Part 15

The aim of this department is to present to the readers of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE, and particularly to those who are directly interested in the Lyceum, all obtainable information with reference to the bright lights of the platform—the men and women of real genius, whose work has contributed to the establishing and development of an interest in that higher and more wholesome entertainment to which all enlightened communities are rapidly turning, from the coarser and more purposeless forms of amusement. This being a department devoted to the particular interests of the platform of the South, it is our desire to give special attention to all worthy attractions which include the South in their field of operation. We shall not “puff” the unworthy for a price, but among those who come to the Southland with the genius and the power to instruct, entertain and uplift us, there shall be none too poor in pocket to command our columns and our full energies for the exploitation of their merits for the benefit of the public. Our people are wide awake, and the South is no field for the marketing of gold bricks and wooden nutmegs, whether they be moulded in Dixie or manufactured in the land of Yankee Doodle. While the Southern tongue is the quickest to condemn a fraud or a fake, the Southern hand is the readiest to place the laurel wreath on the brow which deserves it. As in everything else, the jewels of the platform are very rare. There are too many paste diamonds mixed with the real—too many so-called stars which neither shine nor sparkle. Let us seek out the real and genuine sparklers, and throw the light of our approval upon them, that they may glint and glance on the platform for our pleasure and edification.

Opie Read, author, humorist, playwright and philosopher, known and beloved by Americans, rich and poor alike, not only in his own Southland, but all over the great West, and the East as well—his is indeed a name to conjure with. As an entertainer, Mr. Read has been a surprise even to his most sanguine friends. Very few who write clever stories can read them in a way to evoke either tears or laughter, and when an author who has gained his reputation mainly through humorous work appears in a varied program, his path is beset by so many difficulties that failure almost invariably lies in wait for him. Opie Read is the exception that proves the rule. We laugh with him when he “shoots out the moon,” and we weep over the pathetic story of “The Bronsons,” and the “moonlight parting to let her pass.” We are thrilled with the tales of simple heroism and we marvel at the rich mine of romance which lies hidden among the Tennessee mountains whence he draws the quaint characters that figure in his stories and plays.

March 1, 1895, Mme. Gadski made her debut at the New York Metropolitan Opera House in the role of Elsa in “Lohengrin,” and during two more seasons with the Damrosch-Ellis Company, of which Mme. Melba was also a prominent member, she constantly increased her repertoire, progressing from merely lyric to heavier dramatic parts and thereby growing in public favor.

In 1898 Mme. Gadski became a member of the Grau Opera Company, at New York. When Grau retired, in the spring of 1903, Mme. Gadski received and accepted a flattering offer from Heinrich Conried, the successor to Mr. Grau at the Metropolitan Opera House.

Besides her American engagements Mme. Gadski found time to appear at Covent Garden, London, during the seasons 1899, 1900 and 1901. She also sang Eva in the “Meistersinger” performances at Bayreuth in the summer of 1899.

Mme. Maconda has received her musical training almost wholly in the United States, and by every right she stands the coloratura soprano par excellence of to-day on this continent. With a vocal organ of richest quality and remarkable range, a charming personality, and that undefinable something called magnetism, this great artist charms her hearers, and has won her way to the very front rank of great artists. Moreover, she sings to the heart and the soul as well as to the ear, and in the clearness and tender pathos of her notes she perhaps more nearly approaches the divine music of the great Patti than any singer of the present generation.

Capt. Jack Crawford, who has long been prominent as soldier, poet and entertainer, has achieved a new success in his article in the _Munsey Magazine_ of February, entitled “The Last of the Indian Chiefs.” This article is intensely interesting and discloses some astonishing facts with reference to certain supposedly great Indian warriors, who were in reality the creations of sensationalists and dime novel writers. It is so seldom we meet a man with courage enough to deliver facts which turn a hero into a fake, that we are refreshed with the very presence of such a man.

We are glad to have the privilege to present to our readers this tender and beautiful little poem from the pen of the Poet-Scout.

WAITING IN THE ANTE-ROOM.

I saw her face in the pansy, I caught her breath in the rose, And my heart went out on a fine love scout To the land where the daisy grows. In the brook I heard her laughter Like an anthem from afar, Or the echoing where the angels sing And the gates are just ajar.

