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10 THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. charitable and temper calm, and his constant study how to do good.”*

If, with an intellectual people, surgery once established, could afterwards be lost, surprise may not be felt at one feature in our historical records, that anatomy and surgery have not been uniformly progressive with civilization. To a remarkable extent they have had their periods of rise and fall, flourishing in one age, decaying in the next. ‘ The edifice of medical science,” says a learned historian, ‘ begun at one period, languishing in the next, of insecure foundation in every age of past time, and perhaps worse defended than all other human arrangements against the caprice of man, and instability of fortune.”

Various and opposite circumstances haye, as might

the Hindoo sages add, “ should death come upon us under the care of this earthly saint, it can only be considered as inevitable fate, and not the consequence of presumptuous ignorance, and that one of the most happy indications of returning health is, when the sick person forgets not his God amongst his sufferings, but daily prostrates him- self in prayer with humility and resignation.”
 * After the full enumeration of the qualities of a good physician,

The principal sources of information, relative to the medicine of the ancient Hindoos, are—

An Essay on the Antiquity of Hindoo Medicine. By J. F. Royle, M.D.

Tracts on India. By Dr. Heyne.

Materia Indica. By Whitelaw Ainslie, M.D.

Oriental Magazine, 1823 ; containing translations from the Sanscrit Medical Works, by Professor Wilson, of the Univer- sity of Oxford. �

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THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. il be expected, given rise to the epochs of advance in anatomy and surgery. At one period they have been connected with the prosperity of a nation; and at another, with its political and religious dissensions. So it has been with other departments of knowledge ; thus the origin of our Royal Society has been traced to the retreat “of a few friends to Truth, Repose, and Nature,’ who betook themselves to the investigations of natural science as the means of relief from the troubles of the times, by which they were grievously oppressed. And at another period, the excitement of war, when its object was the preservation of freedom, by calling forth the energies of mind, has been favourable to the cultivation of natural knowledge, of the arts and sciences generally ; thus, in the Italian States, the first half of the sixteenth century was a period alike remarkable for the fury of its contests, as for the number of its illustrious men in science and literature, and it was the period most fruitful of discoveries in human anatomy; when its most rapid strides were made, from the combined efforts of the many distinguished men then flourishing, some of whom were foreigners, whom the Italian princes had invited to their country. At the head of this illustrious band was Andrew Vesalius; “that great genius,” says the learned Sprengel, “ whose name can never be pronounced by the admirer of anatomical science without a feeling of deep veneration.” Vesalius commenced �

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12 THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. the foundation of his fame in the determination to study Nature: breaking through the prejudices by which men were at that time enchained, he recommended to his cotemporaries that they should re- present Nature only as they might find her. Scarcely twenty-five years of age, he published his great work on the structure of Man; of surpassing excellence by the accuracy of its descriptions, and by the admirable interpretation of the uses of the parts he had described; and all this, moreover, accomplished at a period when, to dissect a human body was nothing less than sacrilege. Portal, in a rapturous strain of devotion to his science, exclaims, “ Let the Astronomers vaunt their Coperni- cus; the Natural Philosophers their Galileo and TorTicelli; the Mathematicians their Pascal; the Geographers their Columbus; I shall place Vesalius above all these, for our first study is Man, and this was the object which Vesalius so nobly attained.” Well may the Italians cherish the name of Vesalius as we do that of Hunter. Even to the present day, in their discourses, the labours of Vesalius continue to be the theme of unbounded praise.

Italy is the country to be held in our grateful recol- lection. There, was anatomy restored, almost created. By the labors of a succession of eminent men, Italy became the school of Europe. The Italian students carrying their knowledge, and their enthusiasm for the science, into France, Germany, Holland and England, �

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Rh which I hear from Edinburgh is, that the gentleman who fills the situation of Secretary to the Antiquarian Society, is the best amateur draftsman in that kingdom, and that much is expected from his skill and zeal in delineating those specimens of national antiquity, which are either mouldering under the slow touch of time, or swept away by modern taste, with the same besom of destruction which John Knox used at the Reformation. Once more adieu; vale tandem, non immemor mei. Believe me to be,

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 It has previously been remarked that Benavente takes his departure from conventional drama through employment of the double entente. A favorite device for the insinuation of allusions of doubtful taste becomes in his hands a statement and a reservation, what seems and what is, the obverse and reverse of character in a phrase or a word. The apparent character is thus discredited, and in its place a personality suggested compounded of reserves, which lie behind. As a consequence, the dialogue takes on the quality of conversation as it is actually heard, becoming a fabric of half-statements and approximations, to be co-ordinated by the spectator, yet possessing no inherent credibility of itself. The intention provides the motive power, but by no means necessarily the substance of speech. Character, obviously, can no longer properly be given by definition, but is metamorphosed into a process of induction, and in this way remains subjective. Instead of lending itself to statement, personality invites inference as being rather a matter of direction and tendency, to be caught on the wing as it hovers between the apparent and the real. Like the arbitrary moral standards of the past century, its sharpness of outline has been obliterated, and it has become dissipated and diffused among the uncertainties of the emotions and the will.

The dualism which is inescapable in human nature, and so conspicuously evident in the realm of feeling, has its counterpart, however, intellectually, in a dualism which underlies the world of ideas. Truth itself is merely relative. The psychologic theatre cannot avoid taking this most fundamental of antimonies into account, if it is to penetrate to the heart and reproduce the modalities of life. To conceive is to distinguish, to set apart from something else. An art which is dynamic can have no place for fixed ideas. Ideas are themselves positive and negative, varying in content and connotation with different peoples and times. They are instruments of knowledge, not matters of conviction. Here is potential contrast lying ready to the dramatist's hand. The proper presentation of the basic duality of thought offers, however, extraordinary difficulties to the artist. It is effected by Benavente through an antitechnique of opposi-


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 ::By Agatha Christie


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THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. 39 To have hesitated, Gentlemen,. in appearing before you on this occasion, would have been to do no honour to the memory of my earliest instructor in surgery, for I was the pupil of Mr. Abernethy,—one of those who listened with delight through a long series of years, to his animated expositions of the doctrines of John Hunter. Rightly has it been observed, that many are able to reach the summit of a science, who are not capable of leading others to it; that there is often more difficulty in descending to teach, than in persist- ing to rise. How effectually did Mr. Abernethy mas- ter this difficulty was warmly acknowledged, on the yarious occasions of his appearance in the theatre of this college. Gratitude, and respect to his memory are justly due for the excellence of his instructions, enlivening as he did, the driest details of his subject, communicating to others the enthusiasm for surgery which he so strongly felt. An old pupil presenting his first publication, intimated that with whatever zeal he had studied surgery, was a consequence of the enthu- siasm derived from the attendance on his lectures. Mr. Abernethy, with his usual readiness of reply, simply reminded him, “that it required only a spark to excite the blaze of the largest fire.” Through his advocacy of the doctrines of Hunter, Mr. Abernethy reached the highest excellence as a teacher, inculcating the study of surgery as a noble occupation, and the practice of it with honourable and benevolent feelings. �

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40 THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. We live in an age when literary and scientific emi- nence are justly regarded of importance, as they conduce to the glory of a nation; and our station in public opinion depends mainly on the connection which surgery has formed with general scienée. All the arrangements of our time tend to the equalization of surgery. To no future historian instituting a com- parative view of the surgery of the present period in the various countries of the civilized world, will it be permitted to state, that it was flourishing in one coun- try and languishing in another. His representation will be, that in the nineteenth century by the spirit of activity, every where prevailing; surgery for the first time in its history, became uniform in its character and proceedings, exercised in all civilized countries with the like intelligence, every where with the same good results.

A better history of Nature, says Lord Bacon, is wanting for Philosophy. So large a contribution to this history has Mr. Hunter. furnished, that on this ground alone, would his name be consigned to posterity as a benefactor to mankind. We, moreover, owe to Mr. Hunter the formation of the principles of surgery. If such be the right estimate of his merits, posterity has done that which justice warrants and reason guides, in awarding to his memory the honour of this com- memoration, associating thereby the name of Hunter with the successive advances of surgery to be recorded, �

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34 THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. the works of antiquity which deserves to be recorded in connection with the modern improvements of our art. It is not yet so clear as might be supposed, whether to the present or to a past age, posterity will award the honour of the original idea and practice of comminuting the stone in the bladder. Hippocrates speaks of a certain Ammonius in Alexandria, who, having made a small hole in the bladder, then pro- ceeded to cut the stone into pieces by an instrument resembling, it is stated, the chisel of the statuary, whence he received the appellation of “lithotomus,” the stone cutter.* Here was combined the operation by incision with the proceeding of the modern lithotri- tist. But still more closely has Sir Philip Crampton, the distinguished Surgeon-General of Ireland, traced the connection of lithotrity with the practice of a past age, for he has found in a record lodged in the State Paper Office, and dated 270 years ago, the observation that a stone was voided by Sir Henry Sidney, the Lord Deputy for the time being, which had been broken by the surgeon into many pieces; the discovery of this curious historical fact having been made by a gentle- man upon whom the Surgeon-General had performed

experiment and observation are active in ascertaining the best ma- terial for the construction of this immoveable apparatus.

