"What can be avoided,Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods?Yet Cæsar shall go forth, for these predictionsAre to the world in general, not to Cæsar!Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once!"
"What can be avoided,Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods?Yet Cæsar shall go forth, for these predictionsAre to the world in general, not to Cæsar!Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once!"
The hour of assassination has arrived, and Cæsar, seated in the chair of state, says:
"What is now amissThat Cæsar and his senate must redress?"
"What is now amissThat Cæsar and his senate must redress?"
Senator Metellus, one of the chief conspirators, throws himself at the feet of Cæsar and implores pardon for his traitor brother.
Cæsar says:
"Be not fond,To think that Cæsar bears such rebel blood,That will be thawed from the true quality,With that which meeteth fools; I mean, sweet words,Low, crooked courtesies, and base, spaniel fawning;Thy brother by decree is banished;If thou dost bend, and pray and fawn for him,I spurn thee like a cur out of my way.Know, Cæsar doth not wrong; nor without causeWill he be satisfied!But I am constant as the northern star,Of whose true fixed and resting qualityThere is no fellow in the firmament!"
"Be not fond,To think that Cæsar bears such rebel blood,That will be thawed from the true quality,With that which meeteth fools; I mean, sweet words,Low, crooked courtesies, and base, spaniel fawning;Thy brother by decree is banished;If thou dost bend, and pray and fawn for him,I spurn thee like a cur out of my way.Know, Cæsar doth not wrong; nor without causeWill he be satisfied!But I am constant as the northern star,Of whose true fixed and resting qualityThere is no fellow in the firmament!"
The conspirators at this moment crowd around the doomed hero with pretended petitions—and, instanter, Casca stabs Cæsar in the neck, while several other murdering senators stab him through the body, and last Marcus Brutus plunges a dagger in the heart of his benefactor and father, when with glaring eyes and dying breath, the noble Cæsar exclaims:
"Et tu, Brute?"(And thou, Brutus?)
"Et tu, Brute?"(And thou, Brutus?)
Thus tumbled down at the base of Pompey's statue the greatest man the world has ever known!
Then the citizens of Rome—royal, rabble and conspirators, were filled with consternation, while Brutus tried to stem the rising flood of indignation.
Mark Antony was allowed to weep and speak over the pulseless clay of his official partner and friend.
Gazing on the cold, bloody form of the amazing Julius, he utters these pathetic phrases:
"O mighty Cæsar! Dost thou lie so low?Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well—I know not, gentlemen, what you intend,Who else must be let blood, who else is rank;If I myself, there is no hour so fitAs Cæsar's death-hour; nor no instrumentOf half that worth, as those your swords, made richWith the most noble blood of all this world.I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,Now, while your purpled hands do reek and smoke,Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years,I shall not find myself so apt to die;No place will please me so, no mean of deathAs here by Cæsar, and by you cut off,The choice and master spirit of this age!"
"O mighty Cæsar! Dost thou lie so low?Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well—I know not, gentlemen, what you intend,Who else must be let blood, who else is rank;If I myself, there is no hour so fitAs Cæsar's death-hour; nor no instrumentOf half that worth, as those your swords, made richWith the most noble blood of all this world.I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,Now, while your purpled hands do reek and smoke,Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years,I shall not find myself so apt to die;No place will please me so, no mean of deathAs here by Cæsar, and by you cut off,The choice and master spirit of this age!"
Brutus gave orders for a grand funeral, turning the body of the dead lion over to Antony, who might make the funeral oration to the people within such bounds of discretion as the conspirators dictated.
Standing alone, by the dead body of Cæsar in the Senate, Antony pours out thus, the overflowing vengeance of his soul:
"O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,That I am meek and gentle with these butchers;Thou art the ruins of the noblest manThat ever lived in the tide of times.Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!Over thy wounds now do I prophesy—Which like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lipsTo beg the voice and utterance of my tongue;A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;Domestic fury and fierce civil strifeShall cumber all the parts of Italy;Blood and destruction shall be so in use,And dreadful objects so familiar,That mothers shall but smile when they beholdTheir infants quartered with the hands of war;All pity choked with custom of fell deeds;And Cæsar's spirit, ranging for revenge,With Até by his side, come hot from hell,Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice,Cry, 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs ofwar!"