Then I closed my eyes in dreamland And joined my heart on the scout; And I wandered away to a mound of clay Where she sleeps since the light went out. And there in the Southwest sun land I knelt by my darling’s tomb, And I whispered low: “My dear child, you know, I am here in the ante-room.” —_Capt. Jack Crawford._

Fred Emerson Brooks, the poet-humorist of the West, who loves the South and is one of the favorites of Southern people. No more beautiful tribute has ever been paid to the valor of the Southern soldier than is paid in Mr. Brooks’ great poem, “Pickett’s Charge.”

UP AND KISSED HER.

Cupid knew a maiden fair— Flying round about he met her— Told her of a youth’s despair, Who was dying just to get her. Every time the youth would pass By some strange mischance he missed her Till at length he met the lass, Then he straightway up and kissed her. Kissed her Missed her Then he straightway up and kissed her!

When she seemed a trifle mad At the liberty, he told her; ’Gainst his heart so very sad For her pardon he would hold her. Thought he needn’t hold so tight! Said she’d be to him a sister. Claiming quick a brother’s right, Many, many times he kissed her! Kissed her! Sister! Many, many times he kissed her.

“You don’t leave me any chance,” Said the maiden, “to deny you; You may see, sir, at a glance, I’ve no power to defy you!” Loved her more each time they met— Strange that lips don’t sometimes blister— Stranger still, they sweeter get— Did to him each time he kissed her! Kissed her! Blister! Did to him each time he kissed her. —_Fred Emerson Brooks._

Rev. Sam P. Jones, the great evangelist and Southern lecturer, who possesses a style of oratory unique and powerful, and a wonderful magnetism.

THE STORY OF JOSEPH.

By Ida Benfey.

“Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh,” and just now I find myself almost completely absorbed by the Story of Joseph, which Tolstoi calls the greatest short story ever written. And he adds, significantly, that it would make no difference in telling it to the people of China what the customs were—that the human interest in the story is so powerful it sweeps all minor details to one side.

Joseph is not at all a perfect man. He hasn’t the kind of faults that David possessed, that show clearly to the person that isn’t even looking for them; but he has what seem to be more terrible faults because they are gilded over with success. And I can think of no character in history more magnanimous than was Joseph, for when his father was dead and his brethren came to him and were afraid that he would be avenging, he wept at their doubting him, and then said these significant words: “Fear not: for am I in the place of God?” It seems to me that these are the words that best show the high ideal that ruled Joseph. As far as I can see it is the same spirit which was in Luther, only in another form—that is, that each one of us must settle all our doubts with God alone. Human help is unavailing here. Such a high ideal as this of Joseph fills me with awe and reverent admiration, and when I realize that he was at the head of, and the former and the creator of the most stupendous trust that the world has ever known, I find myself bewildered in trying to reconcile such different elements in one man,—Joseph’s tenderness and magnanimity to his brethren, and Joseph’s creating a trust which forced the Egyptians to sell their land to him and finally their bodies as slaves to ward off starvation. Think of one man combining such opposite qualities. Is it because the golden rule that Christ gave us had not yet come into the world? Of course Joseph did what John D. Rockefeller is trying to do, and has in no small degree accomplished, though perhaps we do not see the slave-chains that he has put upon us. But John D. Rockefeller hasn’t, as far as we know, the godlike nature that Joseph had. He and Joseph are alike in each possessing the inhuman quality of being able to crush out the life of their fellowmen.

I wonder if Joseph created this trust and carried it out merely because he was a man of business, or because he enjoyed the game he was at, as does Russell Sage. Until I began to study this story, I never knew what the parable of the wise and foolish virgins meant, but it seems plain to me now. Joseph was like the wise virgin. The thirteen years which he spent as a slave and in prison he gave entirely to living each moment to the glory of God. He wasted no time in bearing hatred towards his brethren, or thinking how much better he was than the position he occupied, or wishing God wouldn’t forget him quite so long, but would try and be a little more attentive to him personally. No, he simply did each act in the best and sunniest way, and the day when Pharaoh sent hastily for him and they brought him hurriedly out of the prison, he stopped and shaved himself and changed his raiment. Why? Because he was a gentleman and he had been in the habit of daily shaving and of daily caring for his body in the best possible way. And when we read that he came in to Pharaoh we know exactly how he walked, with the calm quietness that belongs to a person that has sufficient self-respect to last through the night and lap over into the next morning.