1824, Paralléle des divers moyens de traiter les calculeux par le Docteur Civiale. A Cornelius Celsus. Book VII. �
 * Rapport fait 4 Y Academie des Sciences par Chaussier et Perey,

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 tion, a complete system of positive and negative values, of antisymbols and antititles, of antiheroes and antiheroines, and of anti-ideals. Love appears to Princess Bebé as a deluded, hollow infatuation, masked behind a horrible and repulsive scar. Our Lady of Sorrows, in the play of that name, awakes to find herself beatified at last through the not wholly disinterested worship of a false, contemptible ideal. Crispin, too, of "The Bonds of Interest," notoriously an antihero, upon analysis is disclosed to be far less unheroic than he seems. Even the title of the comedy is an inversion, as was recognized at the time of its translation into Dutch as "Die fijne draad"—"The Fine (or Invisible) Thread"—in reference to the invisible thread of love which runs through the story, providing the positive element of the play. The antititle, indeed, is a favorite device of Benavente's—frequently the board from which the action springs. Equivocations of the sort are never even remotely accidental, but have their genesis in the rooted antipathy of his theatre to complete statement, with its inevitable suggestion of finality. It is not a question of theme, but of conception and approach, and Benavente's attitude has been well indicated by a Spanish critic in the assertion that he is always to be found at the point of the scales. But an art which refuses to identify itself with half truths, living instead in the emotions and the intelligence, is a sealed book to the unimaginative, literal mind. Other authors have suffered from opposition and prejudice, but the enemy to the comprehension of Benavente has always been sheer stupidity. Thought and emotion must meet with response in emotion and thought. Only one all-embracing contradiction has failed to attract his interest, and that has been cerebral drama without cerebration. The antitechnique is a discipline which obliges people to think—a species of legerdemain entirely congenial to his temperament and the very touchstone of his genius.

The extension of the antitechnique from the plane of character and idea to that of the dramatic action itself, completes the scheme of the Benaventian dramaturgy. It involves of necessity the creation of a secondary or antithetic inner action, which, while not obtruding upon the course of


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THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. 35 lithotrity, and who in consequence became interested in searching out the records of the art.*

A striking feature in modern medical science is the zeal and the discretion with which the various collateral branches of knowledge are brought to its aid. The happy union of the sciences, their mutual fecundation as Cuvier expressed it, is here signally displayed, per- fectly realising the same idea which Cicero has so beau- tifully and philosophically expressed, Omnes artes, que ad humanitatem pertinent, habent quoddam com- mune vinculum, et quasi cognatione quidam inter se continentur.f We have chemistry, human and com- parative anatomy and physiology, zoology and geology, all mutually aiding, yet each confined within its own sphere. A century ago, out of a few facts observed by the great chemist of the day, upon a living gym- notus, or silurus electricus, would have been almost certainly constructed a chemical theory of life. But

F.R.S. Read before the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland, November, 1838. Dublin Journal of Medical Science, January, 1839.
 * An outline of the History of Medicine. By Sir Philip Crampton,

The honour of the re-introduction of lithotrity must be accorded to the French Surgeons. In the year 1818, M. Civiale contrived an instrument that would perforate the stone, and, besides, scoop out its interior, in order that from the knowledge tlius obtained of its composition, an appropriate solvent might be directed to it. When, by successive perforations and scoopings, the stone was reduced to a mere shell, then did the idea occur of crushing the shell into frag-

ments and powder. + Oratio pro Archia, Poeta. �

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36 THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. we have now, “no idols successively worshipped with the changing spirit of the times: where in the same individual, the chemist and the physiologist, are con- spicuously united, as they are in the person of the dis- tinguished author of one of our Bridgewater Treatises, * the lover of science must contemplate, with pleasure, his philosophic reasonings on the animal processes in health and disease.

The ancient Egyptians, it is recorded, ordained by law, a solemn canvass of the actions and characters of their dead before competent judges, to regulate the amount of respect due to their memory. Guided by the same feeling, the Royal Academy of Medicine in Paris have decreed, that no permanent record of a deceased associate be made until five years have elapsed, so to guard against the influence of Feeling, and to wait the unerring operation of Time in the ad- justment of every thing to its place. Nevertheless, in a confident spirit of truth and impartiality, I venture to speak to the honoured memory of an individual, once a public character, and but recently departed from amongst us.—History, it is well said, in holding forth the examples of past ages, furnishes our most impressive lessons of instruction. Welcome intelli-

�
 * Dr. Prout.

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THE HUNTERIAN ORATION. 37 gence it must be to those who desire the welfare of our profession, to know that the eminence of a departed associate was deserved, that it was attained solely through the legitimate means of science and skill, pro- bity, and the most active exercise of benevolence.— “ Who,” says Hippocrates, “is the physician honour- ing his profession, the man who merits public esteem by his knowledge and experience, strict probity and spotless life—the man who in the ministrations of his art, recognises no distinction of persons,—who, with the same interest and attention, listens to the com- plaints of the poor as of the rich—who besides, imparts cheerfulness and confidence to the depressed spirit— who occupies his time in the investigation of disease for the discovery of the means of its cure, and is never disturbed by the occurrence of unforeseen events, who is moreover, ever ready to aid his brethren in their difficulties ;—in conclusion, the man who having ob- tained, by his skill and knowledge, the mastery over disease, feels happy, but modest in his success, and who, with a less degree of success, can at least com- fort himself in the reflection that he has alleviated suf- ferings which he could not remove.* ‘The few there may be of my audience who were, in any way asso- ciated with Mr. Thomas Blizard in the ministrations of his knowledge and skill as one of the surgeons of the London Hospital, will sustain me, I am confident

�
 * Tracts in the works of Hippocrates.

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AN old queen, whose husband had been dead some years, had a beautiful daughter. When she grew up, she was betrothed to a prince who lived a great way off; and as the time drew near for her to be married, she got ready to set off on her journey to his country. Then the queen her mother packed up a great many costly things; jewels, and gold, and silver; trinkets, fine dresses, and in short every thing that became a royal bride; for she loved her child very dearly: and she gave her a waiting-maid to ride with her, and give her into the bridegroom's hands; and each had a horse for


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 the outward story, or destroying its credibility, at the same time confers upon it dual quality and transcendence. The outer or written plot, which is the progress of the story and the history of the characters, must by its nature be direct and objective, and in precise proportion to the definiteness with which it is formulated, of limited significance. It acquires depth and universality from other, remotely hidden sources. Individual experience may properly be interpreted by the experience of the race, in whose generalizations it finds a corrective. Any act, moreover, in so far as it is at all intelligible, must look for explanation to the ultimate impulses and broad reactions of man's nature, to the faculties and processes of the mind which are most general, and so have come almost to have the force of personifications. This is the genesis of the type and universality of the idealist, which through the ages have by common consent constituted the hall-mark of great art. To draw upon these vast stores of experience, handed down immemorially through the ages as the gathered wisdom of the centuries, is the specific problem of the artist. Usually the task has been approached blindly, and the solution has been left more or less to chance, as a matter of accident or of temperament—the consequence of a happy stroke of what is vaguely called genius. The progress of science, however, has clarified our vision of the unconscious. Our insight into its mysteries is keener, more penetrating now than before. Casual knowledge has made way for system. In Benavente, the exploitation of this underworld replaces the banalities of the older playwrights, and is the result not only of genius but of method. From the common treasury of humanity, he conjures an inner, unwritten, suggested universal plot, which is not related to the outward story by any artificial means, and never itself definitely given form, yet which parallels and synchronizes with the outward course of events, underlying and interpreting them, always and under whatever conditions, containing within itself not only the motive and driving power, but also the criticism of the play. Without ever rising to the surface, never under any circumstances seeking expression in words, whether in dialogue or in stage directions, the under, buried


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May Eve; or, What You Must/Part 2

T'S new moon night,” he said, as they walked along the quiet suburban street; “it's one of my lucky nights. Some people, you know, have a lucky star. I have a lucky moon. From the new of the moon to the half of the moon, I always have extraordinarily good fortune. But from half moon on to full moon I am at my lowest ebb of luck. I'm positively the buffoon of events, the very footstool of the fates; time's fool, as it were.”