"O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,That I am meek and gentle with these butchers;Thou art the ruins of the noblest manThat ever lived in the tide of times.Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!Over thy wounds now do I prophesy—Which like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lipsTo beg the voice and utterance of my tongue;A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;Domestic fury and fierce civil strifeShall cumber all the parts of Italy;Blood and destruction shall be so in use,And dreadful objects so familiar,That mothers shall but smile when they beholdTheir infants quartered with the hands of war;All pity choked with custom of fell deeds;And Cæsar's spirit, ranging for revenge,With Até by his side, come hot from hell,Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice,Cry, 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs ofwar!"
The wild citizens of Rome clamored for the reason of Cæsar's death, and Brutus mounted the rostrum in the Forum and delivered this cunning and bold oration in defense of the conspirators:
"Romans, countrymen and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent that ye may hear; believe me for mine honor, and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe; censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses that you may the better judge.
"If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Cæsar's, to him I say that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his.
"If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer. Not that I loved Cæsar less; but that I loved Rome more!
"Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves, than Cæsar were dead, to live all free men?
"As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him; as he wasfortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him, but as he was ambitious I slew him!
"There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honor for his valor, and death for his ambition!
"Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended.
"I pause for a reply."
And then the rabble, vacillating, fool citizens said, "None, Brutus, none," and continue to yell, "Live, Brutus, live! live!"
Brutus leaves the Forum and requests the human cattle to remain and hear Antony relate the glories of Cæsar!
Finally Antony is persuaded to take the rostrum, and delivers this greatest funeral oration of all the ages:
"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him;The evil that men do live after them;The good is oft interred with their bones;So let it be with Cæsar. The noble BrutusHath told you Cæsar was ambitious;If it were so it was a grievous fault;And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,(For Brutus is an honorable man,So are they all, all honorable men);Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me;But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?When that the poor hath cried, Cæsar hath wept;Ambition should be made of sterner stuff;Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.You all did see, that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crownWhich he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I know.You all did love him once, not without cause;What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason! Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,And I must pause until it come back to me.But, yesterday the word of Cæsar mightHave stood against the world, now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.O, Masters! If I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men.I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and youThan I will wrong such honorable men.But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;I found it in his closet, 'tis his will;Let but the commons hear this statement,(Which pardon me, I do not mean to read),And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds;And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it as a rich legacyUnto their issue.If you have tears prepare to shed them now,You all do know this mantle; I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on;'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent;That day he overcame the Nervii;Look! in this place ran Cassius dagger through;See what a rent the envious Casca made;Through this the well beloved Brutus stabbed;And as he plucked his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it;As rushing out of doors to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:Judge, O ye gods, how Cæsar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all;For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' armsQuite vanquished him, then burst his mighty heart;And in his mantle muffling up his face,Even at the base of Pompey's statue,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I and you and all of us fell downWhilst bloody treason flourished over us.O, now you weep; and I perceive you feelThe impression of pity; these are gracious drops.Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but beholdOur Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself marred, as you see, with traitors!Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny;They that have done this deed are honorable;What private griefs they have, alas, I know notThat made them do it; they are wise and honorableAnd will no doubt with reasons answer you.I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;I am no orator, as Brutus is:But as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,That love my friends, and that they know full well,That gave me public leave to speak of him.For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speechTo stir men's blood, I only speak right on;I tell you that, which you yourselves do know;Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me; but were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongueIn every wound of Cæsar, that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny!"
