The New York Clipper (December 1903)

1042 THE NEW YORK CLIPPER. Decembek 26 A REMARKABLE BOOK. ■T OLiva PART I. Chance threw Into my hands the qualnt- est of booka, with tho following astounding title, when It Is known that the book la question Is for children to study: "A GRAMMAR OP TUB ENGLISH TONGUE. with tub aits or loqick, bbbtobscx, rOETBT, *. 1LLU8TRATED WITH USEFUL NOTES. (Jiving the grounds and Reasons of Grammar in General. The whole making a eompleat System of an English Education. r«r the use of acbooli of Great Britain and Ireland Fifth Edition, Corrected. LONDON. . Printed for F. Clay, at the Bible, and D. Iirowne, at tbe Black Swan, both without Temple Bar. M,DCCC,XXYHI." All the Ba are Fa In this book, and ths dedication Is really too lovely to leave out: TO THE QUEEN'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY. MADAM, Your rai\Je>ty being the sovereign of all tioee Eennle who apeak the Language for which ths following ICAMMAR l-madethla PERFORMANCE doth aatoraUy claim YUUH MAJESTY'S PROTECTION. A Grammar of the French Language was theFlntLa- "-iy. Thar roar Ma The Parts of Quantity are likewise four, Tbe Entrance does the Character explore. And to the Action something doea proceed. The Working op, Action and Warmth doth breed, The Counter-turn doea Expectation cross, But tbe dlicov'ry settles all rth' close. The Parts of Quantity of'a Comedy are four, the Entrance, which gives light only to tbe characters, and proceeds rery little Into any part of tbe Action. 2dly, Tbe Working np of tbe Plot, where the Play rwa warmer, and the Design or Action of la drawing on and you see something promising. Hilly, Tbe Fall Growth of the Plot wblcb we may properly call the Count- er-turn, destroys tbe expectation, and em- broils tbe Action In New difficulties, leav- ing you far distant from the Hopes In wblcb It found you. 4tb<r, The Discovery or Un- ravelling of the Plot, where you see all things settling again on their first founda- tion. Tbe Obstacles, which hindered the De- lour ol that learned body, the French Academy. That being the Foundation of all Writing: And as Your Ma- leityeArma li**? u-enauperlur to Uioae,of_France, an ' 110 we hone that by YOUR ROYAL 1NFLUBNCE You will glTe the ami Superiority to Our Arte and RclencM, which are bnllt on This that la Daw I'menled to YOLK 8ACRED MAJESTY, by. Madam, Your Majeity'a moit obedient and dotlful ftablKU, m TUB AUTHORS. After this Is a long preface, and then the Grammar, which Is all pat into one hun- dred and fifty pages of worse thsn Chinese puzzles, In early English and labored verses All the rules are given In verse. What I wish to show now Is that part where the little student Is taught how to write a com- edy and also a tragedy. Quaintly expressed and curiously capitalized and spelled as the matter Is, It la still well worth careful-study by the person contemplating writing either a tragedy or a comedy. Tbe following Is for tbe comedy, and the matter la Interspersed with frequent verses: or COMBO)!. We now come to the Dramatic poetry, wblcb Is much the most useful and difficult as well as delightful of any. We can scares except this just Epic poem which has not been seen these 17O0 years, and tho' that be more difficult because of Ita length and Variety, yet It Is beyond Controversy less useful, and less capable of giving that strong and lively pleasure which Is to be found In a just tragedy, but we begin with comedy. In common semes the common life we draw, According to Its Humours, Actions, Law, And Vice and Folly laughing, keep In awe. But what Is yet a nobler, juater end. To all the charms of Virtue does commend. Comedy Imitates) common Life la Its Ac- tions and Humours, laughing at and render- ing Vice and Folly ridiculous, and recom- mending Virtue. It Is Indeed an Imitation . of Life, the Mirror of Custom, and tbe Image of Truth, and whatever Comedy fol- lows not thla Track Is unworthy of the Name. Comedy has Parts of Quality, and l'arts of Quantity. Of the first kind there are four essentials, the Fable, the Manners, the Sentiments and tbe Diction, to which two are added which only relate to tbe Repre- sentation, vis: the Mustek and tbe Decora- tion ; without the first four parts no Comedy can be written. For the Poet must neces- sarily Invent the matter or Subject on which he writes and that Is what we call the fable or plot. But. alnce the Fable Imitates, there Is a necessity that It should have the Manners, that Is nicely and Justly expressed ths Temper, Humours and Manners of the several Dramatic Persona that are repre- aented In Comedy. The Sentiments are added because we must discover by them the Sense and Opinions of them In wordes, and