Wonderful works are not limited alone to those who accept the Christian religion; but in proportion as other systems recognize the supremacy of the spiritual element, and catch even a partial glow of “that true light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world,” their intrinsic qualities will be made outwardly manifest. A right conception of God, as infinite present Good, strongly aids in producing the expression of health. “In Him we live, and move, and have our being.” An abiding concept of such truth directly promotes trust, harmony, healing. Seeming ills are not God-created powers, but human perversions and reflected images of subjective states. As a higher and spiritual standpoint is gained, apparent evils dissolve, and then in bold relief is seen the fair proportions of the Kingdom of the Real.
MR. AND MRS. JAS. A. HERNE.MR. AND MRS. JAS. A. HERNE.
BY HAMLIN GARLAND.
InMay last, in a small hall in Boston, on a stage of planking, hung with drapery, was produced one of the most radical plays from a native author ever performed in America. Mr. and Mrs. James A. Herne, unable to obtain a hearing in the theatres for their play, which had been endorsed by some of the best known literary men of the day, were forced to hire a hall, and produceMargaret Flemingbare of all mechanical illusion, and shorn of all its scenic and atmospheric effects. Everybody, even their friends, prophesied disaster. In such surroundings failure seemed certain. But a few who knew the play and its authors better, felt confident that there was a public for them. It was a notable event, and the fame ofMargaret Flemingis still on its travels across the dramatic world.
There were two reasons for this result, the magnificent art of Mrs. Herne, which “created illusion by its utter simplicity and absolute truth to life,” and second, because the play was, in fact, as one critic said, “an epoch-marking play.” It could afford to dispense with canvas, bunch-lights, machinery, as it dispensed with conventional plot and epithet, and as its actors discarded declamation and mere noise.
The phenomenal success of Mr. and Mrs. Herne brought them prominently before the literary public. Interest became very strong in them as persons as well as artists, and from an intimate personal acquaintance with them both, I have been asked to give this brief sketch of their work previous toMargaret Fleming, for epoch-marking as it was, it was only a logical latest outcome of the work the Hernes have been doing for the last ten years.
Mr. Herne is a man of large experience, having been on the stage for thirty years. He has been through all the legitimate lines. He has been a member of a stock company, manager of theatres, and author and manager of several plays of his own, previous to the writing ofMargaretFleming. His first real attempt at writing wasHearts of Oak. The home scenes, and notably the famous dinner scene, which became such a feature, showed the direction of his power. This play, produced about twelve years ago with Mrs. Herne as “Crystal,” was their first attempt to handle humble American life, and was very successful.
Mr. Herne’s next venture was an ambitious one. It was the writing of a play based upon the American Revolution. In the spring of ‘86 he produced at the Boston TheatreThe Minute Men, where it was received with immense enthusiasm. It was somewhat conventional in plot, but in all its scenes of home life was true and fine. The central figures were Reuben (a backwoodsman), and Dorothy, his adopted daughter. Whatever concerned these two characters was keyed to the note of life. Like all Mr. Herne’s acting, Reuben was utterly unconscious of himself. He went about as a backwoodsman naturally does, without posturing or swagger. With the sweetness and quaintness of Sam Lawson, he had the comfortable aspect of a well-fed Pennsylvania Quaker.
Mrs. Herne’s Dorothy was a fitting companion piece, faultlessly true, and sweet, and natural. Her spontaneous laugh is as infectiously gleeful as Joe Jefferson’s chuckle. Those who have never seen her in this part can hardly realize how fine a comedienne she really is.
Mr. Herne’s next play was simpler, stronger, and better, though less picturesque.Drifting Apartwas based upon the commonest of life’s tragedies—the home of a drunkard. It is the most effective of sermons, without one word of preaching. The drifting apart of husband and wife through the husband’s “failin’” is set forth with unexampled concreteness, and yet there is no introduction of horror. We understand it all by the sufferings of the wife, with whom we alternately hope and despair. I copy here what I wrote of it at the time when I knew neither Mr. and Mrs. Herne, nor any other of their plays.
The second act in this play for tenderness and truth has not been surpassed in any American play. A daring thing exquisitely done was that holiest of confidences between husband and wife. The vast audience sat hushed as death before that touching, almost sacred scene, as they do when sitting before some great tragedy.What does this mean, if not that our dramatists have been too distrustful of the public? They have gone round the earth in search ofmaterial for plays, not knowing that the most moving of all life is that which lies closest at hand, after all.
The second act in this play for tenderness and truth has not been surpassed in any American play. A daring thing exquisitely done was that holiest of confidences between husband and wife. The vast audience sat hushed as death before that touching, almost sacred scene, as they do when sitting before some great tragedy.
What does this mean, if not that our dramatists have been too distrustful of the public? They have gone round the earth in search ofmaterial for plays, not knowing that the most moving of all life is that which lies closest at hand, after all.
Mrs. Herne’s acting of Mary Miller was my first realization of the compelling power of truth. It was so utterly opposed to the “tragedy of the legitimate.” Here was tragedy that appalled and fascinated like the great fact of living. No noise, no contortions of face or limbs, yet somehow I was made to feel the dumb, inarticulate, interior agony of a mother. Never before had such acting faced me across the footlights. The fourth act was like one of Millet’s paintings, with that mysterious quality of reserve—the quality of life again.
In this play, as inHearts of Oak, there was no villain and no plot. The scene was laid in a fishing village near Gloucester. I can do no better than to give you a taste of the quaint second act.
It is Christmas eve and Jack and Mary have been married a year. Jack is preparing to go out. Mary is secretly disturbed over his going but hides it. “Mother” sits by the fire knitting. Mary is sewing by the window.
Jack.Say, Mary! D’you know, I can shave myself better’n any barber thet ever honed a razor?Mary.I always told you you could, Jack, if you’d only try.Jack.Feel my face now—ain’t it as smooth as any baby’s?Mary.(Feeling his face.) Yes, Jack, as smooth as anyoldbaby’s.Jack.Oh! say, look here now, thet ain’t fair; a feller don’t know nothin’ till he’s forty, does he, mother? Old baby’s! (sitting on the arm of Mary’s chair) I ain’t too old to love you, Mary, that’s one thing. I’ve loved you ever since you was knee-high to a grasshopper. I rocked you in y’r cradle—I’m blessed if I didn’t make the cradle you was rocked in, didn’t I, mother?Mother.Yes, Jack, an’ d’ye remember what yeh made it out of?Jack.A herrin’ box. (General laugh.)Mary.(Tenderly.) I married the man I love, Jack.Jack.Honest?Mary.Honest.Jack.(Kissing her.) Then what’n thunder you want to talk about a feller’s gettin’ old for? Where’s my clean shirt? Say, mother, don’t you t’ hang up them stockin’s.Mary.Oh! Jack, what nonsense.Jack.No nonsense at all about it. Christmas is Christmas. It only comes once a year an’ I’m goin’ to have th’ stockin’s hung up. So for fear you’d forgit ‘em I’ll hang ‘em up myself.. . . . . . . . . .Mary.Please, Jack, give me those stockings.Jack.Now it ain’t no use, little woman. Them stockin’s is a-goin’ up. Mother, you give me three pins.Mary.Don’t you give himanypins, mother. Suppose the neighbors should come in and see those stockings hangin’ up.Jack.Let ‘em come in, I don’t care a continental cuss. Why, Mary, everybody wears stockin’s nowadays, everybody that can afford to. Iwantthe neighbors to see ‘em, then they’ll know we’ve got stockin’s. (Holding up the three stockings.) Got one apiece anyhow.Mother.Oh, Jack, Jack! you’ll never be anything but a great overgrown boy, if you live to be a hundred (goes off).Mary.(Tenderly.) Jack!Jack.Hey?Mary.(Putting her arms about his neck.) Did you never think that perhaps next Christmas there might be another stocking, just a tiny one, to hang in the chimney corner?Jack.Why, Mary, there’s tears in your eyes. (Goes to wipe her eyes with the work she has in her hands; it is a baby’s dress.) Bless my soul! What’s this, Mary?Mary.(Falteringly.) Do you remember Bella and John in “Our Mutual Friend” that I read to you?Jack.Yes. Warn’t they glorious?Mary.Well, these are sails, Jack, sails for the little ship that’s coming across the water for you and me.
Jack.Say, Mary! D’you know, I can shave myself better’n any barber thet ever honed a razor?
Mary.I always told you you could, Jack, if you’d only try.
