Perhaps Salvini took it as a compliment when his Othello was compared to the awakening fury of the Hyrcanian tiger disturbed at his feast of blood, and his Hamlet described as ‘a magnificent hoodlum on his muscle, with a big mad on, smashing things generally;’ and the Boston actress was delighted to know her ‘subtle grace, flexible as the sinuosities of a morning mist, yet thoroughly proportioned to the curves of the character, was most especially noticeable.’ But the Hungarian prima donna must have felt a little dubious as to the intentions of the critic who wrote of her: ‘Her voice is wonderful. She runs up and down the scale with the agility of an experienced cat running up and down a house-top, and two or three fences thrown in. She turns figurative flip-flaps on every bar, tearing up the thermometer to away above two hundred and twelve, and sliding down again so far below zero that one feels chilled to the bone.’ The fair singer would probably have preferred something in this style: ‘Miss —— wore a rich purple suit with a handsome shade of lavender, a white over-garment, tight-fitting, with flowing sleeves, and a white bonnet trimmed with the same shades of purple and lavender, and she sang finely.’
That has the merit of being intelligible. The writer was not in such a desperate condition as the Memphis theatrical reporter who lauded an actress as ‘intense yet expansive, comprehensive yet particular, fervid without faultiness; glowing and still controlled, natural but refined, daring anything, fearing nothing but to violate grace; pure as dew, soft as the gush of distant music, gentle as a star beaming through the riven clouds. With mystery of charms she comes near to us, and melts down our admiration into love; but when we take her to us as something familiar and delicious, she floats away to the far heights of fame, and looks down on our despair with countenance of peaceful lustre and smiles as sweet as spring.’ If the lady did not reciprocate, her heart must have been of adamant.
[THE WELL-KNOWN SPOT.]
Again with joy I view the waking shore,
Where mem'ries live for ever in their green,
And from the solemn graveyard's checkered floor
Gaze fondly o'er the all-enchanting scene.
The same sad rooks awake their mocking cries,
And drooping willows weep the early grave,
As o'er the dead the restless spirit flies,
Tries vainly yet yon broken heart to save.
But, hush! sad soul, nor leave this hallowed spot,
Where peaceful slumber seals the closèd eye.
The lonely sleeper now awaken not
By the rude raving, or the deep-drawn sigh.
Oh, let me mourn (the fainting heart replies),
These new-made graves, which take my wond'ring sight;
Say, who beneath this little tombstone lies,
Or who this Angel guards through the long night.
When last I saw, no mounds lay heaving there,
No sexton rude had turned the resting sod.
Alas, how changed! The holy and the fair
Have sunk in death, and triumphed in their God.
Then let me pause, if here my Maker stays,
And guards his saints from the inhuman foe.
His word is true; my trembling heart obeys;
Bless'd are the dead who to the Saviour go.