because the Sentiments are, and must be ex- pressed more plainly by words; tbe Diction obtains Its plsce In these four Parts of Comedy. The difference of the person much alters the Manners and differences them one from another. For theae Manners which are Firnlae worthy In one, are far from being so n another, being not at all convenient to his character, and therefore to be dispraised. This we find In Arts themselves, for one of the Vulgar gains Reputation by being a good Fiddler or Piper. But In this a king la ridiculous and disagreeable in his Dignity. A Woman has a Just praise for aewlng well, and working finely with her Needle, but this being no manly Quality Is dlsplcable In Man. Tbe.Mnnncrs therfore must be agreeable to every Man's station, Quality or Years, and the like. And Life Is tbe best Book to study these In when we are once Masters of the Bales of Art. In ths meantime learn these fol- lowing verses out of Horace, of what la Broper to the several ages and Stations of Ian that you may not err against them. They are found thus In blank verse In my Lord Ro8common'a translation. These are the general rules for those char- actors that fall under them, but Humour being essential to English Comedy we must see what that la. Subordinate passion we Humour name, By which our Bards have gained peculiar Fame, Kach Passion does a double Face confess Tbe strong Is Tragic, Comic Is tbe less. Here affectation gome to Humour add, lly tbat are some redlculously mad. Whatever Humour you at first bestow These to the end your persona still must show These must me uppermost In all they do. Humour la said by the critics to be a subor- dinate or a weaker Passion, and that In Per- sona of a lower degree than those who are fit for tragedy, and It Is more visible In the lower sort of People whose characters are therefore fitter for Comedy. Every Passion has two different Faces, one that Is serious, great, terrible, solemn. That Is for Tragedy, and another that Is low, comical, ridiculous. Affectation Is thought also to be a char- acter fit for Comedy as being highly ridicu- lous and capable of being corrected by it Your Characters must always retain the Mine Humour through the play, which you give them at first, or else 'tis absurd and prepos- terous. Kxposo no single Fop, but lay the load More equally and spread the Folly broad; The other Way Is vulgar; oft we see A Fool derided by as great as he; Till Poets so will one poor Fop devour; But to collect, like Been from every Flower, Ingredients to compose their precious juice Which serves the world for pleasure, and for Use, In •plght of Faction will our Favour find And meet with the Applause of all Mankind. The Poet should not pick out any one par- ticular Fop he may meet with In his Conver- sation, but form the general follies from a Character tbat may be of use to many, and a Diversion of all. All fools In tbia apeak sense, as If possest, And each by Inspiration breaks his lest, And If one the Justness of each part be lost; We well may laugh, but at tbe Poet's cost. Tbe silly thing Men call Sheer wit avoid, Bv which our Age so nauseously Is cloyed; Humour la nil. wit should be only bought To turn agreeably some proper Thought. ■TIs a Breach of Character to make the Coxcomb speak Wit and fine Raillery, and therefore good for nothing. Humour Is ths Wit of Comedy and fine things, I he Sbeer- Wlt la only for Epigram. sign or Action of the Play, once removed It ends with tbe Resemblance of Truth and Nature, and tbe Audience are satisfied with the Conduct of It But. our Plays being divided Into Acta, I shall add a word about them. There moat be no more nor less than five Acta, this Is a rule of 1700 years' standing at tbe leaat. Tbe first contains the Matter or Argument of the Fable showing the principal Characters. Tbe second brings out the Affairs or Busi- ness into the Act The third furnishes Ob- stacles and difficulties. The fourth either shows bow those Difficulties may he removed or finds new In tbe attempt. The fifth puts an end to them all In a fortunate Discovery, and settles all aa It should be. PART II. TBAQBDT. One only Action, that's entire and grave, And of Just length the Tragic Muse most have. The Object of Its artful Imitation And tbat without tbe help of tbe Narration By the strong Power of Terror and Com- passion, All sorts of Passion perfectly refines And what In us to Passion else Inclines. As all other parts of Poetry are Imitations, so la Tragedy, for the beat Critics define it thus:—Tragedy Is the Imitation of one grave and entire action, of a juat length, and whlcb without tbe aOluence of narration, by the meana of Terror and Compassion, perfectly refines In ua all sorts of Passions, and what, ever la like them. _ Thus Tragedy Is the Imitation of some One Action, and not of all tbe Actions of a Man's life, and 'tis equally plain tbat there is no room for anything in thla Poem the moat use- ful and noble of all Poesle but what la grave and aerlous. 