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ceiving her former lover with dangerous pent-up fires, Lilian now repels him. This is now the end of the second act ; a very different end, you see, from the other version, where the little girl runs in, and, in her own innocence, saves her mother from herself.
The third step, in the changes forced upon us by the laws of dramatic construction, was a very great one, and it was made necessary by the fact, just mentioned, that the child, Natalie, had no dramatic function to fulfil in the protection of her mother's virtue. In other words, there is no point in the play, now, where sexual love is, or can be, replaced by maternal love, as the controlling passion of the play. ... The fourth great change-forced on us, as the others were—concerns the character of John Strebelow. As he is now to become the object of a wife's mature affection, he must not merely be a noble and generous man; he must do something worthy of the love which is to be bestowed on him. He must command a woman's love. When, therefore, he hears his wife, kneeling over her wounded lover, use words which tell him of their former relations, he does, not what most of us would do, but what an occasional hero among us would do. He takes her gently in his arms, and becomes her protector. John Strebelow thus becomes the hero of the play, and it is only necessary to follow the workings of Lilian's heart and his a little further, until they come together at last, loving each other truly, the early love of the wife for another man being only a sad memory in her mind.
Another change which I was obliged to make will interest you, because it shows very curiously what queer turns these laws of dramatic construction may take. As soon as it was decided to have Lilian live, in the fifth act, and love John Strebelow, I was compelled to cut out the quarrel scene between Lilian and Harold Routledge in the first act. This is a little practical matter, very much like taking out a certain wheel at one end of a machme because you have decided to get a different mechanical result at the other end. Harold Routledge must not appear in the first act at all. He could only be talked about as Lilian's lover. John Strebelow must be present alone in the eyes and the sympathy of the audience. If Routledge did not appear until the second act, the audience would regard him as an interloper; it would rather resent his presence than otherwise, and would be easily reconciled to his death in the next act. Even if Harold had appeared in the first act, the quarrel scene would have been impossible. He might have made love to Lilian, perhaps, or even kissed her, and the audience would have forgiven me reluctantly for having her love another man afterward. But if the two young people had had a lovers' quarrel in the presence of the audience, no power on earth could have convinced any man or woman in the house that they were not intended for each other by the eternal decrees of divine Providence.
Now, if you please, we will cross the ocean. I have had many long «iscussions with English managers on the practice in London of adapting foreign plays, not merely to the English stage, but to English life, with English characters. The Frenchmen of a French play become, as a rule, Englishmen; the Germans of a German play become Englishmen; so do Italians, and Spaniards, and Swedes. They usually, however, continue to express foreign ideas and to act like foreigners. Luckily, the American characters of “ The Banker's Daughter," with one exception, could be twisted into very fair Englishmen, with only a faint suspicion of our Yankee accent. Mr. James Albery, one of the most brilliant men in England, author of “The Two Roses," was engaged to make them as nearly English as he could. I learned more about the various minor differences of social life in England and America while we were thus at work together than I could have learned in a residence there of five years. I have time to give you only a few of the points. Take the engagement of Lilian, broken in act first. An engagement in England is necessarily a family matter, and it could neither be made nor broken by the mere fiat of a young girl, without consultation with others, leaving the way open for the immediate acceptance of another man's hand. In the English version, therefore, there is no engagement with Harold Routledge. It is only an understanding between them that they love each other. Then the duel-it is next to impossible to persuade an English audience that a duel is justifiable or natural with an Englishman as one of the principals. So we played a rather sharp artistic trick on our English audience. In the American version, I assume that, if a plucky young American in France insults a Frenchman purposely, he will abide by the local customs, and give him satisfaction, if called upon to do so. So would a young Englishman, between you and me; but the laws of dramatic construction deal with the sympathies of the audience as well as with the natural motives and actions of the characters in a play; and an English audience would think the French count ought to be perfectly satisfied if Routledge knocked him down. How did we get over the difficulty ? First, we made Routledge a British officer returning from India, instead of an artist on his way from Rome—a fighting man by profession: and then we made the Count de Carojac pile so many sneers and insults on this British officer, and on the whole British nation, that I verily believe a London audience would have mobbed Routledge if he hadn't tried to kill him. The English public walked straight into the trap, though they abhor nothing on earth more than the duelling system.
The peculiar history of the play is my only justification for giving you all these details of its otherwise unimportant career. I only trust that I have shown you how very practical the laws of dramatic construction are in the way they influence a dramatist. The art of obeying them is merely the art of using your common sense in the study of your own and other people's emotions. All I now add is, if you write a play, be honest and sincere in using your common sense.... The public often condescends to be trifled with by mere tricksters, but, believe me, it is only a condescension, and very contemptuous. In the long run, the public will judge you, and respect you, according to your artistic sincerity.
Thomas Stephens Collier.
Born in New York, N. Y., 1842.
RESIDE the wall, and near the massive gate
D Of the great temple in Jerusalem,
His eager clasp circling a royal gem.
It was an offering made by some dead king
Unto the great Jehovah, when the sword
Helped by the dreaded angel of the Lord.