Jack.Feel my face now—ain’t it as smooth as any baby’s?
Mary.(Feeling his face.) Yes, Jack, as smooth as anyoldbaby’s.
Jack.Oh! say, look here now, thet ain’t fair; a feller don’t know nothin’ till he’s forty, does he, mother? Old baby’s! (sitting on the arm of Mary’s chair) I ain’t too old to love you, Mary, that’s one thing. I’ve loved you ever since you was knee-high to a grasshopper. I rocked you in y’r cradle—I’m blessed if I didn’t make the cradle you was rocked in, didn’t I, mother?
Mother.Yes, Jack, an’ d’ye remember what yeh made it out of?
Jack.A herrin’ box. (General laugh.)
Mary.(Tenderly.) I married the man I love, Jack.
Jack.Honest?
Mary.Honest.
Jack.(Kissing her.) Then what’n thunder you want to talk about a feller’s gettin’ old for? Where’s my clean shirt? Say, mother, don’t you t’ hang up them stockin’s.
Mary.Oh! Jack, what nonsense.
Jack.No nonsense at all about it. Christmas is Christmas. It only comes once a year an’ I’m goin’ to have th’ stockin’s hung up. So for fear you’d forgit ‘em I’ll hang ‘em up myself.
. . . . . . . . . .
Mary.Please, Jack, give me those stockings.
Jack.Now it ain’t no use, little woman. Them stockin’s is a-goin’ up. Mother, you give me three pins.
Mary.Don’t you give himanypins, mother. Suppose the neighbors should come in and see those stockings hangin’ up.
Jack.Let ‘em come in, I don’t care a continental cuss. Why, Mary, everybody wears stockin’s nowadays, everybody that can afford to. Iwantthe neighbors to see ‘em, then they’ll know we’ve got stockin’s. (Holding up the three stockings.) Got one apiece anyhow.
Mother.Oh, Jack, Jack! you’ll never be anything but a great overgrown boy, if you live to be a hundred (goes off).
Mary.(Tenderly.) Jack!
Jack.Hey?
Mary.(Putting her arms about his neck.) Did you never think that perhaps next Christmas there might be another stocking, just a tiny one, to hang in the chimney corner?
Jack.Why, Mary, there’s tears in your eyes. (Goes to wipe her eyes with the work she has in her hands; it is a baby’s dress.) Bless my soul! What’s this, Mary?
Mary.(Falteringly.) Do you remember Bella and John in “Our Mutual Friend” that I read to you?
Jack.Yes. Warn’t they glorious?
Mary.Well, these are sails, Jack, sails for the little ship that’s coming across the water for you and me.
Mr. Herne as Reuben Foxglove in "The Minute Men." See page 544.Mr. Herne as Reuben Foxglove in "The Minute Men." See page544.
I quote a few lines from another scene.
Christmas morning. Hester and Silas, some young friends, have come in to take breakfast. All are seated at the table with much bustle and laughter. Lish Mead, Mary’s foster father, pokes his head in the door.Lish Mead.Wish you Merry Christmas.All.(Hilariously.) Merry Christmas! Come in.Lish.Can’t less some on ye hol’s th’ door open.Silas.I’ll hold it, Lish. (Lish enters, hauling a warehouse truck on which is a barrel of flour and a large hamper.)Lish.Mister Seward wanted I should hand ye these with his complements.Mary.Oh, how kind of Mr. Seward, and how good of you to bring ‘em.Jack.Set down here, Lish, and have a bite o’ breakfast.Lish.(Taking off mittens, cap, comforter, etc.) Whatcher got? Chicking? Waal, that’s good ‘nough. (Seats himself at table.) Say, Jack, d’ you know, you left a goose a-layin’ on Jim Adamses bar las’ night? I was goin’ to fetch it along but Jim said you gin it to him, swore you made him a present on it.Mother.Jack Hepburn, did you give that goose—Mary.(Interrupting her.) Have a cup of coffee, mother.Lish.Jack, have you got the time o’ day? (Chuckles.) Here’s y’r new Waterbury. The boys wanted I should fetch her ‘round; ye went off las’ night without her.Jack.Ye can take her back again; I don’t want her.Mary.O Jack!Jack.No, Mary, I don’t. I wish the durned ol’ Waterbury ‘d never been born.Mary.The boys meant well, Jack; I wouldn’t send back their present.Jack.All right, Mary, if you say so, I’ll take her. There’s one thing sure, every time I wind her up she’ll put me in mind how durn near I come to losin’ the best little wife in the whole world.
Christmas morning. Hester and Silas, some young friends, have come in to take breakfast. All are seated at the table with much bustle and laughter. Lish Mead, Mary’s foster father, pokes his head in the door.
Lish Mead.Wish you Merry Christmas.
All.(Hilariously.) Merry Christmas! Come in.
Lish.Can’t less some on ye hol’s th’ door open.
Silas.I’ll hold it, Lish. (Lish enters, hauling a warehouse truck on which is a barrel of flour and a large hamper.)
Lish.Mister Seward wanted I should hand ye these with his complements.
Mary.Oh, how kind of Mr. Seward, and how good of you to bring ‘em.
Jack.Set down here, Lish, and have a bite o’ breakfast.
Lish.(Taking off mittens, cap, comforter, etc.) Whatcher got? Chicking? Waal, that’s good ‘nough. (Seats himself at table.) Say, Jack, d’ you know, you left a goose a-layin’ on Jim Adamses bar las’ night? I was goin’ to fetch it along but Jim said you gin it to him, swore you made him a present on it.
Mother.Jack Hepburn, did you give that goose—
Mary.(Interrupting her.) Have a cup of coffee, mother.
Lish.Jack, have you got the time o’ day? (Chuckles.) Here’s y’r new Waterbury. The boys wanted I should fetch her ‘round; ye went off las’ night without her.
Jack.Ye can take her back again; I don’t want her.
Mary.O Jack!
Jack.No, Mary, I don’t. I wish the durned ol’ Waterbury ‘d never been born.
Mary.The boys meant well, Jack; I wouldn’t send back their present.
Jack.All right, Mary, if you say so, I’ll take her. There’s one thing sure, every time I wind her up she’ll put me in mind how durn near I come to losin’ the best little wife in the whole world.
This play brought me to know Mr. and Mrs. Herne. It needed but an hour’s talk to convince me that I had met two of the most intellectual artists in the dramatic profession, and also to learn how great were the obstacles which lay in the way of producing a real play, each year adding to the insuperableness of the barriers. Mr. Herne was at that time (two years ago) working upon a new play, in some respects, notably in its theme, finer thanDrifting Apart. It was the result of several summers spent on the coast of Maine, and is calledShore-Acres. The story is mainly that of two brothers, Nathaniel and Martin Berry, who own a fine “shore-acre” tract near a booming summer resort. An enterprising grocer in the little village gets Martin interested in booms and suggests that they form a company and cut the shore-acre tract up into lots and sell to summer residents.
Martin comes with the scheme to Nathaniel.
Martin.I’d like t’ talk to yeh, an’ I d’ know’s I’ll hev a better chance.Uncle Nat.I d’ know’s yeh will.Martin.(Hesitates, picks up a stick and whittles.) Mr. Blake’s ben here.Uncle Nat.(Picks up a straw and chews it.) Hez ‘e?
Martin.I’d like t’ talk to yeh, an’ I d’ know’s I’ll hev a better chance.
Uncle Nat.I d’ know’s yeh will.
Martin.(Hesitates, picks up a stick and whittles.) Mr. Blake’s ben here.
Uncle Nat.(Picks up a straw and chews it.) Hez ‘e?
Mrs. Herne as Dorothy Foxglove in "The Minute Men." See page 544.Mrs. Herne as Dorothy Foxglove in "The Minute Men." See page544.