'Thla Action must be entire. It must have a Beginning, Middle and End. The beginning Is that before which we have no need to auppose any necessary Cause, tbe Middle Is all tbat this Beginning produces, and the End Is tbat after which nothing la necessarily supposed to eompleat the Action. it must be of a just length, tbat Is, not so long aa tbat of an heroic Poem nor so short aa a single Fable. Tbe excluding Narration and the confining It to Terror aud Compas- sion, distinguishes It from an heroic Poem," which may be perfect without them, and em- ploys Admiration. By the refining of the 1'asslona, we mean not Extirpation, but tbe reducing of them to juat Bounds and Modera- tion, which makes them as useful as neces- sary. For by showing the Miseries that at- tend the Subjection to them, It teaches us to watch more tbem narrowly, and by seeing tbe great Misfortunes of others It lessens our own, either present or to come. There Is no Action tbat doea not Proceed, From Mannera and the Sentiments, Indeed. And therefore these. In this subllmer Art Of Tragedy, must claim essential part. Aa Tragedy la tbe Imitation of an action, not of Inclination or Habits, so there la no Action that doea not proceed from tbe Man- ners and Sentiments, and therefore the Man- ners and Bentlments are essential parts of the Tragedy, for nothing but these can dis- tinguish an action. The Mannera form, and the Sentiments expaln It, discovering ita Cauaea and Motives. AH Tragedies four Parts do claim, Fable tbe first, and Principal we name; The Manners and tbe Sentiment succeed, The last Pace to Die ton is Decreed. There Is no Subject of a Tragedy where theae following Parts are not to be found: the Fable, the Manners, tbe Sentiment and tbe Diction. Some add Decoration because that denotea tbe Place, and every Action re- quiring some Place, tbe Decoration la. In some measure, tbe Object of tbe Poet's care, tbat tbe Place may be proper for tbe Repre- sentation. The chief and much most con- siderable la the Fable, or tbe Composition of the Incidents, which form tbe Subject of tbe Tragedy. For. action being the Object of the Imitation of this sort of Poetry, must be the most considerable, but the action con- sists of tbe incidents and their conduct which la tbe Fable, The Fable must be tbe most considerable, but all tbe Beauties of Manners, Diction and Sentiments can't make amends for the defecta of this. The general end that Mankind propose, la to live happily, but to live Happily la an Action, for Man la either Happy or Miserable by bla actions, not Man- nera. Tragedy only adds them for tbe pro- duction of Actions. The Fable therefore be- ing tbe end of Tragedy, as being tbe Imita- tion of Action, It must be of tbe greatest Im- portance, for ao Is tbe end In all things. The Manners are the most considerable next to the Fable. For as Tragedy la the Imitation of an Action so there are no Ac- tions without Manners, aa no Effect without a Cause. Tbe Manners distinguish Character from Character and discover the Inclinations of the Speaker, and what Part, Bide or Course he will take on any important and difficult Emergence, know how be will behave himself before we see the Actions If Pride. Cooler, Piety, or the like, be the Manners of the Hero, we may know tbat be will follow tbe Dictates of the prevailing Passion of bla Character. The Sentiments are next In degree of Ex- cellence to the Fable and the Manners; for these are for the Manners what Mannera are for tbe Fable. The Action cannot be justly Imitated wltbout the Manners, nor the Man* nera without the Sentiments. In these we must regard Truth and Verslmllltude. Aa when the Poet makea a Madman speak Juat aa a Madman does, or aa It la probable be would do. For this see King Lear In Shake- speare. The Diction or Language of Tragedy can demand but tbe fourth place In the Essential Parta and Is of the least Importance of any of tbem. Yet, must particular Care be like- wise taken of this that every Passion apeak In such Words and Expressions as 1« natural to It Having thus seen the several' Parts of Tragedy, and their Excellence in regard of each other, we shall now proceed to give di- rections necessary to the making eacb of them perfect, and to tbe knowing when they are so in what we read. Aa tbe Plot, or Fable, la the chief thing In a Tragedy so our first and principal care ought to be employed In contriving this Part