“Why, how very, very curious!” she burst out. “How extraordinary! Have you ever read George MacDonald's 'At the Back of the North Wind'?” she inquired swiftly.

“I was brought up on it.”

“Do you remember the story of the Princess Daylight?”

“Perfectly; it was my favorite.”

“I read that story when I was—oh, a little girl. I became very fond of it. As I grew older I used to play that I was the Princess Daylight, and I came to fancy that at the full of the moon”

“Oh, impossible,” he interrupted; “you're not going to tell me”

“On the contrary, I have always thought so.”

“Your good fortune comes with the full of the moon?”

“Always,” she insisted unswervingly. “From half moon to full.”

“We ought to form a luck association,” he said. “Between us, we'd capture all there is of it. We'd have—what is it you Americans make—a corner, is it?—yes, a corner in luck.”

“I'm not sure that's fair to the rest of the world,” she laughed; “but as luck will have it—our present uncornered luck—here we are.”

He waited outside until she saw Pepi.

“Have you ever noticed, Miss Wrexmere, how quickly time passes when you're happy?” he inquired of her, when she rejoined him.

“I think I always notice the obvious,” she frowned; “it's ungallant of you to give me credit for no intelligence.”

“Oh, but,” he said triumphantly, “I have theories that account for it.”

“Oh, well, I will listen to them,” she indulged him.

“Well, then, first you must realize the truth about Father Time. I am convinced that he's a hoary-headed hypocrite. I'm convinced that he's a liar and a thief. And I'll tell you why. When time hangs heavy on your hands, when you're bored and unhappy, when, in short, time's cheap, he'll give you full measure of it, he'll satiate you with it, he'll glut you with it. But let there enter into it, if you please, happiness in never so small a combination, what does he do? He tampers with his weights—I mean his time-measures—his timepieces. He doles time out to you in the smallest possible compass; he doesn't give you full measure. Oh, I know, because I've watched. When you're happy there are positively only twenty-five seconds to a minute, and not more than thirty minutes to an hour. And the inexplicable thing about it is that we are either such blind fools that we don't notice, or so fatuous that we don't care. And we never call him to account until it's too late, until, indeed, we're safely unhappy again—and who wants more time on his hands then? Oh, it's an outrage. I'm not going to be taken in on this occasion.” He pulled out his watch.

“Plaît-il?” she asked, mystified.

“I'm going to get up a strike,” he said. “I now and hereby declare myself opposed to all trusts, and especially the time trust. I offer myself”

“Oh, but—oh, but,” she tripped him cleverly, “didn't you just a moment ago try to tempt me into forming a corner in luck?”

“Oh, I've grown since then,” he asserted, “and I have, myself, suffered at the hands of the time trust; and, besides, there's no virtue in mere consistency. No, I continue to offer myself as a leader to those mortals—no, those immortals—now wallowing in the deepest depths of happiness, who are willing to arise in rebellion against Father Time, to demand their full allowance of minutes. Oh, that isn't all,” he went on heatedly. “I'll turn anarchist if it's necessary—we'll assassinate Father Time—we'll smash all his gage-clocks, watches, sun-dials, moon-dials, star-dials, everything. And when we've got all eternity under control, we'll divide it, socialist fashion, among the happy ones.” His hands fumbled with his watch.

“Still I don't understand,” she maintained, nonplused [sic].

“I'm putting my watch back an hour,” he explained tranquilly, “to allow for cheating, to allow for leakage, to allow for waste.”

She laughed unrestrainedly. “And after you've got your rights—do you mind telling me the time?”

“To people ineffably happy it is at this instant a half-after eight,” he said jauntily. “Oh, but I don't trust you even now,” he apostrophized his slender flat timepiece; “and you're aged enough to be piously honest. And as an old servant, whose welfare has, for nearly a century, risen and fallen with the family fortunes, I'm weak enough to expect devotion from you. But, alas, if happy, put not your trust in watches,” he ended softly.

“And to less happy people it is then half-past nine,” she informed herself meditatively.

“Yes, poor slaves!” he admitted. “Do you happen to know,” he continued casually, “if we turn down here and cut through that inspired little road, and keep straight on, in the course of time—oh, hang time! I'm going to get away from it—in the course of space, let us say, we are morally certain to come out in Brookline?”

She considered. “I didn't happen to know, but my sense of direction reinforces your statement. It's a short-cut—then why don't we take it”

“There is only one objection,” he asserted gravely.

“And that?”

“We should have to walk.”

She smiled amusedly. “I think that's a recommendation,” she was generous enough to help him.

They turned down the “inspired little road.”

“I'm glad you liked 'The Land of Heart's Desire,'” she broke the silence, at length, her tones a little formal.

“Oh, let's not talk books,” he en-treated; “let's talk personalities.”

“Your conversation is full of hooks,” she complained, “and so obviously baited for a woman.”

“Are you going to marry Montfort?” he asked abruptly.

She pondered. “I wonder—I wonder if you're a newspaper man,” she said electrically.

There was for a second an ominous silence, and then he stopped and turned on her. “Good God!” he exclaimed suddenly; and, “Take that back,” he ordered peremptorily.

Silver-Rose made herself tall, and they looked at each other, fiery brown eyes warring on blue—blue eyes, like frozen wells, repelling the shafts of brown eyes—brown eyes growing hard and grim—blue eyes dropping finally protective white curtains before brown eyes. “I beg your pardon,” Silver-Rose said proudly at the end of this wordless duel.

“Are you going to marry him?” he demanded.

“No,” she threw at him curtly.

“I shall have to put my watch back another hour,” he apprised her softly, in the phrase of one Shakespeare, suiting the action to the word. The expression of his eyes was, in a trice, very different. In spite of herself, Silver-Rose laughed.

“Is there anywhere in your vicinity in Brookline,” he questioned in affable oblivion to what had gone before, “an old house belonging to a family by the name of Eveleth?”

“Indeed, there is just such a house,” she affirmed.

“I'm interested, for various reasons, in the house,” he said vaguely. “I think, after I leave you to-night”—here he stopped, sighed, and said parenthetically: “I shall have to put my watch forward a—no, I'll smash it.” Then he continued: “I shall hunt it up. You can give me the directions?”

“Easily,” she smiled up at him. “You walk through our place, back of the house, past the garden, into the Dimple, and through the orchard, then into the grove and over the stone wall. That brings you onto the Eveleth estate. If it isn't all grown up there, there's a tiny path that will take you a winding way to the house, and if nothing has been done to put the place in repair, and whether it has or not, I fancy, there's a certain window that will let you in—that is, if you want to explore it.”

“I do want to explore it,” he said humbly. “How does it happen that you know so much about it?”

“It was our favorite play-place when we were children, my sister Doris and my brother Beaufort and I. We've played there for hours and hours. I think the happiest hours that I have ever known have been spent in that old house.”

“An old house,” he mused; “it's the real, the only playground for a child. There ought to be legislation, providing one in every neighborhood. I played,” he went on diffidently, “in a deserted Italian palazzo.

“How exciting! It takes all the glory from my humble experiences.”

“Not at all, as you know,” he insisted; “tell me more about it.”

“We used to play in the big room at the top of the house. Dor and Beau were, at first, always father and mother, and I was their little girl. But one day I rebelled—I was always difficile, and I set up a ménage of my own.”

“And who was your husband?” he inquired earnestly.

“It's so ridiculous to talk about, but my house was a palace; and half the time I was married: my husband a dream-husband, my children dream-children. It sounds a bit like 'Peter Ibbetson,' doesn't it? I always called myself the Princess Daylight. The other half the time I was still under the fairy's enchantment, waiting for the prince to come to break my moon-bound destiny.”

“Oh,” he commented comprehendingly. “And what sort of a prince was he?” he asked.

“This is the childish part of it,” she laughed. “It happened that there was a hereditary owner of that old house—little Harry Eveleth—who must have been a few years older than I. His father had gone abroad a few years before we were born and married there. Harry was born abroad, and the father never returned. I used to play with Doris and Beau, that Harry Eveleth, or Prince Harry, or Prince Hal, as we used oftenest to call him—after Shakespeare—was coming to release me from the spell of the bad fairies. We talked so much of and to him that he became quite as real as any of us. For years he was a constant companion. To speak his name calls up at this moment quite as definite a picture to my mind as in those days.”

“How did he look, if it's not impertinent?”;

“Oh, we decided that he should be dark, of course, as I was blond—with black hair to correspond with my tow-head.”

“Tow-head,” he interrupted mutteringly. “I'll call you out.”