"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him;The evil that men do live after them;The good is oft interred with their bones;So let it be with Cæsar. The noble BrutusHath told you Cæsar was ambitious;If it were so it was a grievous fault;And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,(For Brutus is an honorable man,So are they all, all honorable men);Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me;But Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?When that the poor hath cried, Cæsar hath wept;Ambition should be made of sterner stuff;Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honorable man.You all did see, that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crownWhich he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And, sure, he is an honorable man.I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I know.You all did love him once, not without cause;What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason! Bear with me;My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,And I must pause until it come back to me.But, yesterday the word of Cæsar mightHave stood against the world, now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence.O, Masters! If I were disposed to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honorable men.I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and youThan I will wrong such honorable men.But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;I found it in his closet, 'tis his will;Let but the commons hear this statement,(Which pardon me, I do not mean to read),And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds;And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it as a rich legacyUnto their issue.If you have tears prepare to shed them now,You all do know this mantle; I rememberThe first time ever Cæsar put it on;'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent;That day he overcame the Nervii;Look! in this place ran Cassius dagger through;See what a rent the envious Casca made;Through this the well beloved Brutus stabbed;And as he plucked his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it;As rushing out of doors to be resolvedIf Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:Judge, O ye gods, how Cæsar loved him!This was the most unkindest cut of all;For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' armsQuite vanquished him, then burst his mighty heart;And in his mantle muffling up his face,Even at the base of Pompey's statue,Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then I and you and all of us fell downWhilst bloody treason flourished over us.O, now you weep; and I perceive you feelThe impression of pity; these are gracious drops.Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but beholdOur Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself marred, as you see, with traitors!Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny;They that have done this deed are honorable;What private griefs they have, alas, I know notThat made them do it; they are wise and honorableAnd will no doubt with reasons answer you.I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts;I am no orator, as Brutus is:But as you know me all, a plain, blunt man,That love my friends, and that they know full well,That gave me public leave to speak of him.For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speechTo stir men's blood, I only speak right on;I tell you that, which you yourselves do know;Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me; but were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongueIn every wound of Cæsar, that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny!"
This oration fired the Roman people to mutiny, and Brutus and Cassius with their followers fledfrom the city and prepared for war with Antony and Octavius, who had suddenly returned to Rome.
The passionate quarrel between Brutus and Cassius in their military camp at Sardis was a natural outcome of conspirators.
Cassius accused Brutus of having wronged him, and Brutus twitted his brother assassin thus:
"Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourselfAre much condemned to have an itching palm,To sell and mart your offices for goldTo undeservers!"
"Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourselfAre much condemned to have an itching palm,To sell and mart your offices for goldTo undeservers!"
Cassius fires back this reply:
"I an itching palm?You know that you are Brutus that speak this,Or by the gods this speech were else your last!"
"I an itching palm?You know that you are Brutus that speak this,Or by the gods this speech were else your last!"
The night before the battle of Philippi the spirit of Cæsar appeared in the tent of Brutus, who startles from a slumbering trance and exclaims:
"Ha! who comes here?I think it is the weakness of mine eyes,That shapes this monstrous apparition.It comes upon me! Art thou anything?Art thou some god, some angel or some devil,That makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare?Speak to me, what thou art."
"Ha! who comes here?I think it is the weakness of mine eyes,That shapes this monstrous apparition.It comes upon me! Art thou anything?Art thou some god, some angel or some devil,That makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare?Speak to me, what thou art."
The Ghost replies:
"Thy evil spirit, Brutus!Brutus: Why comest thou?Ghost: To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.Brutus: Well, then I shall see thee again?Ghost: Ay, at Philippi!"
"Thy evil spirit, Brutus!
Brutus: Why comest thou?Ghost: To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.Brutus: Well, then I shall see thee again?Ghost: Ay, at Philippi!"
The armies of Antony and Octavius and Brutus and Cassius meet in crash of battle.
Cassius is hotly pursued by the enemy, and to prevent capture and exhibition at Rome, craves the service of Pindrus to run him through with his sword. He says:
"Now be a freeman, and with this good swordThat ran through Cæsar's bowels, search this bosom.Stand not to answer; here, take thou the hilt;And when my face is covered, as 'tis now,Guide thou the sword; Cæsar, thou art revenged,Even with the sword that killed thee!"(Dies.)
"Now be a freeman, and with this good swordThat ran through Cæsar's bowels, search this bosom.Stand not to answer; here, take thou the hilt;And when my face is covered, as 'tis now,Guide thou the sword; Cæsar, thou art revenged,Even with the sword that killed thee!"(Dies.)