with that care, that each may produce and depend upon the former. This Part being performed with Skill, has given Buccees to those Plays, whlcb have been defective Id all their other Parta Besides the main Design composed with Art, Each moving scene must have a Plot apart, Contrive each little Turn, mark av'ry Place, Aa Painters first chalk out tba future Face. Yet be not fondly your own Slave for this, But change hereafter what appears amiss. As tbe main Plot or Fable, consists of many Incidents or scenes, tbe Foet most make a Draught of these before he begins to write: which will appear more plainly when we come to discourse of the Incidents in this Scheme we must mark all the fine Touches of tbe Passions, and all the admir- able Turns tbat produce them. Bat when we come to write, we may discover Faults In tbe first Draught which we must correct Every Action that Is fit for a Tragic Imita- tion, ought not only to be entire, but of a Juat length, tbat Is, must have a Beginning, middle and End. This distinguishes It from momentaneous Actions, or those tbat happen In an Instant, without Preparation or Sequel, which, wanting Extension may come Into the Incidents, not to build a Fable on. Tbe Causs or Design of understanding an Action la the Beginning, and the Effects of these Causes, and tbe Difficulties we find In the Execution sre tbe Middle: tbe unravelling and dissolving these Difficulties, Is tbe End. An Explanation of this will best appear by an Example wblch we will take from the Plot of Antigone of Sophocles. On the death of the two brothers, Etoclea and Folynlces: t'reon, who succeeds them In tbe Kingdom of Thebes, prohibits tbe burying of the latter, because he Invaded hla native Country with Foreign Troops This decree makes Antigone, who was betrothed to Haemon, the Son of Creon, bury blm, Is discovered, and con- demned to be bury'd alive. Creon could not be brought to relent by Haemon, or Tlrefat, BDd so Haemon kills himself with her. This makes Kurydlce, his mother destroy herself, and Creon, In these Miseries, seeing the fatal Consequences of bis Decree, repents too late, and becomes miserable. The Beginning of this Action baa no neces- sary Consequence of tbe Deatb of Polynlcea, since that Decree might bave been let atone by Creon, tho' It could not bave been with- out tbat Death, ao tbat tbe Action naturally begins with that Decree. The Middle la the Effects produced by tbat Decree, tbe Death of Antigone, Haemon, and Eurydice wblch produce the End by breaking tbe Obatlnacy of Creon, and making him repent, and miser- able. Thus, tbe Poet cannot begin or end his Action where he pleases,—which Is the fault of most of our old Plays—If be would manage bis Subject with true Oeconomy end Beauty, For there must be the Cause or Be- ginning, the Effect of that Cause, whlcb is nature, and the unravelling or finishing of It, which Is tbe end produced by tbe middle, aa tbat by the Beginning, the Middle sup- poses something before It, as Its Cause, and, following as its Effect The Beginning sup- poses nothing before, and tbe End nothing to follow to make the Action eompleat. The Subject of a Tragedy should be of a Just extent, neither too large nor too narrow, but tbat It may seem, viewed, and considered at once, without confounding tbe mind, wblcb If too little or too narrow, It will do, nor make a wander to distract It, as It will do if It be too large and extensive. Tbat Is, the Piece ought to take up Just so much time as la necessary or probable for the In- troducing tbe Incidents with their just Pre- parations. For, to make a good Tragedy, that Is a Just Imitation, the Action Imitated ought not to be longer tban the Representa- tion, for this makes the Likeness greater, and by consequence more perfect- But, since there are actions of ten and twelve hours, we must bring some of the Incidents Into the Intervals of tbe Acts tbe better to deceive the Audience. Koxt, the Unity of tho Action Is such tbat It car never be broke without destroying the Poem. This Unity la not preserved by repre- senting the several Actions of one man, as of Julius Ca>sar, of Anthony, of Brutus for then the Poet has no reason to begin at any cer- tain place, and Shakespeare might have brought his Play down to tbe last Emperor of Home, as well as to the death of Brutus. But thla Unity of Action does not exclude the various Under Actions, which are per- fectly dependent on and contribute to, the chief, and which without It are nothing. Nor, does this Exception make for our silly under- plots which bave nothing to do with our main Design but Is another plot; aa Adras- tus and Eurydice In Dryden'a Oedipus, whlcb are abominable. In tbe Orphan the