“His hair hung in soft love-locks about a heart-shaped face. He had dark-brown eyes—the eyes of a prince cut off by wicked enchantments from his kingdom. He was to wear gray velvet, and a hat with a long floating white plume. We always called him the 'Sad Little Prince,' after a story Doris had read in the St. Nicholas.”

“Must've read it in the St. Nicholas, too,” he averred surprisedly. “My father was an American, you know,” he reminded her. “He would have compelled me to read the St. Nicholas each month if I had not cared, but it happened that I cared enormously.”

“It was such a dear sort of a play-life,” Silver-Rose went on musingly. “Doris wrote a poem later on my little dream-husband. It came out in 'The Wind on the Harp.' People are always asking her what it means, but Doris won't tell.”

“Yes, I've read it,” he admitted, “and I've wondered with the rest. I also will not tell. And how many years did you play there?”

“Oh, three or four. I suppose we'd be playing there now—I'm very sure I should—but during one of the years that we went abroad the Eveleth house became the rendezvous for tramps. It wasn't so built up about there in those days, and it was nicely situated for that sort of thing, they said. Just before we came home a tramps' roost was broken up in it. Father would not permit us to go into the house again. He made us solemnly promise never to do so.”

“What a pity!”

“Wasn't it, just? But you can understand. There had been recently a more disgraceful element. Indeed, we had a sensation out of it, a nine-days' wonder, the papers called it. An escaped criminal, Boston Harry, had been caught there. I think the Eveleths must have heard in some way. At any rate, afterward the house was more carefully boarded up. And, oh, if you're still interested, this same Boston Harry, or Snappy Harry, as they call him now, has just escaped from Sing Sing, the papers say. There's a reward out for him.”

“Yes, I've been reading about it,” he said briefly. “I think I ought to tell you”—he turned swiftly to a change of subject—“perhaps I ought to have told you before, I know Harry Eveleth very well. We went to school together in England.”

“Did you, indeed?” Silver-Rose marveled. “There's a coincidence for you. But, after all, it's not much of one,” she said, sighing. “All my disillusions have been, thus far, in the way of discovering how small the world is. There is really not space enough, since the finding of steam and electricity, for there to be any privacy. I don't wonder that the spirit of romance has betaken itself to other planets. What sort of a man is Hal—Mr. Eveleth?”

“Oh, it's hard for a man to describe another. He's companionable enough—at least I find him so—and congenial, after a fashion. I fancy that we've thrashed out together every idea that we own in common. I suppose, in another way, that accounts for what you charitably describe as my idiomatic English. On the whole, we hit it off pretty well together. I'm not sure but that I prefer his company to any other's.”

“Oh!” Silver-Rose's tone was a little flat from disappointment. “And what does he look like?” she queried.

“He's dark. Your imagined portrait was correct there. And—and—oh, he looks like other men, I suppose.” Her companion stumbled obviously. “He wanted me,” he went on more smoothly, “if I pushed on to Boston, to visit the old place. He's rather curious to know what it's like. He has a fancy he'll come back some time and live there. But I confess I've done nothing about it until now. Oh, yes, I had nearly forgotten that he charged me to be sure and hunt in an upper room for a mysterious secret chamber. His father had told him about it.”

Silver-Rose laughed joyously. “Oh, I know just where that is,” she exclaimed. “We discovered it once when we were playing, Beau and Dor and I. We made a solemn vow that day never to disclose our find to anybody. Oh, we've had such fun with it. Many and many a time we've hidden little Prince Hal there, away from the enemies who were continually pursuing him.”

“You can tell me where it is? Harry's directions were a little hazy.”

“I can show you—I'll explore the house with you. You never could find it without assistance—oh, never in the world; it's over on the right wall as you enter, and the spring's in a knot in the wood.”

“Oh, you are heavenly good,” he said ardently. “I don't dare to thank you for each new paradise that you open up to me. I'm so afraid it will bring you to a realization of all your kindnesses, and you'll shut some of the doors. I'm simply overwhelmed. Didn't I tell you new-moon night brought me luck?”

But she did not shut any doors. Instead, “Look at the stars,” she said dreamily; “what hosts in the pathetic bit of sky over this little mean street! Oh, I love starlight better even than I love moonlight. There's something compelling about the moon; it's like a prima donna. And the stars are her chorus. If you study them carefully, you will always find among them newer and fresher beauties. Oh, there's an 'infinite variety' about them. I used to feel, when I was a little girl, that on the other side of the sky there was a host of aerial creatures, winged and armored. I pictured them standing, silent and erect, with their lances poised against the sky, and all aimed at the earth. And I thought that the stars were their silver lance-tips, pricking through.” She paused a moment. “I hope you are looking at them,” she said.

“No,” he admitted softly. “I'm not looking at them.”

“What shall I call you?” she said abruptly. “I demand a name.”

“It must be Monsieur l'Inconnu for awhile, I fear,” he said a little forlornly.

“No,” she said, shaking her head; “not Monsieur l'Inconnu. Let's return to childhood—I'm going back there as fast as I can—and when I get to the Eveleth house I shall be inescapably there. You shall be the king of the fairies.”

“And you—what will you be?”

“All the afternoon,” she averred, “I have been a newly married bride, and, indeed, it was as a bride, and the bride of a dream-husband, that I played in the Eveleth house.”

But he could not seem to fall in with her suggestion. He was meditating darkly. “Oh, those tableaux!” he said at length. “I don't seem to care for you in the character of a newly married bride—unless you'll let me be Harry Eveleth.”

But she shook her head. “No,” she denied him almost fiercely; “'that would be wickedness.'”

“'That would be sacrilege,'” his quotation supplementing hers immediately. “Apropos, do you know that it is May Eve?” he asked idly.

“So it is, and last year—just a year ago to-night—I was playing Maire in 'The Land of Heart's Desire.'”

His face lighted up suddenly. “So you were,” he agreed. “Yes, you shall be a newly married bride to-night,” he conceded, “if I can be king of the fairies,” he bargained enigmatically.

“Very well, that's settled,” she said steadily. “Remember, we must live up to our parts—you to your kingship, I to my brideship.”

“I shall try my best to live up to my fairyship, you may be sure of that,” he agreed smilingly.

“Oh, I see where we are now,” she exclaimed suddenly, as they turned a corner; “things have not once had a familiar look.”

“Yes,” he said briefly, “you're nearly home.”

“We'll take the short-cut through our place to the Eveleth house. I suppose I ought to hurry—we're giving a dance to-night, you know.”

“I had forgotten that.” He brooded an instant. “I ought to release you from your promise to go over the old house with me,” he said tentatively.

“But I won't be released,” Silver-Rose told him. “People won't even begin to come before eleven, and there are plenty of cousins to help mama, and mama's used to my whims. I'm called eccentric, you know,” she informed. him smilingly.

“Tell me,” the young man said, dropping his voice softly, “you said a moment ago that everything had hitherto looked unfamiliar to you. Have you had, every moment, absolute trust in me—that I would bring you, unmolested, to home and safety '”

“I have had every moment absolute trust in you,” said Sylvia Rosamund Wrexmere.

They turned into the Wrexmere estate at the end farthest from the house. But in the distance they could see the latter, on a hill among the trees, a huge stone bulk, like a reservoir of molten gold, pouring from each window a torrent of thick, yellow light.

“We must be very quiet,” Silver-Rose whispered. “I don't care to be seen. It is unlikely, however, that anybody will be about.”

Her companion followed her noiselessly. For full fifteen minutes they walked through the charming mazes of an estate where, in the main, nature had been permitted to run wild, only coaxed, here and there, to a greater cleanliness, to a more decent seemliness.

“This is the Dimple,” Silver-Rose whisperingly apprised him. “Here's where we always coasted winters. Doris named it; there's a poem about it in 'The Wind on the Harp.'”

It was a soft symmetrical hollow, scooped out of the side of a hill. They walked down into it and up on the other side—to plunge, beyond, into a grove of firs. Here there was a carpet of pine-needles. Their feet sank into it.

“Ah, here's the wall,” Silver-Rose said relievedly. “And here's the place we went through. I was almost afraid I had forgotten the path. It's ages since I've been here.”

Her companion jumped over the wall and assisted her. Then she took the lead again through a little path that had become a mere thread, unwound between parallel rows of bursting shoots,

“Oh,” she said, “smell the sweet things growing here.” She stopped every other instant to breathe in the spring savors. “There used to be,” she went on, “the most wonderful garden here: flowers and flowers and flowers, and in such delicious old-time combinations; every flower that was royal, but only those that were old and quaint. Roses, and such roses! Tiger-lilies, millions of them. Flower-de-luce jostling sunflowers, poppies elbowing marigolds, and hollyhocks, princess feather, cardinal-flower nasturtiums—a perfect flood of them. Not a small flower or a humble flower, and all growing in such a tumult. You can fancy how it must have taken hold of us three children. Our gardens are all of the parterre type—you know what I mean—the deadly product of the taste of hired gardeners. There's the little grape-arbor over there,” she said, after another pause; “it's beside a pond that's a perfect love of a pond: tiny, not deep. Once there were lilies; we used to wade in and get them. Ah, now you can see the house.”