Martin.Yes. He ‘lows thet we’d ought to cut the farm up inter buildin’ lots.Uncle Nat.Dooze ‘e?Martin.Yes. He says there’s a boom a-comin’ here, an’ thet the lan’s too valu’ble to work.Uncle Nat.I want t’ know ‘f he dooze. Where d’s he talk o’ beginnin’?Martin.Out there at the nothe eend o’ the shore pint?Uncle Nat.Yeh don’t mean up yander? (Pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.)Martin.(Slowly.) Y-e-s.Uncle Nat.Dooze ‘e calkalate t’ take in the knoll thet looks out t’ Al’gator Reef?Martin.I reck’n he dooze.Uncle Nat.Did yeh tell him thet mother’s berried there?Martin.He knows thet ‘s well ‘s you do. (Sulkily.)Uncle Nat.What’s he calkalate t’ do with mother?Martin.He advises puttin’ her in a cimitry up to Bangor.Uncle Nat.She’d never sleep comfort’ble in no cimitry, mother wouldn’t.Martin.He says thet’s the choice lot o’ the hull pass’ll.Uncle Nat.Then who’s got so good a right to it as mother hez? It was all her’n once. Thet’s the only piece she ast t’ keep. Yeh don’t begrutch it to her, do yeh, Martin?Martin.I don’t begrutch her nothin’, only he says folks hain’t a-goin’ to pay fancy prices ‘thout they hev ther pick.Uncle Nat.D’ye think any fancy price hed ought to buy mother’s grave?
Martin.Yes. He ‘lows thet we’d ought to cut the farm up inter buildin’ lots.
Uncle Nat.Dooze ‘e?
Martin.Yes. He says there’s a boom a-comin’ here, an’ thet the lan’s too valu’ble to work.
Uncle Nat.I want t’ know ‘f he dooze. Where d’s he talk o’ beginnin’?
Martin.Out there at the nothe eend o’ the shore pint?
Uncle Nat.Yeh don’t mean up yander? (Pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.)
Martin.(Slowly.) Y-e-s.
Uncle Nat.Dooze ‘e calkalate t’ take in the knoll thet looks out t’ Al’gator Reef?
Martin.I reck’n he dooze.
Uncle Nat.Did yeh tell him thet mother’s berried there?
Martin.He knows thet ‘s well ‘s you do. (Sulkily.)
Uncle Nat.What’s he calkalate t’ do with mother?
Martin.He advises puttin’ her in a cimitry up to Bangor.
Uncle Nat.She’d never sleep comfort’ble in no cimitry, mother wouldn’t.
Martin.He says thet’s the choice lot o’ the hull pass’ll.
Uncle Nat.Then who’s got so good a right to it as mother hez? It was all her’n once. Thet’s the only piece she ast t’ keep. Yeh don’t begrutch it to her, do yeh, Martin?
Martin.I don’t begrutch her nothin’, only he says folks hain’t a-goin’ to pay fancy prices ‘thout they hev ther pick.
Uncle Nat.D’ye think any fancy price hed ought to buy mother’s grave?
Mrs. Herne as Mary Miller. "Here was tragedy that appalled and fascinated like the great fact of living." "Drifting Apart." Act IV. See page 545.Mrs. Herne as Mary Miller. "Here was tragedy that appalled and fascinated like the great fact of living." "Drifting Apart." Act IV. See page545.
Martin.Yeh seem to kinder shameface me fer thinkin’ o’ partin’ with it.Uncle Nat.Didn’t mean to. Law sakes! who’m I thet I should set my face agin improvemints, I’d like t’ know? Go ahead, an’ sell, ‘n build, an’ git rich, an’ move t’ Bangor, unly don’t sell thet! Leave me jes’ thet leetle patch, an’ I’ll stay an’ take keer th’ light, keep the grass cut over yander, an’ sort o’ watch eout fer things gin’rally….Ann.Sakes alive! Martin Berry, bean’t you a-comin’ to your dinner t’day? Come, Nathan’l, y’r dinner’ll be stun cold. I say yer dinner’ll be stun cold. ‘T won’t be fit f’r a hawg t’eat.Little Mildred. (Going to Nat, looks up into his face.) He’s cryin’, momma.
Martin.Yeh seem to kinder shameface me fer thinkin’ o’ partin’ with it.
Uncle Nat.Didn’t mean to. Law sakes! who’m I thet I should set my face agin improvemints, I’d like t’ know? Go ahead, an’ sell, ‘n build, an’ git rich, an’ move t’ Bangor, unly don’t sell thet! Leave me jes’ thet leetle patch, an’ I’ll stay an’ take keer th’ light, keep the grass cut over yander, an’ sort o’ watch eout fer things gin’rally….
Ann.Sakes alive! Martin Berry, bean’t you a-comin’ to your dinner t’day? Come, Nathan’l, y’r dinner’ll be stun cold. I say yer dinner’ll be stun cold. ‘T won’t be fit f’r a hawg t’eat.
Little Mildred. (Going to Nat, looks up into his face.) He’s cryin’, momma.
This estrangement, and the results that flow from it, form the simple basis ofShore-Acres, a play full of character studies, and permeated by that peculiar flavor of sea and farm, which the New England coast abounds with. The theme is the best and truest of all Mr. Herne’s plays of humble life.
Mr. and Mrs. Herne have lived for twelve years in Ashmont, a suburb of Boston. They have a comfortable and tasteful home, with three children, Julie, Crystal, and Dorothy [aged ten, eight, and five], to give them welcome when they come back from their seasons on the road. Mr. Herne is very domestic and lives a very simple and quiet life. And he enjoys his pretty home as only a man can whose life is spent so largely in fatiguing travel. He is fond of the fields which lie near his home, and very many are the long walks we have taken together. He is very fond of wild flowers, especially daisies and clover blossoms, and in their season is never without a bunch of them upon his desk. Books are all about him. He writes at a flat-top desk in the room he calls his, but his terrific orders to be left alone are calmly ignored by the three children who invade this “study,” and throw themselves upon him at the slightest provocation. He is much tyrannized over by Dorothy, whose dolls he is forced to mend, no matter what other apparently important work is going forward.
Mr. and Mrs. Herne in "Drifting Apart." Act II. See page 545.Mr. and Mrs. Herne in "Drifting Apart." Act II. See page545.
Mrs. Herne is a woman of extraordinary powers, both of acquired knowledge and natural insight, and her suggestions and criticisms have been of the greatest value to her husband in his writing, and she had large part in the inception as well as in the production ofMargaret Fleming. Her knowledge of life and books, like that of her husband, is self-acquired, but I have met few people in any walk of lifewith the same wide and thorough range of thought. In their home oft-quoted volumes of Spencer, Darwin, Fiske, Carlyle, Ibsen, Valdes, Howells, give evidence that they not only keep abreast but ahead of the current thought of the day. Spencer is their philosopher, and Howells is their novelist, but Dickens and Scott have large space on their shelves. All this does not prevent Mr. Herne from being an incorrigible joker, and a wonderfully funny story-teller. All dialects come instantly and surely to his tongue. Thesources of his power as a dramatist are evident in his keen observation and retentive memory. Mrs. Herne’s poet is Sidney Lanier, and she knows his principal poems by heart. “Sunrise” is her especial delight. But to see her radiant with intellectual enthusiasm, one has but to start a discussion of the nebular hypothesis, or to touch upon the atomic theory, or doubt the inconceivability of matter. She is perfectly oblivious to space and time if she can get someone to discuss Flammarion’s supersensuous world of force, Mr. George’s theory of land-holding, or Spencer’s law of progress.
Mr. and Mrs. Herne in "Drifting Apart." Act III. See page 545.Mr. and Mrs. Herne in "Drifting Apart." Act III. See page545.
Her enthusiasms bear fruit not only in her own phenomenaldevelopment, but in her power over others, both as an artist and friend. Wherever she goes she carries the magnetic influence of one who lives and thinks on high planes. Her earnestness is tremendous.
They are both individualists in the sense of being for the highest and purest type of man, and the elimination of governmental control. “Truth, Liberty, and Justice,” form the motto over their door. Mr. Herne has won great distinction as a powerful and ready advocate of the single tax theory, and they are both personal valued friends of Mr. George. It is Ibsen’s individualism as well as his truth that appeals so strongly to both Mr. and Mrs. Herne. They are in deadly earnest like Ibsen, andMargaret Flemingsprang directly from their radicalism on the woman question. The home of these extraordinary people is a charged battery radiating the most advanced thought. As one friend said: “No one ever leaves this house as he came. We all go away with something new and vital to think about.”
I give these personal impressions in order that those who saw them inMargaret Flemingmay know that its power was certainly a reflection of the high thought and purity of moral conviction and life which Mr. and Mrs. Herne brought to its production and its performance. It voices their love of truth in art, and freedom in life, and specifically their position on the woman question.
The story ofMargaret Flemingis briefly:—
Philip Fleming is a fairly successful business man in a town near Boston. He has a devoted wife, a child just reaching its first year’s birthday. The first scene develops the situation by a conversation between Fleming and his family physician. Fleming offers a cigar which Dr. Larkin refuses.