Action Is One, and every Part or underaction carries on and contributes to the main Action or Subject Thus the different Actions of dif- ferent Men are not more distinctly different Actions tban those of One Man at different times. Whatever can be transposed or left out without a sensible Malm to the Action has nothing to do there. The Poet Is not obliged to relate things Just aa they happened, but as they might, of ought to bave happened. That Is, the Action. ought to be general, not Particular, for par- ticular Actions have no general influence. Thus Homer In Achilles, Intends not the de- scription of that one individual Man, but to show that violence and -Anger would make all Men of that Character aay or do. And, therefore Achilles Is a general and allegoric Person, and so ought all Tragic Heroes to be where they should speak and act necessarily, or probably as all men so qualified, and in those Circumstances, differing from History In this, tbat the Tragedy consults not the Truth of what any particular Person did say, or do, but only the general Nature of such qualities to produce such Words, such Actions. TIs true that Tragedy sometimes makes use of true names, but that Is only to give Credibility to tbe Action, die Persons still remaining general. Tbe Poet may take Incident from History and Matter of Fact, but then they must have that probability and Likelihood which Art .requires, for there It means a Discovery, which '» » a £ byttt priSdpal Characters, by rememberii>g or call- in*- to Mind either one, another, or aome- bfng of importance to fhelrdfanarjof For tSniTand la thus *fine*l--TtaDuWery la a Change, whlcb bringing: » from WOtaMI to Know edge, produces eltther Love orHa- treeiff tnoeTwnom tbe Poet has a design to make either happy or miserable. Reject that vulgar aVratvwttdiJ»W«*f- So fair, of mafia* perfect Characters, There's no such thing In Nature, and you'll RBCOIiliBCTIONB OF early DATE- Ml CAlaFOnv.^ aweet child A faultless Monster, which the World neer Some , 'fsiilts must be, which bis Misfortunes drew But such as may deserve Compassion too. The next thing which we are to consider, are the Characters. Those wblch are to com- pose a perfect Tragedy must be neither per- tecllv virtuous and Innocent nor scandalously wfckeA .To make a perfectly virtuous and Innocent Character unfortunate, excltea Hor- ror, not Terror nor Compassion. To punish the Wicked, gives Indeed a sort of Satisfac- tion, but neither Terror nor Pity, which are the business of Tragedy. For what we never think ourselves capable of committing we can never pity. But tbe characters of a perfect Tragedy should be the medium between both, but rather good tban bad. Thus the Dra- matic Person should not draw his mlsfor- tunes on himself by superlative wIckedneBS or Crimes notoriously scandalous, but .by In- voluntary faults, tbat Is Frailties proceeding from the Excess of Passion. We call tbem Involuntary Faults, which are committed either by Ignorance or Imprudence against the natural Temper of the Man, when he Is transported by a violent Passion, which he could not suppress or by some greater or ex- ternal force In the execution of such Orders, which be neither could nor ought to disobey. The fault of Oedipus Is of the first sort, tho he Is also guilty of tbe second. That of Ttioyates In the murdering of bis Nephews, of the second vis.: a violent Passion of Anger and Revenge. Tbat of Orestes In the killing of bis mother for the Deatb of his Father, of the third, being ordered to do It by the Oracle of the Gods. TIs true that our Oedipus Is made Sovereignly virtuous, but all that Sophocles gives him, are Courage, Good fortune, and Judgment, Qualities equally common to tbe Good and bad, and to those made up of Virtues and Vices. Sophocles has Indeed shown him a character that has a mixture of Virtue and Vice. His vices plainly are. Pride, Violence, Anger, Rashness and Imprudence, so tbat It la not for bis Parricide and Incest that he was punished, for they were the Effect of bis Curiosity, Hastiness, Pride, Anger and Violence and tbe Punishment of them. And these are the Vices Sophocles would correct In aa by hla example. The Fable may have either a single End or Catastrophe, or one that Is double: one that Is happy for the Good but unhappy for tbe Guilty, but that wblch Is single and unhappy Is best for that will most likely produce Ter- ror and Pity. All Incidents are Events tbat happen between somebody or other, and all Incfdeots that are terrible or pitiful happen between friends, Relations and the like, for what happens betwixt Enemies can bave no Tragical Effect. * We now come to the Manners, which dis- tinguish the Characters and If