It was a big, square structure. In the abundant starlight it could be seen that the blinds were all closed. On the side toward them was a long pillared piazza; it was conjecturable that another, exactly like it, flanked the other end. Silver-Rose made very swiftly now for the back of the house. She stopped in front of a little, low, back window; the blinds were down there, also.

“I have faith,” she whispered, “that we shall get in here.”

“I also have that faith,” he echoed quietly. He too spoke softly, perhaps because their talk had been for so many minutes in whispers, perhaps because the opulent, star-decked night and their mysterious errand seemed to demand it.

He pulled the blinds open. He tugged at the lower sash of the window, but it went up as smoothly as if Doris and Beaufort and Silver-Rose had that very afternoon played there.

“Have you matches?” she asked.

“A pocket full,” he said.

“Don't light one until I give you permission,” she commanded.

“Oh, no,” he agreed; “this is your expedition.” He leaped lightly in through the window. Then he gave her his hand.

They stood moveless for a second inside, looking out the window.

“Now you may light a match, if you will,” she said.

There was a crisp, snapping sound, then a flash. A jagged triangle of light blazed through the darkness, steadied, grew symmetrical. They were standing in a small, square room, with only one window and a door.

“Ah,” Silver-Rose said relievedly, “it's just as I pictured it. I do remember it aright.” She paused for a second, and in the brief moment before the flame died a strange change made sudden vivid progress across her face.

“What is it?” he asked alarmedly. “Would you rather not go on?”

“Oh, no,” she said stoutly. “I'm not frightened, although I might well be. You see, I'm only ten years old now. Only—only”

“Only,” he helped her.

“Only,” she went on, “I had a sudden intuiton [sic] of impending evil. And, you see, I'm old-fashioned, I trust my intuitions.”

“And I trust them, too,” he said gently. “Let's give up this wild idea. I'll take you home. Heaven bless us and save us, that's where you belong! If you only knew the infernal tattoo my conscience is keeping up.”

“But I want to go,” she persisted. “I shan't desert you now.”

“If I could only leave you outside while I do my exploring—it's such a poky place to take a woman into. No, I insist upon taking you home.”

“And I,” she maintained obstinately, “on accompanying you. You mustn't refuse me. Remember, I'm only ten.”

“Very well,” he acquiesced. “Of course it makes a great difference your going.”

“And what's there to be afraid of?” she questioned clearly. “What could we possibly meet but ghosts, the ghosts of Dor and Beau and Prince Hal and the Princess Daylight?”

“I'd love to meet that last little ghost,” he interrupted.

“Or perhaps the ghost of Boston Harry,” she went on unheedingly. “Listen, listen, just listen to the silence. Isn't that strange, to be listening to silence? But there is no silence like that of a deserted old house.”

He listened with her. The silence was that of the grave.

“No, it's all nonsense being afraid,” she went on, reassuring herself. “There are no birds in any last-year's nest. Come.”

She took command of herself and of the expedition.

“Now, I want, first, to go to the big room up-stairs—and then we'll explore the house by degrees. Give me two matches—no, only two. We'll need all you've got later.” She lighted one that he handed to her.

They went, in almost total darkness, up a narrow flight of back stairs; then through a back hall to a wider hall and up another flight of stairs. Here Silver-Rose lighted her second match. They went up one more flight, narrower again. They paused at the top, the match went out. Silver-Rose walked directly down the narrow hall there. She halted at its end, up against what looked like a blank wall.

“Now a match,” she said.

He fumbled in his pocket, and she heard the crack of a match. Simultaneously she pushed forward, and a door opened noiselessly inward. They stood on the threshold a demi-instant, paralyzed.

And then suddenly they were both pushed violently into the room from behind, and in a flash the door back of them closed and locked.

They found themselves standing in a big, wide, garret room. It was lighted, but only dimly, by a single kerosene lamp. The floor and the walls and the slanting roof were all unfinished. The blinds of the four windows were closed; the windows also were closed. There were heavy stuffs hanging in front of them all, squares of matting, napless rectangles of old carpet, and at one an old shawl. Rags of all kinds were stuffed between the window-sashes and cases. There were a few broken chairs about and a table. On the latter and on the floor were piles of dirty dishes, tin plates, and cans, broken crockery, rusty kitchen utensils. A huge heap of rubbish filled one corner. In a line at one side were what undoubtedly passed for beds: mere heaps of straw and rags and old papers. On one lay a thick bundle of clothes.

There were, in the room, aside from the man who had precipitated them into it, five men in the room. Four of these were standing. The fifth was seated in a tumble-down, pivoting office-chair. He had swung about at their entrance, had given them one hasty glance, had swung back. He had not looked again. Silver-Rose caught, during the progress of his revolution, an instant's sight of a peaked, dark face, sickly and sinister-looking.

The other four men gaped at them for an instant, apparently paralyzed by their intrusion. They looked like no people that Silver-Rose had ever before seen. She had even no type-faces, among her remembered observations, by which she could judge these variations. They were like a collection of gargoyles or Japanese masks—not at all human, and more subtly horrible, somehow, because, after all, they were not oriental, they were occidental. They recalled to her, strangely enough, faces from Hogarth and Doré.

One of them, a collarless, half-clad creature, seemed not quite normal; hardly human, in fact. His underjaw, in his surprise, had dropped away from an overhanging bush of mustache, showing the jagged line of a scarred mouth. He squinted at them with eyes whose lids seemed pressed together by an overhanging, protuberant forehead. His look, as it turned in their direction, shifted and crossed. Another, with a head as round as a ball, with a face like a pudding—pimpled and pockmarked—stared at them, as if unseeingly, with little, blue, pig's eyes. The third was stout and hairy; his head one cascade of hair and beard. One eye was permanently closed, and his red, glistening lips were parted, displaying, thereby, a few teeth, curved and yellow. He fixed his sound eye examiningly upon them. The fourth man was a negro, middle-aged, with a grizzled fuzz of hair. His skin was pulled as tight as a drum over a squat skull, his jaw was pushed forward like a bulldog's, and his eyes were like hard bits of round glass set in his face.

None of them looked at Silver-Rose; it gave her a curious feeling, for the moment, the way they ignored her; she had never experienced anything quite like it—from men. It was on her companion that their attention focused, and, as they looked, gradually the light of recognition dawned in their faces. “Why, it's Boston Harry,” one of them shouted huskily, and three of their number threw themselves on him, shaking his hands, questioning him, informing him of strange facts, all in a clamor and a jargon that she could not understand. But whatever might have been the purport of their words, the chances are that she would not have understood. The title that they had given him, “Boston Harry,” had numbed her almost into unconsciousness.

But Silver-Rose's companion was not responding to the overtures of the men. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, when he could make himself understood, “you are mistaken—I am not Boston Harry.”

They laughed good-naturedly at this. “Say, it's all right, Harry,” the squint-eyed individual assured him; “we're all pals here, and you're as safe as if you were in your mother's arms.”

“But—but—gentlemen, I don't doubt that for a moment,” Monsieur l'Inconnu apprised them; “only it happens that I'm not Boston Harry. I must ask you to release me and my companion,” he went on courteously; “we have a pressing engagement.” He turned a little toward the door. The man who had pushed them through it, who was possessed of its key, who had stood, all along, not far off, watching keenly, now slipped away.

He was a slim, bent fellow, younger than the rest, hollow-cheeked, a look as of perpetual alarm in his wide-opened, shallow eyes.

The men laughed enjoyingly. “That's right, all right,” one of them said, “the engagement's no pipe-dream, and the town's full of fly-cops that'll help you to keep it—if you only let them see you first.”

“Will you kindly unlock the door?” Monsieur l'Inconnu persisted,

The little doorkeeper frowned. “Well, I don't know what your game is, Harry, but there's something up, and we ain't on. Still, I don't know as we pull anything by holding you here. You can keep your tongue between your lips, I suppose.” He fumbled in his pocket.

“I give you my word of honor,” Monsieur l'Inconnu assured them earnestly; “your hiding-place is safe with me.”

The doorkeeper had found the key; he started for the door.

“Wait a moment,” the fifth man suddenly called in a strident voice of authority. “Don't open that door yet.” He swung his chair about toward them.