Philip.You used to respect my cigars. (Laughing.)Doctor.I used to respect you….Philip.Why not, for heaven’s sake?Doctor.Because you’ve no more moral nature than Joe Fletcher has.Philip.Oh! come now, Doctor, that’s rather—Doctor.(Looking sternly at him.) At two o’clock last night, Lena Schmidt gave birth to a child.Philip.(His eyes meet those of the Doctor, then drop to the floor.) How in God’s name did they come to send for you?. . . . . . . . .Doctor.I don’t believe she’ll ever leave that bed alive.Philip.Well, I’ve done all I can to—Doctor.Yeh have, eh?Philip.She’s had all the money she needed…. If she’d a’ done as I wanted her to, this never’d a’ happened. I tried to get her away six months ago, but she wouldn’t go. She was as obstinate as a mule.Doctor.Strange that she should want to be near you, aint it? If she’d got tired of you and wanted to go, you wouldn’t have let her.Philip.(With a sickly smile.) You must think I’m—Doctor.I don’t think anything about it. Iknowjust what such animals as you are.Philip.Why, I haven’t seen her for a—Doctor.Haven’ t yeh! well, then, suppose you go and see her to-day.Philip.(Alarmed.) No, I won’t. I can’t do that!Doctor.You will do just that.Philip.(Showing temper.) I won’t go near her.Doctor.(Quietly.) Yes, you will. She sha’n’t lie there and die like a dog.Philip.You wouldn’t dare—to tell—Doctor.I want you to go and see this girl! (They face each other.) Will yeh or won’t yeh?Philip.(After a pause subdued.) What d’ ye want me to say to her?
Philip.You used to respect my cigars. (Laughing.)
Doctor.I used to respect you….
Philip.Why not, for heaven’s sake?
Doctor.Because you’ve no more moral nature than Joe Fletcher has.
Philip.Oh! come now, Doctor, that’s rather—
Doctor.(Looking sternly at him.) At two o’clock last night, Lena Schmidt gave birth to a child.
Philip.(His eyes meet those of the Doctor, then drop to the floor.) How in God’s name did they come to send for you?
. . . . . . . . .
Doctor.I don’t believe she’ll ever leave that bed alive.
Philip.Well, I’ve done all I can to—
Doctor.Yeh have, eh?
Philip.She’s had all the money she needed…. If she’d a’ done as I wanted her to, this never’d a’ happened. I tried to get her away six months ago, but she wouldn’t go. She was as obstinate as a mule.
Doctor.Strange that she should want to be near you, aint it? If she’d got tired of you and wanted to go, you wouldn’t have let her.
Philip.(With a sickly smile.) You must think I’m—
Doctor.I don’t think anything about it. Iknowjust what such animals as you are.
Philip.Why, I haven’t seen her for a—
Doctor.Haven’ t yeh! well, then, suppose you go and see her to-day.
Philip.(Alarmed.) No, I won’t. I can’t do that!
Doctor.You will do just that.
Philip.(Showing temper.) I won’t go near her.
Doctor.(Quietly.) Yes, you will. She sha’n’t lie there and die like a dog.
Philip.You wouldn’t dare—to tell—
Doctor.I want you to go and see this girl! (They face each other.) Will yeh or won’t yeh?
Philip.(After a pause subdued.) What d’ ye want me to say to her?
Fleming had been unfaithful to his wife at the time when he should have been most devoted. The next two scenes show us Margaret in her lovely home withthe baby crowing about her. Fleming, with the easy shift of such natures, has thrown off his depression, and is in good spirits the following morning. Dr. Larkin calls to warn Fleming that he had better take Margaret away at once. She has trouble with her eyes which a nervous shock might intensify. He promises to do so, but the act closes with Margaret’s departure to visit Lena Schmidt, who has sent for her. The third act takes place in Mrs. Burton’s cottage, where the girl is dying. Dr. Larkin enters, finds Mrs. Burton holding the babe in her arms. I quote the conversation as a fine example of its truth and suggestion.
Mr. Herne as Joe Fletcher in "Margaret Fleming." Act I. "Can't I sell ye a bath sponge?" See page 553.Mr. Herne as Joe Fletcher in "Margaret Fleming." Act I. "Can't I sell ye a bath sponge?" See page553.
Mrs. Burton.O Doctor! I didn’t hear ye knawk. Did I keep y’ waitin’?Doctor.No. How’re the sick folks?Mrs. Burton.Haven’t y’ seen Dr. Taylor! Didn’t he tell yeh?Doctor.Haven’t seen him. I suppose you mean—Mrs. Burton.Yes.Doctor.Humph! When’d she die?Mrs. B.‘Bout half an hour ago.Doctor.I had two calls on my way here. When did the change come?Mrs. B.Ther’ wa’n’t no change t’ speak ‘f. About two hours ago, she et a nice cup o’ grule, and asked me to fix the pillers so’s her head ‘d be higher. I done it. Then she asked f’r a pensul ‘n paper, an’ she writ f’r quite some time. After that she shet her eyes an’ I thought she was asleep. She never moved till the Doctor come, then she opened her eyes ‘n smiled at him. He asked how she felt, an’ she gave a l-o-n-g sigh—an’ that was all there was to it.
Mrs. Burton.O Doctor! I didn’t hear ye knawk. Did I keep y’ waitin’?
Doctor.No. How’re the sick folks?
Mrs. Burton.Haven’t y’ seen Dr. Taylor! Didn’t he tell yeh?
Doctor.Haven’t seen him. I suppose you mean—
Mrs. Burton.Yes.
Doctor.Humph! When’d she die?
Mrs. B.‘Bout half an hour ago.
Doctor.I had two calls on my way here. When did the change come?
Mrs. B.Ther’ wa’n’t no change t’ speak ‘f. About two hours ago, she et a nice cup o’ grule, and asked me to fix the pillers so’s her head ‘d be higher. I done it. Then she asked f’r a pensul ‘n paper, an’ she writ f’r quite some time. After that she shet her eyes an’ I thought she was asleep. She never moved till the Doctor come, then she opened her eyes ‘n smiled at him. He asked how she felt, an’ she gave a l-o-n-g sigh—an’ that was all there was to it.
. . . . . . . . .
Mrs Herne as Margaret Fleming. Act II. See page 554.Mrs Herne as Margaret Fleming. Act II. See page554.
Margaret comes in and Dr. Larkin, horrified, tries in vain to get her to return. Maria, the dead girl’s sister, comes out of the bedroom, with a letter in her hand, and with barbaric ferocity turns upon Margaret. A scene of great dramatic power follows, and under the stress of her suffering, Margaret goes blind. It all ends in the flight of Fleming, and the destruction of their home. Several years later a chain of events brings wife and husband together in the office of the Boston Inspector of Police. Joe Fletcher, a street pedler, and husband of Maria, the sister of Lena Schmidt, was the means of bringing them together again. Fleming runs across Joe on theCommon, and Joe takes him to see Maria. Margaret has found Maria and her child, which Maria had taken. Philip’s altercation with Maria brings them into the police office. After explanations, the inspector turns to the husband and wife, and voicing conventional morality, advises them to patch it up. “When you want me, ring that bell,” he says, and leaves them alone. There is a hush of suspense, and then Fleming, seeing the work he had wrought in the blind face before him, speaks.
Philip.Margaret!Margaret.Well!Philip.This is terribleMarg.You heard the inspector. He calls it a “common case.”Philip.Yes. I was wondering whether he meant that or only said it.Marg.I guess he meant it, Philip. We’ll be crowded out of his thoughts before he goes to bed to-night.. . . . . . . . .Marg.Ah, well, it’s done now, and—Philip.Yes, it’s done. For four years I’ve been like an escaped prisoner that wanted to give himself up and dreaded the punishment. I’m captured at last, and without hope or fear,—Iwasgoing to say without shame,—I ask you, my judge, to pronounce my sentence.Marg.That’s a terrible thing to ask me to do, Philip…. (She hesitates.)Philip.Of course you’ll get a divorce?Marg.Don’t let us have any more ceremonies, Philip…. I gave myself to you when you asked me to. We were married in my mother’s little home. Do you remember what a bright, beautiful morning it was?Philip.Yes.Marg.That was seven years ago. To-day we’rehere!…. . . . . . . . .Iamcalm. My eyes have simply been turned in upon myself for four years. I see clearer than I used to.Philip.Suppose I could come to you some day and say, Margaret, I’m now an honest man. Would you live with me again?Marg.The wife-heart has gone out of me, Philip.Philip.I’ll wait, Margaret. Perhaps it may come back again. Who knows?. . . . . . . . .Philip.Is it degrading to forgive?Marg.No; but it is to condone. SupposeIhad broken faith with you?Philip.Ah, Margaret!Marg.I know! But suppose I had? Why should a wife bear the whole stigma of infidelity? Isn’t it just as revolting in a husband?…. . . . . . . . .Then can’t you see that it is simply impossible for me to live with you again?Philip.That’s my sentence…. We’ll be friends?Marg.Yes, friends. We’ll respect each other as friends. We never could as man and wife.As they clasp hands, something latent, organic rushes over her. She masters it, puts his hand aside: “Ring that bell!”