the Manners be 111 expressed we can never become ac- quainted with them, and consequently never be terrified by foreseeing dangers nor melt Into Pity by seeing their Sufferings. The Manners must be agreeable to the Age, Sex, Rank, Climate and Condition of the Person that has them. You must indeed study Man- kind, and from them draw, the Proprieties of Characters or Manners. It Should be well to study Moral Philosophy to lead you Into tbe study of Mankind. The Characters must be equal and consistent. Having run through the Manners I now re- turn to 'the Discoveries because, (well man- ",) they odd a wonderful beauty to the In 1853-4 tbe City Hotel was built by her father, Col. A. W. Burrel. who, with Major Moon, Edson Adams and Horace W. Carptn. aged) piece. piece. Three sorts of Discoveries now are found, In the Dramatic Poets to abound. The first by certain marks the business do, Whether from Chance or Nature they accrue, As Scars, or moles, tbat In the body lie, Or certain Tokens which those Marks supply. Third from remembrance takes Its pleasing And forces the DIsoov'ry from the Eyes, The fourth sort we do In Reasoning find, Wblch brings the Unknown Object to tbe Mind Thus when Orestes saw the fatal Knife With Impious blow directed at hla Life, Thus to the Goddess In Despair did call, Ab, must I then like Ipblgenla fall? Having done with the Fable, Incidents and Manners we now come to the Sentiments. The Poet here must not be concent to look Into his mind to see what be himself would think on such en occasion, but be must put himself Into the Passion, Quality and Tem- per of tbe Person he would draw. He muot assume those Manners he gives to each per- son, gives eacb Dramatic Person, and then ivbat Sentiments or thoughts such an oc- casion, passion or the like will produce. The Diction or language Is what comes next under our consideration, and tho' It Is con- fessed that it is of the least Importance of all those parts, yet when Elocution la proper and elegant, and varied aa It ought It gives a great and advantageous beauty to a play, and therefore we will not pass It over In si- lence. Borne have been betrayed by their Ignorance of Art and Nature to Imagine tbat IS? m.ni a?m™. Shi.* *3XrBJr2XZ Milton's style, because noble In the epic, was tory will not Justify tbe Poet In making ass of tbem. The Action that must be Imitated In Trag- edy, besides the former properties, must ex* cite Terror and Compassion, and not Admira- tion, wblch Is a Passion too weak to bave the Effect of Tragedy. Terror and Pity are raised by surprise, when Events are pro- duced out of Causes, contrary to our Expec- tations, tbat Is—when tbe Incidents produce each other. For, if It do not necessarily fol- low, It Is no Incident for Tragedy. As the Actions whlcb Tragedy Imitates, so are all Its Fables, simple or Implex. The simple Is that in wblch there Is neither a Change of the Condition or State of the prin- cipal Person or Persons or a discovery, and the unravelling of the Plot Is only a single Passage of Agitation, of Trouble or Repose and Tranquility. The Implex Fable In which the principal Person or Persona have a change of Fortune, or a Discovery or both; which la the moat beautiful and least com- mon, In the Antigone of Sophocles, the Ar- gument of wblch we have never before given you, there Is a Change of the fortune of Creon, and that produced by tbe Effect of his own obstinacy, but In his Oedipus and Elec- tra there Is both a change and Discovery, the first to Misery, tbe latter to Revenge and Happiness. Oedipus, with his change of Fortune discovers tbat he Is the Bon of Jo- caata and Lalua. and so Is guilty of incest and Parricide. But, Blectra discovers Ores- tes to be her brother, and by that changes her misery to happiness. In the Revenge of her father's death. In the IphlgenLa In Taurls of Euripides, Ipblgenla making a Dis- covery that Orestes Is her brother changes both their fortunes from Despair to a happv escape from tbe Barbarous Altars of Taurlca. Brat the Change can neither tie necessary nor probable, without which qualities It Is of no value If It be not the natural Resnlt, or at least the Effect of the foregoing Actions, or of the Subject Itself. As In Oedipus; for Aegon, who comes to bring him agreeable news which ought to bave delivered him from his fears, does quite the contrary. In discov- ering to him who he really la, Discovery here being used for a term of Art, and therefore signifying more tban Its vulgar Acceptation you roust Know that here If you would therefore merit Praise you must diversify your Style sufficiently. Too equal and too uniform a manner then Is to no purpose and Inclines ua to Bleep. First on a