Silver-Rose examined the fifth man. He was seated slouched back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front, a thin, ungainly figure that looked as if it might be tall when it stood. His narrow head was close-cropped. His face was lean and pale, with a peculiar. pallor that she had never before seen; it was not a healthy pallor, nor was it the pallor of illness. It was emphasized—and almost horribly so—by the purple shadow of a few days' beard. He had sneering coal-black eyes that seemed to narrow under heavy, level brows. There was a sinister effect given to his look by his chin, which protruded so Straight and long that the line from its tip to where the head joined the throat was abnormally disproportionate. There was not a curve in his face or figure, and he had long fingers, yellow and spatulate, those of one hand beating a continual restless tattoo on the back of the other.

“Well, Harry Pryor, what have you got to say for yourself?” he asked sneeringly.

Monsieur l'Inconnu stared at him. “I'm not Harry Pryor,” he said simply. “Come, come, gentlemen”

“Say, Cig,” the fifth man interrupted, turning to the little doorkeeper, “how'd these people manage to get in here, anyway?”

“They got in jess before me—while I was out,” Cig explained volubly. “I heard them the moment I got into the house. I followed them up-stairs, thinking they'd go into one of the rooms down-stairs. I thought I could cut by them and get here first; but I couldn't; they kept straight on. I don't know. what Harry's game is. He didn't appear to be on; the lady was doing all the talking. She was showing him the way. When they opened the door I just pushed them in; I thought it wouldn't do no harm to see what game we'd caught before we let them loose.”

“Very good idea, very good,. very good, indeed,” the fifth man commended him patronizingly. “What was you saying, Harry?” he turned affably to Monsieur l'Inconnu.

“For the third time, that I'm not Harry Pryor,” he said, and he spoke with an effort that showed he was holding himself in control. “Come, come, gentlemen, why persist in this error—or, at least, in keeping me here against my will? I must ask you to open the door immediately.”

The fifth man laughed a queer, cracked laugh. “You always were a slippery devil, Harry,” he said with an air of grim geniality; “you could always carry 'most anything off with your high and mighty airs. But it don't go now. I'm onto you, as the song goes. You're looking fine, Harry; fine as a fiddle, and ten years younger, as I am a living man; and, as usual”—his sneering gaze slanted to Silver-Rose—“there's a lady in the case. Oh, you're a sad dog, Harry, and always up to some trick or other. I suppose you ain't told the lady about that last little trip you made out here a few years ago. There was a lady with you then. There always seems to be a petticoat round whenever you're about. Let me see, she was a brunette, wasn't she? A little too stout for my taste, and too dark; I prefer blondes. As I remember, you and her condescended to spend the night here. Just think of that! They shared our 'umble lodgings. Only Harry was that particular, he wouldn't stay in the same room, and be sociable like the rest of us. No, he jess would have a room all to their little selves, down-stairs on the next floor. Now, I suppose you two was looking for some place to stay; why, we're just tickled to death to see you. We can accommodate you just as well as not.”

Monsieur l'Inconnu's eyes were blazing, but, again, with a visible effort, he managed to control himself. “When you have finished with these comments—the drift or the use of which I fail to catch—will you open that door?” he asked ominously.

“Open the door?” The other laughed again, noiselessly this time, but no more pleasantly. “Not jess yet, Harry, I ain't seen you, you know, since that little job, when you turned State's evidence, as the papers put it, and we parted, you to your happy home, me to prison.”

There was, at this, an immediate stir of interest among the men who stood listening intently. They drew slowly into a compact little group and slyly they began to exchange looks. Occasionally they muttered comments.

Monsieur l'Inconnu stared steadily at the fifth man. The look in his eyes lost its threat, it, became bewildered, but only for an instant.

“This is all nonsense,” he burst out impatiently, after awhile; “you persist in calling me Harry Pryor. I'm not Harry Pryor. Now, as we can't agree on the matter, and as it's of no consequence, anyway, can't we agree to disagree? I can't stay here to argue all night. I have, as you see, a lady under my protection. I must take care of her. Now, again, and for the last time, I ask you to open the door.”

The fifth man repeated and prolonged his noiseless laugh. He brought the tips of his ten yellow fingers together, and, over the cage that their correlation made, he contemplated Monsieur l'Inconnu, nodding his head approvingly meantime. “You beat the Dutch, Harry,” he said; “you always did. No,” he went on smilingly, “we sha'n't open the door—not for the present, anyway. I've still got my little bone to pick with you. It'll take quite a spell. You might as well make up your mind that you've got to stay.”

“I don't mind staying,” Monsieur l'Inconnu replied to this, “if you insist on talking over with me what I know nothing about, and what may reveal to me the secrets of another man—that's your lookout, of course, not mine. But will you let me take the lady home first, if I promise that I'll come back; that will be, at the latest, in fifteen minutes?” he asked finally.

“I guess not, Harry, if it's all the same to you,” the fifth man said genially; “you've broken so many promises, it isn't surprising that I don't set much store by your word now, is it?”

“You can send one, two, as many as you please, of these men with me,” Monsieur l'Inconnu offered.

“That's handsome, Harry, I must say,” his tormentor commented, “but they've all got reasons why they don't want to go out on the street at present: the night air don't agree with them.”

Monsieur l'Inconnu was silent for a second. Then he turned and threw himself, with all his strength, against the door. He seized the knob and bore against it with the weight of his whole figure. A half-a-dozen times he did this. The men in the room did not stir, but they watched interestedly, and, through it all, they smiled.

“It's no use, Harry,” the fifth man said; “you can keep that up all night long if you want to, but you are only wasting your strength. You want to keep that,” he ended smoothly; “you'll need it all later.”

title: May Eve; or, What You Must/Part 2


text:
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 plot conceals the mainspring of the action, which in the ultimate analysis is entirely dependent in this drama of double planes upon subjective elements for its significance.

As drama is feeling, not fact, emotion, not thought, it must perforce sink into the unconscious mind. In plays whose nature is wholly superficial, the action merely repeats the sense of the dialogue, and the curve of emotion is a simple one, complicated by no intellectual embarrassments. If the functions of dialogue and action are identical, however, clearly one must be superfluous, and the ultimate dramatic form be either pantomime or the literary closet drama. Gordon Craig attacks the dilemma, assuming drama to be primarily sculptural, a thing quite apart from words, and to express it his followers have sought to create a symbol, which shall be the drama as a presence, made manifest ocularly upon the stage. As conceived also by Benavente, drama is three dimensional, by its very nature incapable of being written; it is the setting over of something against something else progressively before the eye. Yet it is an unwritten action which is in constant flux, not a symbol or a series of tableaux sinking into pictorial art. The error of the exponents of the new stagecraft lies in the fact that they seek to extract from externals, from the mere trappings of a play, what is the very breath of its being, to be imparted at birth only by the playwright himself. A good play cannot really be read. Although a performance may be visualized from the printed page, the effect of the performance cannot be felt; too many imaginative and constructive processes intervene. Yet these effects of the unwritten action are precisely those in which true drama lies. The dramatic action, the unwritten action which is plastic, which lies behind the plane of language, is taken by Benavente to be the vehicle of his under plot—an unwritten action for an unwritten plot. The action in its purest form thus becomes the instrument of the subjective plot, which is the heart of the play. To disengage the action, to surprise its situations and effects, endowing them with emotional intelligibility of their own through coherence of mood, is to open up new reaches of the theatre. Mood lends itself clearly to independent development, yet


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 by no other writer since the Greeks has it been dignified as a separate major factor of the dramatic structure. When emotion is treated in bulk and in the mass, upon compelling scale, it becomes perceptible as a dramatic entity, and achieves a power that is distinctive. Instead of following and waiting upon the dialogue, it imparts to it significance and strength, together with that peculiar appositeness which removes conversation from the realm of platitude and the abstract, to the province of art. Read for the plot, plays of this description are mere spectacular melodrama; read for the dialogue, mere literature, incomprehensible and strange, but apprehended in their own sphere, in the shifting planes through which they move, they are an experience at once refreshing and invigorating, as novel as it is deceptive.

In order to centre the attention upon the subjective action, Benavente dispenses with description of persons and scenes, suppressing details of appearance, time, and place, the presence of which might create false emphasis, and so prove both distracting and misleading. To follow the inner action as it is induced in the several types of play, in greater or less degree manifesting its ascendancy, is an adventure of illuminating possibilities. Sometimes the inner plot will be found so tenuous that it is little more than an idea of which the outward story is the exposition. This is true, for the most part, in strictly cerebral drama. Sometimes it remains back of the story, paralleling and reinforcing it with the sanction of an added symbolic quality, appearing independently in the action only upon occasion, at moments of exceptional transcendence. When the parallelism is close, the natural generalizing propensity of the mind will prove sufficient to effect the transition from the outer to the inner scheme. At other times, the inner plot detaches itself from the outward story, to mature in its own plane, where it arrogates to itself the life of the whole. The transition here takes place through a series of false leads, by means of which the outer plot falls away, usually at the end of the first act, while the situations become aborted or evaporate, and pale into the background of the unwritten theme. The attention is withdrawn insensibly from the objective plot and turned


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 Frontispiece.

