The Contributors' Club

IT goes without saying that in this country we do not know much about feudal castles. Whatever wondrous reconciliations between opposed styles in architecture we may have to show, a traveler would journey hundreds upon hundreds of miles without once seeing towers and battlements, or so much as a moated grange. It was therefore a great surprise when, lately passing through a woodland near my home, I came upon what completely satisfied my notion of an ancient manor house. The inmates, if there were inmates, I fancied were taking a hundred years’ sleep, so mouldy and solitary was the air of the place. With a boldness I would now call foolhardiness, I determined to explore the gloomy mansion. When at last I stood in a spacious chamber, well at the top of the house, it seemed somewhat strange that I could not remember by what steps I had arrived there. But my attention was soon directed to the great array of old armor which hung on the walls. I thought of the stir that

such a trouvaille would cause in the State Historical Society (hitherto compelled to take up with Indian and Mound Builder relics). I felt a thrill of satisfaction that my name, as the finder, would be connected with this valuable antiquarian collection. In the midst of these reflections, I was startled by the sound of footsteps in some adjoining chamber. Instantly, fear laid hold on me ; on cautious tiptoe, I hurried out through the nearest door, and was rejoiced to find not so much as a ghost to dispute the passage. There was a flight of stairs, down which I hastened with a kind of winged speed (for I still heard footsteps). Following the turn in the landing, I came to another flight of stairs, and descended this to another; and so on, down, down, until a landing, or hall-way, was reached that had but one door, and a window opposite. Thinking to make my way out at last, I opened the door. Complete darkness. A slight, soughing draught from I knew not whence brought a thick veil of cobwebs across my face. I dared not take refuge in this mysterious limbo; yet something must be done, for the steps of the pursuer were heard louder and nearer. Quick as thought, I ran to the end of the hall, and leaped through the window, — not to the ground, however, but into another chamber! Then I — but for artistic reasons I prefer not to recount the manner of my escape. There’s but one fault to be found with the charming tales of Morphean adventure told in The Spectator : the author seems to think it needful he should reverse his spells, and invite the reader to witness the dissolution of the “ baseless fabric.” Why should he take such pains, when the reader does not ask to be disenchanted?

— Steam and gunpowder have often proved the most eloquent apostles of civilization, but the impressiveness of their arguments was perhaps never more strikingly illustrated than at the little railway station of Gallegos, in Northern Mexico. When the first passenger train crossed the viaduct, and the wizards of the North had covered the festive table with the dainties of all zones, the governor of Durango was not the most distinguished visitor ; for among the spectators on the platform the natives were surprised to recognize the Cabo Ventura, the senior chief of a hill-tribe, which had never formally recognized the sovereignty of the Mexican republic. The Cabo, indeed, considered himself the lawful ruler of the entire Comarca, and preserved a document in which the Virey Gonzales, en nombre del Rey, — in the name of the king, — appointed him “ protector of all the loyal tribes of Castro and Sierra Mocha.” His diploma had an archæological value, and several amateurs had made him a liberal offer; but the old chieftain would as soon have sold his scalp. His soul lived in the past. All the evils of the age he ascribed to the demerits of the traitors who had raised the banner of revolt against the lawful king; and as for the countrymen of Mr. Gould, the intrusive Yungueses, his vocabulary hardly approached the measure of his contempt when he called them her exes y combusteros, — heretics and humbugs.

“ But it cannot be denied,” Yakoob Khan wrote to his father, “ that it has pleased Allah to endow those sinners with a good deal of brains ; ” and the voice of rumor gradually forced the Cabo to a similar conclusion, till he resolved to come and see for himself.

When the screech of the iron Behemoth at last resounded at the lower end of the valley, and the train swept visibly around the curve of the river-gap, the natives set up a yell that waked the mountain echoes ; mothers snatched up their babies ; men and boys waved their hats and jumped to and fro, in a state of the wildest excitement. Only the old Cabo stood stock-still. His gaze was riveted upon the phenomenon that came thundering up the valley ; his keen eye enabled him to estimate the rate of speed, the trend of the up-grade, the breadth, the length, the height, of the cars. When the train approached the station the crowd surged back in affright, but the Cabo stood his ground, and as soon as the cars stopped he stepped down upon the track. He examined the wheels, tapped the axles, and tried to move the lever ; and when the engine backed up for water, he closely watched the process of locomotion, and walked to the end of the last car to ascertain the length of the train. He then returned to the platform, and sat down, covering his face with both hands.

Two hours later the governor of Durango found him in still the same position.

“ Hallo, Cabo ! ” he called out, “ how do you like this ? What do you think now of America Nueva ? ” (“ New America,” a collective term for the republics of the American continent.)

The chieftain looked up. “ Sabe Dios, — the gods know, Senor Commandante, but I know this much: with old America it’s all up.”

Is it ? Well, look here : would you now like to sell that old diploma?’ I still offer you the same price.”