Philip.Margaret!
Margaret.Well!
Philip.This is terrible
Marg.You heard the inspector. He calls it a “common case.”
Philip.Yes. I was wondering whether he meant that or only said it.
Marg.I guess he meant it, Philip. We’ll be crowded out of his thoughts before he goes to bed to-night.
. . . . . . . . .
Marg.Ah, well, it’s done now, and—
Philip.Yes, it’s done. For four years I’ve been like an escaped prisoner that wanted to give himself up and dreaded the punishment. I’m captured at last, and without hope or fear,—Iwasgoing to say without shame,—I ask you, my judge, to pronounce my sentence.
Marg.That’s a terrible thing to ask me to do, Philip…. (She hesitates.)
Philip.Of course you’ll get a divorce?
Marg.Don’t let us have any more ceremonies, Philip…. I gave myself to you when you asked me to. We were married in my mother’s little home. Do you remember what a bright, beautiful morning it was?
Philip.Yes.
Marg.That was seven years ago. To-day we’rehere!…
. . . . . . . . .
Iamcalm. My eyes have simply been turned in upon myself for four years. I see clearer than I used to.
Philip.Suppose I could come to you some day and say, Margaret, I’m now an honest man. Would you live with me again?
Marg.The wife-heart has gone out of me, Philip.
Philip.I’ll wait, Margaret. Perhaps it may come back again. Who knows?
. . . . . . . . .
Philip.Is it degrading to forgive?
Marg.No; but it is to condone. SupposeIhad broken faith with you?
Philip.Ah, Margaret!
Marg.I know! But suppose I had? Why should a wife bear the whole stigma of infidelity? Isn’t it just as revolting in a husband?…
. . . . . . . . .
Then can’t you see that it is simply impossible for me to live with you again?Philip.That’s my sentence…. We’ll be friends?
Marg.Yes, friends. We’ll respect each other as friends. We never could as man and wife.
As they clasp hands, something latent, organic rushes over her. She masters it, puts his hand aside: “Ring that bell!”
Mr. Herne and his daughter Dorothy as Joe and little Lena on the Common. See page 557.Mr. Herne and his daughter Dorothy as Joe and little Lena on the Common. See page557.
Played as Mrs. Herne plays it, this act is the supreme climax toward which the action moves from the first. It is her knowledge of its significance, her belief in its justice, and her faith in its beneficence that makes herreading so intellectually powerful and penetrating. She seems to be all of the woman, and something of the seer, as she stands there as Margaret whose blindness has somehow given her inward light, and conviction, and strength. She seemed to be speaking for all womankind, whose sorrowful history we are only just beginning to read truthfully. It is no wonder that Mrs. Herne appealed with such power to the thinking women of Boston. Never before has their case been so stated in America.
One of the most noticeable and gratifying results of Mr. and Mrs. Herne’s performance was the forced abandonment by the critics of conventional standards of criticism. Every thoughtful word, even by those most severe, was made from the realist’s standpoint. It forced a comparison with life and that was a distinct gain.
Margaret. Act V. "It is simply impossible for me to live with you again.... Ring that bell." See page 557.Margaret. Act V. "It is simply impossible for me to live with you again…. Ring that bell." See page557.
The critics got at last the point of view of those who praise an imperfect play simply for its honesty of purpose, and itstendency. My own criticism ofMargaret Flemingis that it lacks the simplicity of life. It has too much of plot. Things converge too much, and here and there things happen. Measured by the standard of truth it fails at two or three points in its construction, though its treatment is markedly direct and honest. Measured by any play on the American stage, it stands above them all in purpose, in execution, in power, and is worthy to stand for the new drama. It was exposed to the severest test, and came out of it triumphantly. What the effect will be upon the American drama, it would be hard to say. Certainly whether great or small, that influence will be toward progress, an influence that is altogether good.
Already it has precipitated the discussion of an independent American theatre, where plays of advanced thought and native atmosphere can be produced. It has given courage to many who (being in the minority) had given up the idea of ever having a play after their ideal. It has cleared the air and showed the way out of thecul de sacinto which monopoly seemed to have driven plays and players. It demonstrated that a small theatre makes the production of literary plays possible, and the whole field is opening to the American dramatist. The fact that the lovers of truth and art are in the minority, no longer cuts a figure. The small theatre makes a theatre for the minority not only possible, but inevitable.
In the immediate advance in truth, both in acting and play-writing, Mr. and Mrs. Herne are likely to have large part. The work which they have already done entitles them not only to respect, but to gratitude. They have been working for many years to discredit effectism in acting, and to bring truth into the American drama. They have set a high mark, as all will testify who saw the work in Chickering Hall. Now let who can, go higher.
BY THEODORE STANTON.
Lastautumn the third French republic completed the second decade of its checkered existence, and has thus proved itself to be the most long-lived government which France has known since the advent of the great Revolution a century ago. No previous government has been able to stand eighteen years, so that the present republic has outstripped all its predecessors, whether republican, imperial, or monarchical, leaving even the most fortunate of them two or three years behind, and bidding fair to increase the distance indefinitely. Its longevity has been greater than the first and second republics taken together, which covered a period of a little over sixteen years; while if we combine the existence of all three republics, equal to about thirty-six years, we again find that no other regime has shown such prolonged vitality,—the two empires having lived for only twenty-eight years, and the two monarchies for about thirty-three and a half years.
But the early years of the third republic—from 1870 to 1879—like the declining period of the first and second republics, were more monarchical than republican. And again, there are so many weakening influences in the present institutions of France, that the decisive conclusions which might otherwise be drawn from the foregoing considerations need, I regret to say, to be considerably qualified. Previous to the election to the presidency of M. Grévy, in 1879, the government was happily styled “a republic without republicans.” But since that date the same party—the republican—has had supreme control. Practically, therefore, the third republic has been in operation about twelve years, and has, therefore, still to pass that dangerous turning-point in the history of French governments, the twentieth year.
I now come to the consideration of some of the more serious causes of lack of faith in the duration of the present regime. But it should be pointed out right here at the start that many of these blemishes, most all of them in fact, have characterized every government in France, so that they are not peculiarly republican; and I hasten to add that my object in pointing them out, in analyzing them and dwelling on them, is not for the purpose of belittling or ridiculing the estimable government now controlling the destinies of France. As an American and a republican who has observed contemporary French history on the spot since 1874, who has been an eye witness of many of the crucial episodes of this critical period, who has known personally several of the leading actors and who wishes well for the present institutions, I take up this subject not so much in order to find fault with what is, as to endeavor to discover how far these imperfections and weaknesses endanger the existence of a form of government in which all Americans take such a lively and sincere interest. Nowhere else in the civilized world, not even in France itself, would the fall of the third republic cause such deep regret as in the United States. Hence it is that we desire to know what likelihood there is of such a disaster being brought about, in the hope that by calling attention to the dangers, we may, perhaps, do something to prevent such a lamentable catastrophe.
The greatest peril that has threatened the republic since its foundation in 1870, was the recent Boulanger adventure. Though this rather addle-brained general is now quite dead politically, the causes which gave him strength and nearly plunged France once more into a chaos whence would probably have issued a tyranny of some sort, still exist and are continually on the point of cropping out again. The principal one of them is the lack of union among republicans. Just as the republic owed its final triumph to the circumstance that the royalists and imperialists could not coalesce during the years immediately following 1870, so Boulanger, backed by these same royalists and imperialists, nearly won the day two years ago, almost wholly because the republicans were divided among themselves. Union among republicans is scarcely less necessary to-day than it was duringthe dark days of Marshal MacMahon’s presidency and the threatened Boulangistcoup d’etat.