There, on his rival's crest, among the slain,
Through the red harvest it had clearly shone,
With splendors that had glorified a throne.
Above the altar of God's sacred place,
A watchful star, ít lit the passing years,
Gleaming alike in love's and sorrow's tears,
Till swept the war-tide through the sunlit vales
Leading from Jordan, and the western sea
With jubilant shouts and songs of victory.
Then came the day when over all the walls
The Romans surged, and Death laughed loud and high, And there was wailing in the palace halls,
And sound of lamentations in the sky.
Torn from its place, it lay within the hand
Of Probus, whose keen sword had rent a way,
Whose piteous prayers moaned through that dreadful day.
And there, beside the wall, he stopped to gaze
Upon the fortune, that would give his life
And bring reward for toil and warlike strife.
There was no cloud in all Heaven's lustrous blue,
Yet suddenly a red flash cleft the air,
A dead man, with an empty hand, lay there.
Charles Monroe Dickinson.
Born in Lowville, Lewis Co., N. Y., 1842.
[The Children, and Other Verses. 1889.] W HEN the lessons and tasks are all I ask not a life for the dear ones, y ended,
All radiant, as others have done, And the school for the day is dismissed, But that life may have just enough The little ones gather around me,
shadow To bid me good night and be kissed; To temper the glare of the sun; O, the little white arms that encircle I would pray God to guard them from My neck in their tender embrace!
evil, 0, the smiles that are halos of heaven, But my prayer would bound back to Shedding sunshine of love on my face! myself;
Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, And when they are gone, I sit dreaming But a sinner must pray for himself.
Of my childhood too lovely to last,-
While it wakes to the pulse of the past, I have banished the rule and the rod; Ere the world and its wickedness made I have taught them the goodness of me
knowledge, A partner of sorrow and sin,
They have taught me the goodness of When the glory of God was about me, God: And the glory of gladness within. My heart is the dungeon of darkness
Where I shut them for breaking a rule; All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, My frown is sufficient correction;
And the fountain of feeling will flow, My love is the law of the school. When I think of the paths steep and stony,
I shall leave the old house in the autumn, Where the feet of the dear ones must To traverse its threshold no more; go,
Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er That meet me each morn at the door! them,
I shall miss the “good nights” and the Of the tempest of fate blowing wild ; kisses, O, there's nothing on earth half so holy And the gush of their innocent glee, As the innocent heart of a child ! The group on the green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning for They are idols of hearts and of house
me. holds; They are angels of God in disguise; I shall miss them at morn and at even, His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses. Their song in the school and the street;
His glory still shines in their eyes; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, Those truants from home and from heav. And the tread of their delicate feet. en,
When the lessons of life are all ended, They have made me more manly and And death says “ The school is dismild;
missed!" And I know now how Jesus could liken May the little ones gather around me, The kingdom of God to a child.
To bid me good night and be kissed !
Ellen Warner Olney kirk.
Born in Southington, Conn., 1842.
HIS WIFE'S RELATIONS.
[A Daughter of Eve. 1889.] M RS. BARRYMORE often said that she was before all things a mother.
I Her maternal instinct was fully developed, and she loved to tear her own breast to line the nest for her young, and make it soft and downy. Still, when Valerie had come to her with tears, and implored her to get some money for her dear Benno, who was in the state of mind in which men commit suicide, not even Mrs. Barrymore could have enjoyed the role imposed upon her. But does any one suppose that the mother bird finds her best personal comfort in making provision for her ravenous offspring ? When you watch a robin fly back to her brood with a wriggling worm, have you so little imagination as to take it for granted that it was her real choice to run the risks of cats and shotguns ?
However, necessities like the baron's have always governed circumstances, and, accordingly, some two minutes after Patty had left Mr. Litchfield, Mrs. Barrymore rang at his door, was admitted, and, walking along the hall majestically, waved the servant away, and said that she herself would find her son-in-law, and accordingly Bunce drew back and retreated to his pantry. . . . .
Accordingly, now putting every thought behind her of any possible unpleasantness in the coming interview, she tiptoed along the hall, opened the door of her son-in-law's book-room, and looked in, meeting him face to face as he was pacing the room, thinking over his talk with Patty.
“Here I am,” said Mrs. Barrymore, in her sprightliest manner. “Dear David, I am so glad to see you !” And she put up her still fresh cheek to be kissed.
He did not evade the caress-shook hands, besides-placed a chair for her, and gave her the end of his tube to talk into.
“What do you suppose I have come for, David ?” she asked, in her pretty, playful way, her head a little on one side, smiling, arch, all her face laughing but her eyes, which always seemed on the watch.
“I never guess,” said Mr. Litchfield ; “ you will have to tell me."
“I came to ask a favor—just a little favor,” said Mrs. Barrymore. “Now, promise me you will grant it. It is nothing to you, literally nothing; yet to me it is everything.”
“If it is anything for yourself--anything for your individual self-consider it granted."
Here was Mrs. Barrymore's opportunity; she might have filled up this carte blanche in a way to make her comfortable for many a day to come, but we all have our ideal of character to live up to, and, fond of substantial gains although Mrs. Barrymore was, her consistency was dearer. She knew her