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THE

HUNTERIAN ORATION,

DELIVERED BEFORE

THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF SURGEONS,

ON FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1817,

AND PUBLISHED AT THEIR REQUEST.

BY WILLIAM NORRIS,

MASTER OF THE COLLEGE,

AND SURGEON TO CHARTER-HOUSE AND THE MAGDALEN HOSPITAL.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND;

BY W. BULMER AND CO. CLEVELAND-ROW, ST. JAMES'S

1817.


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WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS

London 1899

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 within, resulting to the literal-minded in virtual defraudation. More than any other, drama of this type refuses to be read; it is imperative consciously to induce the action if the reader desires to enter into possession of the play. The unwritten action occurs in most highly developed form in drama of the will, where the shocks and conflicts are most powerful, most striking, and most intense, and therefore sharper in outline and emotionally more articulate than in the case in drama of mental states and of ideas. With the pure psychologic drama, this drama of twofold, contrasted action in which the doings of man are projected against the vastness of a universal background, is the most original, as well as the most elusive creation of the Benaventian theatre, treacherous and inhospitable to the unwary, but finely conscriptive of the imagination, opening out into new vistas before those who have eyes to see, receding into unsuspected depths. However modern and metaphysical in form, is it indeed surprising that this most subtle, most subjective of dramas, this theatre of equivocation beneath a world of hard reality, should, after three centuries, have sprung from the stem of Cervantes and the line of Quixote?

"Saturday Night," the most important of the plays contained in the present volume, enjoying with "The Bonds of Interest" and "La Malquerida," wide popular reputation, invites attention as the earliest example of the mature subjective style. It is a composition of peculiar difficulty, the appreciation of which requires both effort and time. Imperia, or ambition, the will, trades upon and then forgets her youth, acquiring wealth and power, at last drawing near the throne of empire of which she has dreamed. Her ambitions already on the road to fulfilment, she turns to recover Donina, her youth, whom she finds amid the blare of a circus, from which she passes to take part in a scene of wild saturnalia, or witches' sabbath, to which all the characters repair. Here, in a striking dramatic crisis, her old life dies at the hand of youth, which is itself exhausted in the blow. Aghast, Imperia summons Leonardo, the imagination to her aid, from whom, long years ago in the dawn of her


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61 house, which were numerously attended by men of general science. To conceal any great truth, the promulgation of which tended to promote natural knowledge or the com- mon good, the certain prospect of boundless wealth, would with him have been unavailing. Wealth!——this was a subject that never em- ployed his thoughts; and had his hard-earned professional emoluments been tenfold what they were, there is every reason to believe that the amount would have been employed in the furtherance of his grand design ; and that ultimately he would have died, accord- ing to the common acceptation of the words, a poor man. Here it may be proper to men- tion, for such honourable conduct can never be too often noticed and acknowledged, that Dr. Jenner, the happy discoverer of �


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50 apparatus by which the torpedo and the electrical eel give the shock—the variety of structure and disposition of parts which animals living in different media are pro- vided with, to produce the same end, &c. &c. Every fact thus discovered was treasured up by him, and the different structures of the same organs in different animals were com- pared. Every step in this inquiry furnished to his sagacious and comprehensive mind, a spark which conducted him to some dis- covery, and that to another; and thus he was led on to the establishment of physiolo- gical truths which time cannot destroy.

How dark and unsatisfactory must that physiology be that did not contemplate the existence of the absorbent system ! and how impossible to account for those operations of �


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40 plily as much as possible the necessary oper- ation, or other appropriate means of cure, were Pott’s instructions directed.

From this point of great elevation, a retro- spective view of the anatomical discoveries, and of the physiological and practical im- provements, during the last 150 years, is most gratifying. To mention a very few will, at present, suffice.

The circulation of the blood; and the ap- propriate structure of the heart, the arteries, and veins.

The existence of an absorbing system of vessels; a superficial and imperfect idea of which, so far as regards the lacteals, appears to have been entertained by Herophilus.

The universal distribution of the nervous system and influence. �


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 TO MY BROTHER

AND TO MY FRIEND WHO IS DEAD

THIS BOOK IS

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30 blaze, from intellectual exertion, soon fol- lowed to enlighten the world. Under the influence and generous protection of wise and equal laws, every art, every science, every useful profession and vocation flourished, and will for ever flourish, whilst mankind shall continue sensible of the causes of their prosperity.

Were not the limits of this annual Com- memoration necessarily confined, it would be highly gratifying to enumerate some of the many discoveries in Anatomy, and the im- provements in the practice of Surgery, which were made by the great men of those days, as well as by our immediate predecessors. But as this has already been, in part, done on former years from this Chair, and as ample justice may confidently be expected on future �


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 girlhood, she had derived her vision of the ideal. Under his tutelage, the material world fades away, until, at the end, she sacrifices her youth, her Donina, who dies immediately, and, by the sacrifice, Imperia achieves for herself character, the mastery of the world and all that is in it, which is the realization of her ideal. This ideal, however, when attained, she finds to be spiritual, entailing supremacy over the things of this earth, but not that crown of earthly empire which in her visions she had seen. Professedly a pageant of life upon the Riviera, "Saturday Night" unfolds in five tableaux, each the bold projection of a dominant mood—the first of sophistication and cold indifference, the second of reawakened feeling, reminiscent of the associations of a romantic past, the third of deep revulsion, so complete that no illusion may longer exist, the fourth of tragic resolution, hectic in collapse, while a placid beauty irradiates the fifth with the soft lights of the garden of the spirit, languorous with vistas of the sea down scented avenues of flowers. According to whatever criteria, the drama must be adjudged an extraordinary achievement. The heroine, Imperia, is a sister of the famous courtesan of that name, whose story has been handed down from the Italian Renaissance. The Countess Rinaldi, a companion figure, has also been drawn from a model of the epoch. Reminiscences of the North, too, occur, of the under and circus world which the author understands so well. Furthermore, there is a reflection of his early Russian experiences. The Spanish public was totally unprepared for drama of this content and complexity at the time "Saturday Night" was first presented in 1903, although it was readily perceived from the outset to be an unusual, glamourous, prophetic performance, to which the vague epithet Shakespearean was applied by the critics, in recognition of dimly suspected but hidden, wholly uncomprehended qualities. Having no affiliation with the traditions of Spanish literature or the Spanish stage, it was necessary that a decade should elapse before this remarkable fabric achieved definitive, popular triumph.

"The Prince Who Learned Everything Out of Books," composed for the inauguration of the Children's Theatre at


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20 In Holland, Swammerdam, Bidloo, Nuck, Ruysch.

In Brabant, Vesalius.

To these might be added many hundreds whose labours in Anatomy have greatly as- sisted the inquiries of their successors. ‘Their physiological reasoning, It Is true, was gene- rally incorrect and even whimsical ; but the subject was to them comparatively new; and whatever errors they may have fallen into, are abundantly compensated by thew anato- mical researches and discoveries.

Let it not be imagined that whilst the Con- tinent could boast the great names just men- tioned, the British isles were without their luminaries in the various departments of sci- ence. In the cultivation of Anatomy and other branches of the Healing Art, it is true, that the �


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2 the journey. Now the princess's horse was called Falada, and could speak.