Since the republicans have had control of the two houses, the minority, especially in the chamber of deputies, has been very strong, the Right to-day numbering about one hundred and seventy deputies, and the Boulangists about thirty more, making a grand total of two hundred in a membership of less than six hundred. That is to say, the Opposition, mustering more than a third of the chamber. And when it is borne in mind that this minority is not simply a constitutional Opposition, that its advent to power would mean the eventual overthrow of the republic, we perceive how radically different such an Opposition is from that found in the parliament of other countries, where whether the outs come in or the ins go out, no vital change occurs in the nature of the government.
The existence of this recklessly revolutionary minority and the fickleness of republican union are the chief causes of ministerial instability, one of the worst features of the present regime. The ministry has changed so often during the last twenty years, that many republicans have been led to doubt the advantages of the English parliamentary system, and have turned their eyes toward its modification in the United States, where the existence of the Cabinet is independent of a vote of the House. It was this admiration of the American system which led M. Naquet and M. Andrieux—once prominent republican deputies, and the former still a member of the Chamber—to espouse Boulangism, and the general obtained not a little of his popular strength from his oft-repeated assertion that he would put an end to ministerial instability. That this evil is not exaggerated, though the proposed remedy would probably have been worse than the disease, is shown by the most casual glance at French cabinet history since the fall of the second empire.
Since September 4, 1870, up to the present day, there have been no less than twenty-eight different ministries, which makes, on an average, a new ministry about every nine months. There were three ministries in each of the years 1873 and 1877, while in 1876, 1879, 1882, 1883, 1886, and 1887, there were two each. The longest ministry was the second, presided over by M. Jules Ferry, which lasted from February 21, 1883, to April 6, 1885, or a fewweeks over two years. Gambetta’s famous ministry—called in derision “le grand ministère“—lasted two months and a half. M. de Freycinet, the present prime minister, has been in power four times since 1879, the first time for nine months, the second for six months, the third for eleven months, and the fourth since March of last year. Among the shortest ministries were those of M. Dufaure, from May 18 to May 25, 1873; General de Rochebouet, from November 23 to December 13, 1877, and M. Fallières from January 29 to February 21, 1883.
The persistency with which the reactionists refuse to recognize the legal government of France, is another source of weakness in the present institutions. When M. Carnot gives a reception at the Elysée Palace you never see a deputy or a Senator of the Right advancing to salute the president and his wife, and when he offers a grand state dinner to parliament, he does not invite members outside of the republican party because he would run the risk of receiving a curt regret.[1]What is true of M. Carnot and the Elysée holds good also for all the ministers and other high functionaries: they are left severely alone by Monarchists and Bonapartists alike.
This sulking in the tent on the part of the reactionists has in it something worse than their simple absence from all official social ceremonies. The talents, experience, and patriotism of thiséliteare almost wholly lost to the country, and to the government. From the ministries, the judiciary, the foreign embassies, the prefectures, and the rectorships of the universities, they are necessarily excluded. The ancient nobility of the old regime with its wealth and traditions, and the younger nobility of the first and second empires; the blue bloodbourgeoisée, especially of the provinces, and the aristocratic ladies of all classes, turn their backs, almost without exception, on the new order of things, and sigh for court and king or emperor.
In the provinces this detestation of the republic sometimes becomes ludicrous. In Montpelier, for instance, “politecircles” absolutely boycott the republican official world. The prefect has a palatial residence but does not dare to throw open hissalons, for none of “the first families” would respond to his invitation. When the mayor of the city, before whom all marriages must be performed, is invited to the reception at the house, none of the reactionarycoteriewill have a word with him and none of their young men will dance with his daughter. I have heard similar stories from Pan, Castres, and Albi, and doubtless the same thing is true of many other cities. But royalists and Bonapartists would not feel too much out of place in the French republic, for it is astonishing, at least to an American, to see how many monarchical customs have been preserved by the present government. And this brings me to the consideration of a new source of weakness of the republic. I refer to its unrepublican features. A few examples will explain what I mean.
The “military household” is one of the imperial institutions which the third republic accepted and continued. The first president, however, did not revive it. “M. Thiers never had a military household,” M. Barthélémy Saint Hilaire, his private secretary andfidus achateswrites me; “however, in order to honor the army, he had two orderlies.” But when Marshal MacMahon became president in 1873, it was only natural that he should surround himself with soldiers. At first the “Cabinet of the Presidency” consisted of three officials, one of them being a colonel. In 1875 this cabinet had grown to five members, two of them colonels, and one an artillery officer. In 1879 the “Cabinet of the Presidency” was reduced to two members with a colonel at its head, but was supplemented with a “military household”—the first appearance of this institution under the third republic—consisting of six officers, so that Marshal MacMahon had seven officers in all as his immediate attendants.
At this point M. Grévy enters the Elysée. He throws out the military member of the Cabinet of the Presidency, but increases by one his military household, so that there were as many officers at the Elysée under the lawyer president as under the marshal president. Nor has M. Carnot, the engineer president, departed from the example set by his two predecessors.
When I asked M. Barthélémy Saint Hilaire the explanation of this custom, he answered: “Our kings were always provided with a military household, in which marine officers also figured. It is doubtless this precedent which has surrounded civilian republicans with a body of officers. The custom is due less to necessity than to a desire to show respect for the army and navy.”
This same military parade is seen at the senate and chamber. During a sitting of either of these bodies a company of infantry is kept under arms in a room adjoining the legislative hall, and when the president of either house enters the building, he advances between two files of soldiers presenting arms, and is escorted to his chair by the commanding officer.
This military element in the present government is as unnecessary as it is dangerous and pernicious. It is dangerous because it might be turned by an ambitious president against the very constitution he has taken an oath to defend. Two instances of this danger are afforded by the action of Napoleon I. on the 18thSoumaireand by that of Napoleon III. on the 2d of December, 1852. It is pernicious because it keeps alive in France that love for military display, and that thirst for conquest, which have been the curse of the country since the days of Louis XIV.
Another one of these monarchical growths which still flourishes under the republic is the excessive reverence and even awe which the public shows to its high officials. When President Carnot appears anywhere, his reception scarcely differs from that shown to Emperor William in the course of his numerous journeys. The president is allowed six hundred thousand francs for “entertaining and travelling,” and his balls and dinners at the Elysée, and especially his official tours through the country smack of royalty to an extraordinary degree. A year ago I had an opportunity at Montpelier to study one of these official visits in all its details, and I was astonished at the royal aspect of the whole affair. The conferring of decorations, the dispensing of money to deserving charities, the cut and dried speeches of the president and the mayors, the military honors,—all this is far removed from that “Jeffersonian simplicity” which Americans at least associate with a republic.
One of the most noticeable characteristics of these tours is the excessive manner in which “the republic” is kept to the fore. In his speeches while “swinging around the circle” President Carnot is continually informing expectant mayors and delighted citizens that “the government of the republic” is watching over their every interest, and he then hastens to thank them for the enthusiastic welcome which they have given to “the republic” in his humble person. The phylloxera has destroyed the vineyards of this or that region, but “the republican minister of agriculture” is successfully extirpating the injurious insect. The new schoolhouses of another city owe their magnificence “to the deep solicitude of the republic for the education of the masses,” while the recently constructed bridge over the river is the work of “the engineers of the republic.” In a word, the farmer and his crops, the mechanic and his house-rent, the schoolmaster and his salary, the wine growers and their plaster, the day laborers and their hours of work, and of course the politicians and their constituents, if the former be republicans, are, according to presidential oratory, the special care of the republic.
Nor is it President Carnot alone who thus proclaims the extraordinary virtues of the ever watchful republic. The ministers, who are continually indulging in brief tours into the provinces, doingen petitwhat M. Carnot doesen grand, are even more assiduous than the president (because their political position is less secure,) in sounding on all occasions the praises of the republic.
Nor is this ringing of the changes on the word republic confined to the oratory of presidential and ministerial junketings. The obtrusion is brought about in many other ways. Thus M. Carnot is always spoken of in the newspapers and elsewhere as “the president of the republic.” M. Waddington at London is “the ambassador of the republic.” The district attorney is “the attorney of the republic.” An official bust of the republic is given the place of honor on the walls of the town council chamber, the public schoolroom, and the courtroom. A new bridge will have carved on its arches the monogram R. F. (République Française) while the same familiar letters stare at you from the fronts of all the public buildings erected since 1870.