The Cabo put his hand in his bosom, drew forth a leather-shrouded old parchment, and handed it to his interlocutor. “ Vengale, Usted, — it’s worthless, and you are welcome to keep it.” Nevertheless he connived, when the governor slipped a gold piece into the pouch and put it upon his knees, minus the document.

But just before the train started, the governor heard his name called, and stepped out upon the platform of ihe palace-car, when he saw the old chieftain coining up the track. " I owe you a debt, Senor,’ said he; “y le pagarè en consejo, — I want to pay it off in good advice : Beware of those strangers.”

“ What strangers ? ”

“ ihe Caballeros who invented this machine.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?” laughed the governor, as the train started.

The old Cabo waved his hand in a military salute. “ Estamos ujustado: Senor Commandante, this squares our account.”

— A few words upon the leading characteristic ol the modern stage, at least in England, and in America so far as our theatre takes its cue from London. I will begin by saying that Mr. Lawrence Barrett, above all other American players, deserves the gratitude of our poets and playwrights for his plucky, steadfast promotion of their dramatic work. How charming and full of encouragement to all concerned is his successful revival of Mr. Boker’s Francesca da Rimini, after its merits had been treated with indifference for twenty-five years! That highly poetic drama has recently ended a triumphal run of nine weeks in New York, at the close of which Mr. Barrett made a neat address. From his remarks, however, — and this brings me to the point, — it is plain that we have no “ actors; ” the actor is a memory of the past, his place having been taken by the “ artist.” Throughout the stage speech in question, there is but one mention of an actor, — Edwin Booth. On the contrary, brief as it was, the word “artist” is used no less than seven times, and applied to Mr. Barrett himself, to Mr. Wallack, to Miss Anderson, to Mr. Irving, and to the “ artists of the Lyceum Company.

Possibly Mr. Barrett makes a distinction, judging that the terms “actor” and “artist” justly indicate the relative qualities of Mr. Booth and Mr. Irving. If so, there are not a few who will agree with him. For Booth certainly is an actor by birth and purpose; and Irving seems to me an artist, first of all. No independent observer, visiting the Lyceum in London, and familiar with Mr. Irving’s rise and influence, can think otherwise. It is due to his art instincts, supplemented by incredible tact and social diplomacy, that he has brought all England to accent his supremacy. Never before was there a player or manager, if we except Charles Kean, with so apt a feeling for the picturesque; and Kean, as a stage artist, was years in advance of rhe predestined time. Mr. Irving allied himself, with quick perception, to the art revival which followed the preRaphaelite movement, and has made his stage its mirror, and himself its embodiment. His most striking impersonations are addressed to the eye, and “ made up ’ from famous pictures. The absurdities of his love-making in the early acts of The Lady of Lyons are forgotten near the close, where he returns from the war, in dress and visage the living counterpart of Buonaparte in Egypt. In Hamlet. Irving and Miss Terry compose a tableau vivant of Millais’s Huguenot Lovers; in Charles the First we have the very portrait by Van Dyke. Then his beautiful and elaborate mountings of Romeo and Juliet, — in fact, of all the plays in his repertory! Paul Veronese, reborn and turned stage manager, could not excel them. I es, Mr. Irving is without doubt an artist, and a great one, and no setting can be too rich and truthful for an imaginative play. For all this I am duly grateful, yet wonder how far he could rely upon his histrionic powers alone ; and I am disposed to reserve my warmest plaudits for actors like Salvini, Jefferson, Booth, whose passion and genius make exacting audiences forget the mean accessories of the shabbiest stage.

— There has always been something of a puzzle to me in the diversity that subsists between the two forms or modes of working of the imagination ; between imagination active and creative and imagination receptive and passive, — or comparatively passive, for of course the mind is never, strictly speaking, at rest. The distinction is real, and not nominal, merely. Among the people we talk with, the authors we read, we notice in how different measure they have received from nature the precious gift. But it is not a matter simply of the more or less of imagination ; there is the manifest difference of kind or quality, also. It appears that one cannot have the higher, creative faculty, at least to any large degree, without possessing the inferior faculty, which acts upon images presented to it from without, taking up and appropriating conceptions it has not originated. On the other hand, one can very well have tins , receptive imagination without a particle of the creative. I have a friend who is singularly destitute of the latter, while more than commonly endowed with susceptibility to imaginative impressions; and there seems something strange in the same person being at once so rich and so poor in this sort of intellectual treasure. Though able to appreciate and genuinely enjoy poetry and fiction, and quick in response to the thousand appeals which both nature and life make to the imagination, she is incapable of producing anything in the line of imaginative art. And there are others far less imaginatively impressionable,— some, in fact, who are obtuse, where she is readily responsive,— who nevertheless can do what she cannot, whose imagination works inventively where hers is powerless. I do not mean to imply that they are necessarily the enviable persons, and she the one to be compassionated ; perhaps it is rather the contrary, and the power to enjoy widely and deeply the things of the imagination is to be craved more than the ability to produce imaginative works, unless they are to be of the highest. I do not know if my friend’s mental constitution is an unusual one, but I have observed this same limitation of power in regard to other qualities, intellectual or quasi-intellectual. I really know of no one with a keener sense for, and stronger delight in, humor and wit, yet never by any chance was she known to say a witty thing, or to suggest a humorous one.

