did Bulwer, and the same elements probably decided both to tell one story in one way, the other in another. It is observable that both treat a romantic and complicated story, with numerous characters and considerable of the villanous element, in numerous scenes, whereas a realistic picture of actual manners, such as "Money," "Octoroon," "Jessie Brown," falls naturally into few scenes. The climax of each of these last mentioned plays, be it observed, is produced by the operation of general causes, the laws of society in "Money" and "Octoroon," the operation of a historical fact in "Jessie Brown," while in the romantic plays the climax depends on the action of the characters, determined by accidental circ.u.mstances, irrespective of general laws. The respective rank of "Money" and the "Lady of Lyons" in the lapse of years can hardly, I think, be doubted. The first will hold its own with the "School for Scandal," when the "Lady of Lyons" is forgotten, along with "The Duenna." The recent success of Augustin Daly in adapting the "School for Scandal" to mono-scenic acts shows how readily that form lends itself to the exigencies of legitimate comedy. The single fault of that adaptation is that the first act drags, just as Sardou's first acts always drag, but the audience forgets that as the story progresses. The result of our ramble through the instances mentioned seems to be this canon:

XIV. Mono-scenic acts are best for high comedy, realistic and society dramas; multi-scenic acts succeed best with romantic and complicated plots.

We have now explored, with more or less success, some of the general and broad principles that underlie dramatic construction taken as a whole, without regard to particular forms and instances. It would seem that a brief excursion into the domain of particulars may not be out of place, partly as a recreation, partly to test the accuracy of our past conclusions. Let us take, for instance, the greatest popular successes of late years, and try to find wherein lies their secret, following these by an inquiry into the cause why some stock plays hold the boards while others are dead. What is the secret of the "Black Crook"? Of Boucicault's Irish dramas? Of Bulwer's renowned trio, "Lady of Lyons,"

"Richelieu," "Money"? Of "School for Scandal" and "Rivals"? Of "Richard III.," "Macbeth," "Oth.e.l.lo," "Lear," "Hamlet," and the Shakespeare comedies? I put out of the question now such plays as the "Dundreary"

drama, depending as those do on a different element of success, apart from the drama itself, to which we shall come before we finish.

First, what is the secret of the "Black Crook"? No other drama ever had such a run in the United States, in spite of all sorts of abuse, in spite of numerous literary faults, and it has always succeeded wherever it has been properly put on the stage. What is its secret? The stereotyped answer of the disappointed dramatist and carping newspaper critic used to be "legs"; but that answer will not do now. There have been plenty of "leg" dramas put on since that day, and as far as the display of feminine anatomy is concerned, the "Black Crook" was a paragon of prudery compared with many of its followers; yet they only ran a few weeks, while the "Black Crook" ran nearly three years, all over the Union, with hardly a serious break. It was not the dancing, for we have had better since, as far as gymnastics are concerned; it was not the dresses and scenery, for both have been excelled since that day; it was not the beauty of the tableaux, for they also have been excelled; it was something in the drama itself, quite different from its predecessors and followers. The "Black Crook" was a strong, exaggerated melodrama, with plenty of the weird element in the incantation scene, relieved by the broadest of broad farce in the person of the magician's comic slave. It was full of _variety_. There was a little of everything, and nothing very long at one time. When it first came out I remember very young gentlemen making learned criticisms on the powerful acting of the man who played the "Black Crook" himself. The same cla.s.s also raved about the "terrible"