plot employ thy careful Thoughts, And guard thyself against Its usual faults; Turn it with Time a thousand several ways; That (sb It ought) glveB sure success to plays. wefr FULL OF GOOD THINGS. The January number of The Four Track Newt, whlcb 1b No 1 of Vol. VI, Btarts the new year with an especially Interesting Table of Contents, Including a beautifully written article, entitled "Among .Golden Pa- Sodas," by the well known writer. Kirk lunroe; ''A Famous Autograph," and what It stood for, by Marie Josephine Morgan; "Marblebead," tbat quaint, old seaport, de- scribed by M. Imlay Taylor; "A Western Paradise (Catallna),'' by Frank M. Byron; "Santo Domingo," from the well known pen of Frederick A. Ober; "Where Extremes Meet," and the race track and tbe sanctuary are neighbors, by G. M. Clapbam; "Moute- suma'a well and Castle," by Emma Paddock Telford; "The School City," and what It has accomplished, by Wilson L. 0111, L. L. B.; "Where Soldiers are Made," a graphic picture of West Point, by Frank H. Tay- lor; "Stealing a Railroad Train," tbe story of the Andrcwa raid, by H. M. Albaugh; "The Trianon," by Sophie Earl; "George Crogban, Hero," by Lucy Elliot Keeler; "Kentucky's Natural Bridge." by Henry Cleveland Wood; "A Light-House and a Honeymoon," by Harriet Qulmby, and "Tbe 8erpent Mound," by Mary L. Kane. In ad- dition to theae articles there are numerous poems, bits of humor, and "Little Histories," while the departments will be found as In- teresting and as varied as ever. Every article Is profusely Illustrated, and, taken collec- tively, the Initial number of tbe new volume of this popular mngaxlne ranks among tbe best tbat have yet been Issued. The Four Track Nets* Is fifty cents a year, or five cents a copy, and con be had of George H. Daniels, Publisher, 7 Eaat 42d Street, New York. •X OLIVB1 HABPU. Is there anything In all the wide woriri a. 'eet as the recollection of tbe first dreaY. lid seen? Can all the real gold and Sn! gems of later life be aa brilliant as ? Uc ' „i°« ales seen for the first time? No matter *i>«. beautiful visions one may see, that first nS! Into fairyland will always be surround odbv a nimbus of glory. Never again will u.usic be as sweet as the short and measured <rr£ phes to which handsomely caparisoned h 'r. P . ambled around tbe ring with visions of | 1( .«„ ty and grace swaying with their motion From whence baa It come, tbe atraoge bar baric fanfare of bugles and roll of drums V. the mysterious curtain la lifted and the ti.»au teous creature, ethereal and daring, biit-sti Into our enraptured sight in all her brmen of spangles and filmy tarletan aklrts. n,, wn from tbe brave daya of old, perhaps, when the arena doors were opened to send iC cbariota dashing around the track. Houl knows, but dead to sensation must he be who does nut feel the throb of the music in hla brain, and tbe beating of tbe drums on hi very heart strings, ae the curtain liftH aad tbe gay cavalcade of riders comes stately in. How many of us would give uncounted gold If we could only aee things wltb tbe sumo eyes aa those that opened In wonder at the glories of the old circus, with Ita sordid tin- sel snd cotton velvet? Tbe writer of this had gone to California In 1852, aud settled In Oakland, then niied Contra Costa. At the time of her arrival there were but three wooden houses, but many tents. The place settled rapidly aad " lilt bj ■ h 1 . ... Carpen- ter, owned the whole of what la known aa Oakland. In tbe hotel there was a ball room forty feet wide by eighty long. This was for many years the only place where any dra- matic entertainment could take place, aad In consequence all tbat visited California In those days stopped at this hotel and played in the ball room. While the plan for the hotel was In em- bryo a company played In a tent set up on what Is now First Street and Broadway. Sol Smith was tbe name of tbe young actor, and much 1 wanted to see the play, but a stern grandmother drew tbe line at allowing a girl of twelve to go to a theatre, so I and my brother waited till all the family bad gone, and tben sneaked out to the back of the tent and, with a surreptitious knife thrust through tbe canvas, we Intended to aee It all. But, not daring to go to tbe front, we had cut two peep bolea directly Into the actor's dressing: room. We were so frightened tbat we flew back to the houe-e like two little streaks, quaking with fear, and long before tbe folks were back we believed ourselves to be fast aseep. When any kind of performance was to be given In the ball room a man on horseback rode all over the county, even outside of It, and distributed handbills, so tbat from San Pablo, llaywards, San Antonio, Alameda, San