Gibbon, in his “History of Rome,” says that the hatred between the religions began about the fourth century; that people before that had been willing that people should worship as they thought best, the idea being that all were striving for the same noble end. I wonder if there was something of this beautiful spirit in Egypt. It has made a tremendous impression upon me that Moses, a Hebrew, in telling the story says that the Egyptians would not eat with the Hebrews because it is an abomination for Egyptians to eat with Hebrews. One would have thought that Moses would have put the Hebrew first, naturally caring most for his own. And I keep wondering whether he put them in the inferior position of making them second because of that same exquisite courtesy which Lincoln exercised when he always mentioned the North first, as though they were the more guilty in everything connected with the War; or was it because the Egyptians were the most powerful nation, and, as a matter of fact, should be mentioned first? This, however, is but a side issue to the wonderful fact that though the Egyptians would not eat with the Hebrews, yet Pharaoh and Potiphar immediately saw, and Pharaoh publicly announced, that the Spirit of God was in Joseph. Why, I hardly know anyone who is an enthusiastic church worker that feels that the spirit of God is really and surely in a church worker of another denomination.

THE MOCKING-BIRD.

O, naught to me the nightingale, Save as its exquisite harmony Sings from Keats’ incomparable ode, A hint—a dream-dipped memory.

But thou, sweet Mock-bird, art my own— My very own. And every tender, tinted tone A-tilt from out thy tune-tipped throat, To weave faint melodies, afloat, Or trail low, liquid lengths of song The dawn along— Into the roseate, fresh-waked morn— This song, dew-drenched and lilting borne, This song, that timid as a dove, Creeps in my heart—this song I love.

How does my soul of song within me burn For speech to stay the falt’ring, lute-like turn That trips the silence of the silver moon Into a halting, dreamy, lingering tune; For words to catch thy glorious roundelay And coin the music of thy ecstasy. Clear, crystal-beaded melodies, unstrung— Long threaded pearls of song, triumphant flung— Song-storms, symphonic, silvered, sifting showers,— And through it all, the breathing orange flowers— ... O, let me softly sink to sleep ’Neath Southern skies where all the senses steep In languorous joys. Let pure, soft, balmy air Trail soothing fingers o’er my brow and hair. And let the rustle of the pine and palm Sway rhythmic measure to the peaceful calm— While floats the perfume of the orange bloom In all its richness through my moonlit room. Then, when I join the twilight, slumber throng, Come thou, sweet Mock-Bird, fill my dreams with song! —_Mary H. Flanner._

THE YOUTH OF SHAKESPEARE.

By Frederick Warde.

“By indirection, find direction out.” —_Hamlet._

The mistaken impression that prevails in the minds of many as to the social position and general conditions of the parents of Shakespeare is in a great measure responsible for the doubts that are so frequently expressed as to the authenticity of the works ascribed to that great master. It is erroneously supposed that they were in very humble circumstances, in fact, little more than peasants, and the question is frequently asked: “Is it possible that a man of such humble origin and with such limited opportunities of mental development, could have written a series of plays that indicate such universal knowledge of men and manners and display such transcendent genius?”

Hazlett, in one of his essays, truly says: “No really great man ever thought himself to be one,” and I doubt if Shakespeare in his wildest dreams ever imagined that the world would credit him with the sublime genius that it now justly acknowledges. We find no memoirs or autobiographic notes to enlighten us as to his hopes, his fears, his ambitions, the thoughts that occupy his mind, or the details of his daily life.

It is greatly to be deplored that we have so little authentic information as to the life of Shakespeare. The facts, however, that have been gleaned from the meagre records of the period, conflicting though they be, enable us to arrive, with some degree of accuracy, at the probabilities, if not the actual facts of his history. Supplementing these facts with some imagination, intelligently directed, I think we are justified in the conclusion that there is nothing inconsistent with the conditions of his birth, parentage, education, the environment of his youth, and the universality of the genius subsequently displayed.

The father of Shakespeare was legally a gentleman, by a license from King Henry VII, granting him a crest and a coat of arms, and the privilege of bearing arms for substantial services rendered his sovereign; and it is recorded that this honor was not only bestowed for his own individual services, but was renewed by inheritance from his father and grandfather; so that, engaged in peaceful pursuits himself, he was honorably descended from warriors and fighting men, almost the sole means of obtaining distinction in those days.