When the time came for them to set out, the old queen went into her bed-chamber, and took a little knife, and cut off a lock of her hair, and gave it to her daughter, and said, "Take care of it, dear child; for it is a charm that may be of use to you on the road." Then they took a sorrowful leave of each other, and the princess put the lock of her mother's hair into her besom, got upon her horse, and set off on her journey to her bridegroom's kingdom. One day, as they were riding along by, the side of a brook, the princess began to feel very thirsty, and said to her maid, "Pray get down and fetch me same water in my golden cup out of yonder brook; for I want to drink." "Nay," said the maid, "if you are thirsty, get down yourself, and lie down by the water and drink; I shall not be your waiting-maid any longer." Then she was so thirsty that she got down, and knelt, over the little brook, and drank, for she was frightened, and dared not bring out her golden cup; and then she wept, and said, Alas! what


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 Madrid, on the other hand is a fairy-tale that is clearly akin to simple allegory. The easy grace, the charm and humor of the childlike story of the Blue Prince, intrigue even the casual reader. Yet for all its simplicity, the tale is not as ingenuous as it seems. Equipped with the little knowledge, the material comfort that his parents, who are the Life-Givers, can bestow, a young boy goes forth into the world. He takes with him as he goes the illusions of his youth, which, too, it lay within their power to give. Deceived by appearances, the victim of his own innocence, through danger and difficulty he acquires experience, rescuing the Fool who accompanies him from the fleshly paradise of the Ogre, and the knowledge that is also his from aimless wanderings by the side of the road. The experience which he has gained in the world, whether of good or of evil, has still to be supplemented, however, in the half-lights of the spirit, in the more personal, intimate sphere, where he is saved from an impossible marriage with the daughter of pretense through the choice of unselfishness, whereupon his education is complete. The Powers of Life have then only to lay the treasures of their wealth and wisdom at his feet. Few fantasies reveal such abounding spirits, or are drawn with comparable vigor, or rejoice in equally incisive characterization. It is curious how, in this simple tale, the beguiling innocence of the theme, here, too, cloaks the customary absence of expected coups de théâtre. The subjective action has been reduced to little more than an attitude of mind in which the play is approached, which determines the key of the presentation, infusing it throughout with dignity and richness of feeling—spiritual analogues of the vigor and vivacity with which the outward story is unrolled. The mood of the author remains a knowing one. Benavente has enjoyed exceptional success in this genre, in which he meets the most skilful practitioners upon equal ground. Two of his later and most ingratiating works, "Cinderella" and "Once Upon a Time" (Y va de cuento), both excursions into fairy-land undertaken upon the grand scale, are not yet included in the collected edition of his theatre.

The two-act comedy "In the Clouds" bears all the


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User talk:107.19.13.97

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Sardanapalus: A Tragedy
Hello, and thanks for contributing here. First I would like to I ask about the source of the text and the author of the English translation which we need to have to keep it. The text also needs a lot of editing, preferably to keep the layout and typography of the original publication. --Jan Kameníček (talk) 11:49, 1 January 2024 (UTC)

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220Rh at foreign universities) form a definite set in China. There is in Peking a "Returned Students' Club," a charming place. It is customary among Europeans to speak ill of returned students, but for no good reason. There are occasionally disagreements between different sections; in particular, those who have been only to Japan are not regarded quite as equals by those who have been to Europe or America. My impression was that America puts a more definite stamp upon a student than any other country; certainly those returning from England are less Anglicized than those returning from the United States are Americanized. To the Chinaman who wishes to be modern and up-to-date, skyscrapers and hustle seem romantic, because they are so unlike his home. The old traditions which conservative Europeans value are such a mushroom growth compared to those of China (where authentic descendants of Confucius abound) that it is useless to attempt that way of impressing the Chinese. One is reminded of the conversation in Eothen between the English country gentleman and the Pasha, in which the Pasha praises England


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 lord, I promise in the name of the emperor and on his royal word that they shall be well received and well treated, and that no harm shall be done them; and if they become unwilling to stay, and are disinclined to do the work for which they have been taken thither, I promise to send them back to this city as they came.

The bearer of this is Faranda Quiemo, a Xaponese, who goes in a new vessel, which has some red pictures painted on the poop. She is a staunch ship, carrying one hundred and twenty men, Chinese and Xaponese. It carries as a signal a red pennant at the stern. Given at Cuxi, a port of Xapon, on October 29, 1592.

[Addressed: "To Gomez Perez Dasmariñas, governor and captain-general of the Filipinas Islands, at Manila."]

Because of the uncertainty of the ocean, I send this note by another vessel which sails together with ours from this port, so that in case it reaches your Excellency before us you will not be alarmed on our account. Our trip has been very prosperous, and, should the Lord preserve our health, we shall, as soon as we find ourselves in Manila, report to your Excellency how well we were received by the emperor and how well attended, thus honoring our lord the king, your Excellency, and our nation. Nothing more at present, as I am writing these lines only in case our ship should prove less speedy. From


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 Xapon, province of China, port of Cuxi, November 4. Captain Lope Llanos kisses your Excellency's hands; he is very ill with quartan ague.

[Addressed: "To Gomez Perez Dasmariñas, knight of the Order of Santiago, governor and captain-general of the Felipinas Islands."]

The bearer is Antonio Lopez, a Chinese, who sails on the vessel of the Japanese Faranda as a token of peace, and to protect the vessel, so that no harm may be done to it.

May Jesus be always with your Excellency. It was found necessary that Antonio Lopez, the Chinese, depart in the vessel of Faranda Quiemo, who is the master of the Faranda who carries these letters and was the source of all these messages. Although I leave the port in Xapon before him, the fortunes of the ocean are various, and he may arrive there first. Glory be to God that our voyage has been very prosperous, as your Excellency will learn. As this letter is only intended as a safe-conduct for its bearers (for which we are hostages), and as a permit to Antonio Lopez, I say nothing more except that I recommend your Excellency, in case he shall arrive before I do, to give them a kind reception, because we were well received by the emperor. It is worth while for your Excellency to send here for copper and hemp, on the king's account, as I shall report to you at my arrival.


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 Captain Lope de Llanos kisses your Lordship's hands; he is very ill with quartan ague. He is not writing, because this letter is intended only for the purpose above mentioned. From the realm of Xapon, province of Chaxuma, at the port of Cuxi, November 4, 1592.

Addressed to Gomez Perez Dasmariñas, knight of the order of Santiago, and governor and captain-general of the Filipinas Islands.

In the city of Manila, on the twenty-fourth day of the month of May, one thousand five hundred and ninety-three, I, Gomez Perez Dasmariñas, knight of the Order of Santiago, and captain-general of these islands, declare in the name of the king, our lord, that whereas last year some letters and an ambassador claiming to come from the king of Xapon were received here, and, moved by suspicion and fearing war, I sent the father Fray Juan Cobos with letters for the emperor; and whereas it is over a year since the said father left here, and, notwithstanding I have received letters from him meanwhile, making known his safe arrival and the prompt execution of his mission, I am anxious because he does not return; three Xaponese vessels having arrived, and in one of them a man by the name of Faranda, a Xaponese who claims to be the ambassador; and as I wish to be informed what sort of a man this Faranda is, and to learn whether Father Cobos arrived there and how he was received and sent away, and the purpose that Faranda has in coming, and what are the intentions and objects of the said emperor, and whatever else it


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 is expedient to ask in order to disperse and clear away the prevalent uncertainties, and know whether we are to have safety and peace with that king: I hereby order that the following investigation be made, the proceedings of which shall be attached to the original letters sent by father Fray Juan Cobo and to the memorial submitted by Faranda; and I sign it with my name.

Before me:

In the city of Manila, on the twenty-fourth day of the month of May, one thousand five hundred and ninety-three, the said governor and captain-general, Gomez Perez Das Marinas, summoned Captain Joan de Solis to his presence, in order to make the above-mentioned investigation. He took the oath before God and on the sign of the cross, in due form, and promised to answer truthfully the questions asked him. The tenor of the questions having been read to him, he said that, as one who had just come from the kingdoms of Xapon, and reached this port and bay but yesterday, and who was in Xapon when father Fray Joan Cobos arrived there—where this witness was building a ship (the one in which he came hither), and work on which he left and abandoned, in order to go to see, protect, and serve the said father Fray Joan Cobo, and to instruct him in


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Rh began to invade Denmark from abroad. The taste for old popular books gradually passed away, and they were supplanted by French and English books for entertainment. First appeared Sören Terkelsen's translation of the novel Astræa, which was mentioned in the preceding chapter, and which remained for some time almost alone. Then followed Fénelon's Tèlémaque (1727), Robinson (1744-45), Richardson's Pamela (1743-46), to which there was afterwards added a multitude of similar books containing stupid and affected stories.

Much greater importance was attained by the which also was introduced from abroad about this time. The first Danish journal of any account was "den danske Spectator" (1734—45), a moralizing and critical weekly paper of the same character as the English periodical of the same name. This journal was followed by others, and toward the close of the century the periodical press played a very influential part in Denmark.

(1725-50) was a man who, like Holberg, maintained that knowledge ought not to be kept away from the people, but rather made as accessible and popular as possible. He proposed to expound philosophy in a series of Danish books, and his chief aim was to popularize the philosophical and religious views of Leibnitz and Wolff, but an early death prevented the execution of his plan, and he was only able to make a beginning by the publication of such works as "Philosophiske Breve" and "Forsög til en Fruentimmerphilosophie." Still his influence on the development of Danish literature was very great, for in a pure, terse language he introduced a science, hitherto utterly unknown in Danish literature. Thus he forms, as it were, the connecting link between Holberg, one of whose most ardent admirers he was, and the following period, when the popular enlightenment, to which he was enthusiastically devoted, became the watchword of the age.