I.eandro and Martlnes people flocked In to see the shows, and the performers were sure ot a full house. There was so little to amuse people In those days. After the hotel was built the first company to occupy the rooms was the Lee & (I think) Van Amburg Circus. I am sure of the Lee, but not quite about the name of the other fiartner. The tent was pitched on a vacant ot The lots were nearly all vacant tben. There was no menagerie, but plenty ot fine horses, and the posters were little short of marvelous. The small boys could stay around the wonderful tent, but, being a girl, I had to remain in the house, but I found my consola- tion In the kindness of Mrs. Lee and Made- moiselle Annette Anneroux. and a lady who was billed as Mrs. Dockrlll, If I remember rightly. She was dark, but handsome, while Mile. Anneroux was dark, but not very pretty, though good natured, graceful, and absolutely fearless. Mrs Lee was tbe wife of tbe man- ager, and mother of two or three of the little boys who took part In the show. Mrs. Lee was blonde and sweet, but sad and appar- ently timid, and ao weary tbat sbe could scarcely sit up. The women took turns In rubbing each other wltb some sort of oily llnament, to "take the stiffness out," they as Id. The clown, whose name I think was Rice, was the most woebegone specimen of man- hood 1 ever saw. ana the rubber man was perfectly bald and a chronic kicker, and made more trouble than all put together. Mr. Lee and bis partner were everywhere, and worked like twenty to get the tent up and every- thing ready for the four performances. It seemed to me tbat all the show people thought of was to get all the sleep tbey could get and eat between times. They bad come over- land from Sacramento, and In those days that was literally a bard road to travel. They were weary, hungry, stiff and miserable, and showed It all day, but when nlgbt came, and the band began to play, they revived by de- grees, and were all smiles, lltbeness and agility when tbelr turns to appear came. The tent waa lighted by a quadrllatera framework. In which were stuck hundreds of candles, and this waa hauled up to nearly tbe top of tbe tent after they were lighted. We watched this operation as If It had been some kind of magic. At Intervals around the ring were stands wltb more candles on bars. Out- side were smoky torches. When tbe audi- ence were all seated, and tbe band began tbat time honored fanfare, and.'the glittering cavalcade came prancing Into the ring, tbe glamour of the circus waa ewer us all—the cheap finery became cloth of gold, and the tarnished spangles gleaming gems of purest ray, reflecting back the twinkling candle lights and making It all a. fairy spectacle. Tben the beautiful bareback riders, who Jumped through hoops and over banners, came, and In turn all the ancient and honor- able customs were religiously carried out The drunken sailor and the countryman, wbo creep over the railings to ride the balky horse. were there. Tbe rubber man writhed and twisted himself up Into a doughnut, and then the acrobats came; including tbe little boys. Words fall me when I try to depict my awe and breathless fear at the wonderful feats they performed. And words are also too feeble to describe the route adoration felt for one of tbe acrobats. In my young eyes u« was a sort of a cross between tbe angei Gabriel and a picture of a beautiful little Cupid I had seen. Hla pink tights and spaii- gled trunks, tbe pure gold band around bu head and his golden sandals remain fixed in my memory today aa fresh as It was then. I never saw blm, nor Indeed any of tbe mem- bers of this circus sgaln, for they were lost at sea shortly after somewhere near Orego"- Poor, sweet Mrs. Lee; bright, dark Annnetle Anneroux; the pretty boys, the cross ruorter man, and the melancholy clown, all were lost on that dark night. The Incee were almost the first real cnni- rany to come to Oakland, and they gave i « Hough Diamond," preceded by a farce. }'" father and two daughters bore tbe brunt ot the evening, and between the acts tbe younc'.r daughters sang "Villlkens and His Dinah, and several other songs of the day, and aiw danced the cachuca and an Irish lilt. I'J elder daughter struck me as being very stitr snd stilted, but she looked very elegant as the *rand lady. Tbey played to the capacity of the house. , About thla time I became stage struck and had serious Intentions ot running away witn the Inces, but the elder daughter told me that unless I could become a great star like an I would find tbe life anything but pleasant. Bo I listened to the voice of reason and stayed at home. .,, The Hutchinson Family came, and wy aii hoard tbem sing "Came From the Old Granite