Will any psychologist kindly furnish me with an explanation of her case which is a real explanation, and not merely a change of verbal statement of it. I confess there is something unintelligible to me in the way a mental force can work strongly in one direction, and be shut off from action in another near and parallel one.

— I lately heard a young woman say with considerable indignation, as a timehonored but time-dishonoring guest left her house, that she should teach her boys one thing : that they never must make an evening visit lasting more than half an hour. I protested, remembering certain acquaintances whom I am only too glad to have come early and stay late; but when we had talked longer about this important subject, I was forced to admit that this devoted mother was likely to do her young sons a kindness. I should even like to have the making and enforcing of a law that half an hour should be all that an uninvited guest could be allowed to accept or demand. Too much time is little better than wasted in trying to fulfill fancied obligations to our neighbors. To be sure, there are old and dear friends who come now and then, at our well-known desire and entreaty, to spend an evening, when there is time for a long talk and a leisurely comparing of interests and experiences and opinions. But those persons who are really welcome visitors, and who have it in their power to give pleasure, are not likely to weary us by coming too often; for they usually can spare little time from the employments and purposes which have made them what they are. There are other friends and acquaintances, however, who are to be separately considered. We are bound to each other by various ties of affection and association, of kinship and common interest; we belong to the same set in society, or go to the same church; in short, we have relations, either of a public or private social character, with a certain number of persons. We are supposed to recognize each other’s existence by paying a short visit at suitable intervals. We pay the compliment of making a call out of courtesy, and because of our interest and our desire to let every other duty and pleasure go by, while we spend a little time in each other’s society. Now the system of social visiting (which was lately complained of in these columns, under another aspect) means either something or nothing to us. Either it has its use and reason, and is a welcome thing, or else it is a hindrance and a mockery. The formal call should certainly be short; and it is apt to be short in the daytime, when everybody is in more or less of a hurry, and is obliged to let the fact be known ; but it is in the evening that most suffering is inflicted. Unless there is some permission or invitation given, it seems a very daring thing to assume that a family would desire to relinquish all its plans for an evening’s rest or enjoyment in order to spend the time in entertaining one person.

It is not always wise to make a rule that no one is to be admitted during the evening: on the contrary, a guest may be heartily welcomed, if it is known at the outset that he has come in for a short time ; that he is cheerful, and friendly, and amusing, and, in short, worth listening to and entertaining. But the illy-concealed gloom that settles down upon one tired face after another, while the clock strikes the succeeding half hours, and each member of the family in turn comes despairingly to the rescue of the faltering conversation, is a deplorable thing. We are responsible for the state of our consciences, and if we have allowed them to become so dull that they do not give us the unmistakable warning to go away, then we must not fret if we are warded off, dreaded, and called bores. I was delighted to hear some one say, not long ago, that she did not think she had any right to spend two hours at a time with any friend, without a special invitation, since it could not fail to be an interruption ; and it gave joy to my heart that one person so respected the rights of others. Picture some one, who has assured himself’ that he is not likely to find amusement under his own roof, setting forth in search of a more agreeable place in which to spend the evening. He hunts from door to door : finding that one family has honestly paid its money and gone to a play, another is dining out, the third enjoying its invited guests, while at the fourth he is met at sight with the information that the ladies are engaged. Perhaps at. the fifth he gains an entrance. One person rises hurriedly from the sofa ; another puts down her book with a sigh; another comes reluctantly from a desk, where some notes and letters must be written at some time during that evening, and the stricken group resigns itself to the demands of friendship and society. The master of the house returns presently to his avocation, with a brave excuse. It may be eight o’clock when the guest comes ; it may be nine, and he may be kind-hearted and unobjectionable; he may even be profitable and entertaining; but he stays until after ten; everybody thinks that he never means to go, and inwardly regrets his presence. For half an hour he could have felt sure of welcome ; in that time he certainly could have said and done all that was worth doing, and have been asked to stay longer, or to come again soon, when he took leave. There is no greater compliment and tribute to one’s integrity than to be fairly entreated to sit down for ten minutes longer. Of course we treat each other civilly in an evening visit, but it is a great deal better to come away too soon than to stay too late. In a busy, overworked and overhurried city life, nothing is so precious as a quiet evening to one’s self, or even a part of one. We all wish — or ought to wish — to make life pleasant for ourselves and other people, and are ready to be generous even with our time; but no one likes to be plundered and defrauded. It is the underlying principle of our neighbor’s action and conduct towards us which makes us thankful or resentful when he comes to visit us.