The practice is impolitic, to say the least. We have already seen how large and powerful is the body of enemies of the present institutions. It is a mistake thus to force them to admit, at every turn, that they are being governed by a regime which they detest. At a sitting of the Chamber of Deputies, the Minister of Foreign Affairs declares that “the government of the republic,” not France, is negotiating this or that matter. The Minister of the Interior is called upon to explain some rather high-handed measure against obstreperous agitators, and he informs the deputies that “the republic” will not permit laws to be broken with impunity. The Minister of Public Instruction presents a bill for the reorganization of the university system, and in his speech in its support dwells on “the solicitude of the republic for the education of the masses,” thus exciting the opposition of a third of the members of the Chamber. Some of the stormiest and most disgraceful scenes that have occurred in the Chamber of Deputies during the past twenty years are traceable to this foolish parading of the word republic. The republican party could cut the ground from under the feet of their opponents, and bring over thousands of fresh recruits to the new institutions if they would only speak less of the republic and more of France.[2]
Another grave error of the republic is its break with the Catholic Church. I have no space here to place the blame where it belongs. I wish simply to point out the lamentable fact that the whole powerful organization of Rome is arrayed against the present government of France. The danger from this source cannot be exaggerated. It has made the whole body of women enemies of the republic, and “a government which has the women against it is lost,” says Laboulaye. And if Cardinal Lavigerie and the Pope are, at the eleventh hour, coming around to the republic, is it to be wondered at that the Radicals declare that the Church is changing front for the purpose of capturing rather than supporting the republic?
Attacking the purse is quite as grave a mistake as attacking the religion of the thrifty, economical, and provident Frenchman. The financial policy of the republic is unpopular. The annual deficit and the increasing taxation are crying evils even more difficult to handle than are religious troubles, while conservative republican statesmen, like Senator Barthélémy Saint Hilaire, tell me that the national debt keeps on increasing at such a rate that the bankruptcy of France seems sure in the more or less distant future. The present tendency towards a high protective tariff is an attempt to bring money into the national treasury, and thus relieve the peasant and manufacturer not only from foreign competition, but from the disagreeable claims of the tax-gatherer.
The Alsace Lorraine imbroglio must, of course, be mentioned in any list of the dangers threatening the French republic. But it is not so dangerous as might appear at first blush, for, although it is quite true that a war with Germany, especially if it should terminate disastrously, would shake the republic to its foundations, and perhaps topple it to the ground, this same Alsace-Lorraine difficulty is, in home affairs, almost the only question in whose consideration all parties unite on the common ground of patriotism. A republican orator is sure to win the applause of the Right when he refers in eloquent terms to the “Lost Provinces,” “about which,” as Gambetta said, “a Frenchman should always think but say nothing.”
My picture is full of dark colors. But I do not think that I have exaggerated the faults and weaknesses of the third republic. But it should be borne in mind that in this brief paper I have dealt alone on the faults and weaknesses. If I were to go farther and examine the merits and strong points of the present government of France, I could easily prove that notwithstanding these faults and weaknesses, it is highly probable that the various royal and imperial pretenders, their children and their children’s children, will, live and die without ever being able to set up again in France the throne of the Capets or that of the Bonapartes.
BY H. C. BRADSBY.
Office-holdingpoliticians who have heretofore led the people, are leading them now, until we, the hapless voters, find ourselves confronted with the following so-called issues, or rather absurdities:—
Protection with reciprocity—Republicanism.
Free trade with incidental protection—Democracy.
The Democratic ex-President and the Republican President are in perfect agreement on the question of remonetizing silver and many sub-leaders and able party newspapers on both sides are in accord with these two successors of Washington, and the sub-lieutenants pass the word around, “Do not discuss the silver question, it is an immaterial issue.”
These are the anomalous conditions of American politics stated in all seriousness as they appear to a layman.
A professional politician, even the man who hopes for future office, understands that real issues are things to be avoided, because he would rather placate than antagonize, and he needs friends and supporters, both in the nominating convention and at the polls; and he is in his best form when he can campaign without a real issue and help select his adversaries “in buckram and Kendall green” to have it out with, on the stump. He knows that a plump, simple issue would reach the average voter’s comprehension, and compel him to a simple “yes” or “no” that might blast his hopes, destroy this happy equilibrium of voting parties, and the trade of politics might actually go out of fashion. Pricked by his fears of all real issues, he becomes a genius in inventing handy apparent ones that are usually glittering nothings—impalpable shadows about which he can talk so learnedly by the life-time, and say nothing and mean nothing. So rapidly has this expert developed in our land of politics that one man shouts, “I am for tweedle-dum” and the other answers defiantly back, “I am for tweedle-dee,” and the “campaign of education” is on, the jockeys mounted,the race begins, and as the cloud of dust rises, “the greasy caps” fill the air. “Spotted Free Trade” is ridden by the “Old Flag”; “Revenue Only” by the “Screaming Eagle,” and the excited voter stakes his future hopes on “Flag” or “Eagle,” most probably as did his father before him.
It seems this is the wretched outcome of the hundred years of American education in politics—making of every man not only a sovereign, but a possible candidate for President. What is it all but a roaring farce? If we could forget that this is real government coupled with all the pains and penalties which are the heritage of ignorance, and not mere child’s play, then even serious intelligence might smile though commiserating the follies of grown men. Have we finally reached the condition tending toward national political dementia, or is there no meaning whatever attached any longer to the name of statesman?
Let us look a little further into the absurdities over which American statesmen are so vehemently wrangling. Our government assumes the old time function of all governments to make and regulate the currency or money for the transaction of business—a mere convenience for the measure of values in buying and selling—in another way a thing performing functions similar to the yard-stick in measuring, and the great statesmen are wrangling over the problem of what particular material that convenience shall be made. And our nation, through Congress and the President, is ever tinkering, changing, altering, and reversing regulations concerning this “value measurer”—this convenient representative of property, and the basis of all commerce, gold, silver, copper, nickel, and paper to-day, and on this basis contracts and multitudinous transactions are based; then apparently that confusion and ruin may follow, an act of Congress may be passed to-morrow changing the whole thing by demonetizing one or remonetizing the other; and the government finally opens a junk-shop, and is engaged actively in the “second-hand” trade, or is in sharp competition with the rag-picker. And our great political educators fall to wrangling about a proposition, that could be paralleled only by some phenomenal crank beating up recruits for a new party upon a platform that all yard-sticks must be made of hickory wood, and he shall be deemed a counterfeiter who dares to use any other, and the length of the yard-stickmust be flexible so that “a yard shall always contain a yard’s worth of cloth.” The children open a play store, and there the legal tender for all goods is pins, where the size of the pin or the exact composition it is made of are never considered. There is, to my mind, no question but the children should teach our great statesmen some of the fundamentals of common sense. These are specimens of the economic problems evolved from our hundred years of voting experiment—the ripened fruit of self-government. Books and papers are filled with discussions of whether both gold and silver should be legal tender for debts or only gold. And the rank sophistries that mark the flood-tide of a campaign discussion either of this or the problem of taxation are surely to be considered among the curiosities of our civilization. Just why men should range themselves on respective party lines on these questions and shut their eyes to evils that are eating their way to the heart of government and that unchecked must end in common ruin, passes comprehension.
The organization of a powerful party machinery with the authority to discipline recalcitrant or discordant members is a natural outgrowth of our universal voting. The active politicians and place hunters will control the machine, and when office, and place are made glittering prizes, then comes the inevitable scramble, the selfishness, trampling the weak by the strong, corruption, chicanery, the unspeakable crimes, and finally the Pandora’s box is opened, and the swarming evils darken the heavens. Inferior men with greatest cunning and least scruples soon push their way to the front; all sight of good government is eventually lost, the Washingtons and Jeffersons in time disappear with a constantly increasing ratio from public life, and the end is the great Leaderless Mob and bloody chaos. Even at best our politicians and party publications sing in unison, all struggling to the same end, victory at the polls and the elimination, as far as possible, of real issues. Their quadrennial platforms are ever coming nearer and nearer together—not omitting a plank expressing “profound sympathy” with the poor, persecuted people of some part of the Old World. A large majority of the Democracy are openly in favor of free trade and free silver, while the average “favorite son” is only in favor of “reform” in tariff, and hence you can findmen in favor of a prohibitory tariff calling themselves Democrats; while many of the lay members of the Republican party are the earnest advocates of free trade and free silver. If our statesmen do not use words to conceal ideas, then there is no question but that the rank and file, those caring nothing about the offices personally, are in advance of their leaders and party publications. Unfortunately the average voter studies the science of politics—good government,—only when thumb-screwed by bad legislation. When happy and revelling in plenty, this cunning thrift of politicians is good enough “statesmanship” for pretty much all of us; then we can really admire the brightness of the great “Magnetic” when he says, “Boys, I am a model high tarriffite, and in favor of reciprocity;” even the vitriolic ravings of the iridescent—sparkling phrases without ideas, torchlight jeremaids about the poor Southern negro, are all brilliant statesmanship; so long as the waters are smooth and prosperous, plenty is coming to everybody. But when the pinch of misgovernment comes in the form of the gaunt wolf then the people rise up, and without a “statesman” to lead, without a newspaper to educate, but with a holy wrath, crush out these official puppets. For at least sixteen years the unbiased intelligence of the Democratic party (not politicians) has been urging party leaders to take the bold stand for free trade. During the same time the Republican voters have urged their leaders to declare for “protection for protection’s sake.”