We have no means of discovering if John Shakespeare was a man of any education. The fact that he made his mark instead of signing his name to public documents being no evidence to the contrary, for at the period in which he lived, the art of pencraft was almost entirely limited to clerks and scholars; even gentlemen and men of quality holding it “a baseness to write fair.” Yet Sidney Lee assures us there is evidence in the Stratford archives that he (John Shakespeare) could write with facility. The offices held by him in the Borough of Stratford indicate that he was a man of more than average intelligence among his fellows, and of considerable executive ability. After holding several minor offices he was elected successively one of the Chamberlains (1561), Alderman (1565), Borough Bailiff (1569), and Chief Alderman (1571), and by the county records was possessed at various times of considerable property, principally real estate. In the deeds relating to the transfer of this property he is sometimes described as “yeoman,” at others as a “glover,” and it is known that he dealt in cattle, corn and country produce generally.

If asked what was the strongest influence for good in their lives, I think most men of any worth or eminence would reply, “My mother.” In this respect Shakespeare was most fortunate. His mother was Mary Arden, the youngest of seven daughters of Robert Arden of Wilmecote, whose tenant Richard Shakespeare, the father of John, had been; and who, on her marriage to John Shakespeare, brought him a good estate in money and property. The Ardens were an old family of good standing and consequence in the midland counties of England, tracing a long line of honorable ancestry, and worthily representing that substantial and independent class, “the yeoman squires of England.” Rowe asserts that this worthy couple (John and Mary Shakespeare) had ten children, but the parish register of Stratford makes the number only eight. However, William was the eldest son, though not the first child.

There is no evidence that Mary Arden was a woman of any great accomplishments, but it is reasonable to suppose from the position and wealth of her family she was not without education. It is also reasonable to suppose that in spite of the onerous duties of such a large family Shakespeare’s mother should have found time to guide and form the youthful mind of her eldest son, and impart to him the first rudiments of knowledge. His father at that period was well-to-do and abundantly able to provide his family with comfortable surroundings and adequate service.

Thus the first seven years of Shakespeare’s life were passed in comfort and comparative affluence, under the care of a father who was honored and respected for his ability and integrity by his fellow-townsmen, and a mother whose family and connections would indicate a woman of worth and refinement.

In the town of Stratford was a Free School, founded in the reign of Edward IV and subsequently chartered by Edward VI—one of those foundation schools of which a number exist in England to-day, notably, Christ’s (the blue-coat school), made familiar to us by Thackeray, in The Newcombs; the City of London School, St. Paul’s, and The Charterhouse. To the Free School was Shakespeare sent, and it is said attended it until he was fourteen years old.

There are no records of Shakespeare’s life at school to indicate if he were an apt scholar. We have no account of the course of study pursued by him, but from Ben Jonson’s statement that Shakespeare “knew a little Latin and less Greek,” the inference is that it was (in part, at least) a classical one, and the quotations in his plays, imperfect as they are, indicate that he must have studied with some diligence.

At the age of fourteen Shakespeare left school to assist his father, who at this time had met with some business reverses, and we have little or no record of his life until his nineteenth year when, in the autumn of 1582 he married Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a substantial yeoman of Shottery, the village adjoining Stratford. The baptism of his daughter Susanna is next recorded on May 26, 1583; and that of a son Hamnet and a daughter, Judith (twins), on Feb. 2, 1585. His departure for London followed, probably in 1586.

Of Shakespeare’s migration to London and his life in that city I do not propose to speak here, but from the foregoing facts, it will be seen that Shakespeare came of a good family, enjoyed in his infancy tender parental care, and received the rudiments of a sound and substantial education at a period of his life when the youthful mind is most receptive.

To an intelligent observer the influences and experiences of his youth are clearly reflected in the work of his later years.

A mere cursory reading of the plays will show his intimate knowledge of the Holy Scriptures, probably begun at his mother’s knee and continued in his leisure hours—the Bible being one of the few books within his reach at that time.

In the pastoral scenes we cannot but marvel at the knowledge he displays of forestry, botany, the flora of the fields and woods, and the nature and habits of the animals, birds and insects.