In 1888 the Republican Convention boldly challenged Democrats to the open issue of protection absolute versus free trade. The best voters on the other side were eager to pick up this gauge of battle, but their leaders, covert protectionists, and makeshift office seekers, bade them nay, and a Democratic “stump speech” in that campaign was a curiosity. Part first would demonstrate the infamy of all “protection” taxes; part second would demonstrate that the orator was in favor of “protection” to a certain degree. Thus handicapped, the Democratic office seekers fought out the long campaign and lost as they deserved. Happily for the country, because that victory convinced every Republican in the land, except the man of Maine, that the people wanted prohibitory tariffs, all foreign commerce destroyed, and that they honestly believed there was such a thing as “homemarkets” to be regulated by statute. And the “three Bow Street tailors in Congress” proceeded in all sincerity to carry out what they, in their simplicity, judged to be the instruction given by the people at the polls. The “great secretary” alone of the “smart” men of the land, understood the people in the ‘88 election better; he, it seems, well understood that “protection” carried to prohibition was the yawning grave of any party responsible for it without providing some loop-hole of escape in the burial ceremony, and this unequalled politician in the nick of time startled the country with the cry of “Reciprocity”—spotted free trade. His messmates turned upon him with objurgations deep, yet he had saved them from themselves, by the bold dash of a “plumed knight.” Had he been in the Kansas senator’s place, Kansas would have been again cajoled and humbugged into silence, and possibly have given an increase on its 82,000 Republican majority.
Mr. Blaine was constantly defeated in his ambition to be President. General Harrison was successful and fills the place thatex-officiomakes him leader. He is nominally the party captain, while in truth there is more real power in one hand of his armor bearer than there is in the loins of the Executive. Now the author of the bill increasing taxes thinks he is on the road to the White House by campaigning Ohio on the beauties of protection—with reciprocity or “free trade in spots” left out entirely,—Blaine’s happiest invention and the only thing that will save “the Napoleon” if saved at all, from crushing defeat this Fall in his own State. The Democrats have put up against him Governor Campbell with the plankless platform of the “McKinley bill,” and an internal discussion on the silver question. Thus the two parties of that great State are marshalling in battle array their lines under banners that might be labelled “Tweedle-dum” and “Tweedle-dee.” The last Democratic President was a product of the long successes of the Republican party and its mistakes, chief among which was the covert act demonetizing silver in 1873. It brought its train of wrong and disaster to our nation; while the people were unconscious of the cause, yet they could feel the pangs, and results ripened in 1884 in the election of the Buffalo mayor. As President and as ex-President he is the natural party leader, but he has endorsed the monstrous act of 1873in regard to silver, the very mistake that chiefly made him President, and now should that bar forever the door of the White House to his re-entry therein, the result would not be one of the seven wonders of the world.
These happenings, so fresh and patent, remind one of the sworn testimony of an eminent general of the late war before the Senatorial Committee in describing the battle of Gettysburg: “After the lines are formed and fighting commences all is confusion and hap-hazard.” Apparently there is no science in statesmanship, and our politics are but a ruthless trampling on the simple maxims of political economy. These were the forces that secretly working through the patient years of misrule and folly caused to bloom and fruit in a night, this stalwart tribe of rural statesmen who so remorselessly struck down the Republican party in its State of largest majority, and so disfigured the fortunes of the master polytechnic orator. A hayseed sprouted and grown in a night like unto Jack’s beanstalk, and without leaders—all concert action mere incidents, the people marched to the polls in Kansas and amazed the world and themselves. The leaderless mobs met other leaderless mobs—that proved to be mere skeletons of organizations led and composed chiefly of wrangling, quarrelling, purposeless, and nearly idealess politicians. The leaderless mob was in profound earnest while the “statesmen” as usual were merely masquerading, with no other weapons of defence against attacks save that of Samson’s when he fought the Philistines—all jaw.
Politicians discuss with amazing brilliancy their beautiful issue of a little higher tariffs or a little lower tariffs, while the people bluntly talk of protection to the full, or absolute free trade. Politicians really enjoy having made gold the only money, and then talk learnedly about the government buying so much metal monthly and coining it, so that silver will be both money and not money, while the people talk about free silver or gold only.
These are the conditions existing on the only two national questions now under consideration. To a layman’s mind neither of them should have ever been made a national question at all. And men called “great statesmen” who have pushed aside all real economic questions worthy of consideration among civilized men, and forced these figments forward, are neither statesmen nor safe politicians. Lookat them! Their discussion of tariffs is whether we must have higher or lower taxesper se. Their contentions on the money question are simply the vicious acts of Congress that are the same as if we should pass laws every two years changing the length of our yard-sticks. These are the great issues breeding our wonderful race of “great statesmen”—the mountain labored and the little mouse came forth.
There are vital questions that should, especially in our experimental voting government, be ever present to all our people for investigation and permanent settlement, to wit:—
How to turn back this stream of paternalism in government—the monster criminal, the murderer of the dead nations and civilizations, the river of woe flowing forever round the world.
How to make the best of governments by ever-lowering taxes?
How to perfect a “civil service” by burdening officials, lessening fees and salaries, abolishing patronage, and sealing salaries below the pay of similar private employ?
How to better education and thereby check this stream of “learned ignorance”?
How to reach the consummation of the best government because the least governed?
How to reform our judiciary until justice between men shall be nearly instantaneous and the next cheapest thing to air and water?
How to save the weak (the majority) from the strong and selfish?
How to be the freest and therefore the best people that have ever lived?
How to prevent crime and suffering by removing causes?
How to destroy this struggle for government employ, this passion to be a public parasite and live off of others’ toil?
How to make and regulate nearly all government institutions upon the principle of our postal system—self-supporting by the voluntary tax from those who use its powers or its offices?
How to eradicate all this flunkeyism that makes idols of office-holders—mere fetiches producing a species of the lowest order of hero-worship—a nation of snobs who can meanly admire mean things?
How to call out statesmen and abolish demagogues?
How to understand that real statesmen repeal and never enact?
How to prevent governments from inflicting upon the innocents unspeakable wrongs, under the monstrous plea that the few must suffer for the good of the many?
These and similar questions that are as deep as life itself, and that should come even to our little children in their romps and plays, the same as they learn to avoid the pit, or to fear a vicious dog, are the vital problems of mankind. These are questions essential to the preservation of life, and touching the progress of civilization; the natural economic problems that real statesmen should set before the people. Intelligent study and voting upon these and similar questions would give us real statesmen for present demagogues.
The average American is always more than satisfied with his perfect surroundings so long as he can point out his advantages over the wretched victims of paternalism in Europe. This is both a low and ignorant self-laudation. Of course, wretched though you may be, you are incomparably better off than the miserables of cruel Russia, because our national government could not possibly be as outrageous as is of necessity that of the Czar. It has taken many centuries to evolve such a monster cuttle-fish as the Russian government that has fastened its tentacles upon its millions of people, and is slowly crushing out their lives.This is but government paternalism full and ripe.Who shall say that if paternalism in this country goes on as it is to-day, growing and strengthening, the time is not coming when we no longer can boast over the people of the God-forsaken land? Mankind is much the same to-day and forever;so is government paternalism; once a foothold gained, it can only be washed out in blood. The Russians have been giving over their souls and their lives to their national fetich which has accepted their patriotic and contrite offerings, and is now leisurely devouring them. The ancient migrating barbarian when he camped at night, got his supper by cutting it out of the hams of the ox that had all day borne him and his load on the weary journey—he had to have his supper, and just so it is with Russian government. Just so it will be in any government when it isimpossible longer for the Leaderless Mob to spring into existence and into power.