Brutus is run to earth, and most of his generals dead or fled. He implores Strato to assist him to suicide, and says:
"I pray thee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord;Thou art a fellow of good respect;Thy life hath had some smack of honor in it;Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,While I do run upon it!Farewell, good Strato; Cæsar now be still,I killed not thee with half so good a will!"(Runs on his sword and dies.)
"I pray thee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord;Thou art a fellow of good respect;Thy life hath had some smack of honor in it;Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,While I do run upon it!Farewell, good Strato; Cæsar now be still,I killed not thee with half so good a will!"(Runs on his sword and dies.)
Antony and Octavius and his army soon find Brutus slain by his own sword, and with a most magnificent and undeserved generosity Antony pronounces this benediction over the dead body of the vilest and most intelligent conspirator who ever lived!
"This was the noblest Roman of them all;All the conspirators, save only heDid that they did in envy of great Cæsar;He only in a general honest thought,And common good to all made one of them.His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mixed in him that Nature might stand up,And say to all the world, This was a man!"
"This was the noblest Roman of them all;All the conspirators, save only heDid that they did in envy of great Cæsar;He only in a general honest thought,And common good to all made one of them.His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mixed in him that Nature might stand up,And say to all the world, This was a man!"
The whole audience, led by Southampton, Essex, Bacon and Drayton gave three cheers and a lion roar for "Julius Cæsar," the greatest historical and classical play ever composed, and destined to run down the ages for a million years!
"Travelers must be content.""Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety."
"Travelers must be content."
"Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety."
The translation of Petrarch, Plutarch, Tacitus, Terence, and particularly Homer, by Chapman, gave a great impulse to dramatic writers, and inspired a feverish desire to travel through classic lands where classic authors lived and died.
Shakspere was a natural bohemian, and while he could conform to the conventionalities of society, he was never more pleased than when mixing with the variegated mass of mankind, where vice and virtue predominated without the guilt of hypocrisy to blur and blast the principles of sincerity.
Art, fashion and human laws he knew to be often only blinds for the concealment of plastic iniquity, and were secretly purchased by the few who had the gold to buy.
By sinking the grappling iron of independent investigation into every form and phase of human life, he plucked from the deepest ocean of adversity the rarest shells, weeds and flowers of thought, and spread them before the world as a new revelation.
By mingling with and knowing the good and bad, he solved the riddle of human passions, and with mind, tongue and pen unpurchased, he flashed his matchless philosophy on an admiring world, lifting the curtain of deceit and obscurity from the stage of falsehood, giving to the beholder a sight of Nature in her unexpurgated nakedness!
On the first of May, 1598, William and myself determined to travel into and around continental and oriental lands, and view some of the noted monuments, cities, seas, plains and mountains, where ancient warriors and philosophers had left their imperishable records.
Sailing through the Strait of Dover into the English Channel, our good ship Albion landed us in three days at Havre, the port town at the mouth of the river Seine, leading on to Rouen and up to the ancient city of Paris.
Our good ship Albion was to remain a week trading between Havre and Cherbourg, when we were to be again on board for a lengthy trip to the various ports of the Mediterranean.
Our first night in Paris was spent at the Hotel Reims, a jolly headquarters for students, painters, authors and actors.
LeMour was the blooming host, with his daughter Nannette as the coquettish "roper in." Father and daughter spoke English about as well as William and myself spoke French; and what was not understood by our mutual words and phrases was explained by our gesticulation of hand, shoulder,foot, eye, and clinking "francs" and "sovereigns."
Cash speaks all languages, and it is a very ignorant mortal who can't understand the voice of gold and silver.
"Francs," "pounds" and "dollars" are the real monarchs of mankind! William in a prophetic mood recited these few lines to the "boys" at the bar:
With circumspect steps as we pick our way throughThis intricate world, as all prudent folks do,May we still on our journey be able to viewThe benevolent face of a dollar or two.For an excellent thing is a dollar or two;No friend is so true as a dollar or two;In country or town, as we pass up and down,We are cock of the walk with a dollar or two!Do you wish that the press should the decent thing do,And give your reception a gushing review,Describing the dresses by stuff, style and hue,On the quiet, hand "Jenkins" a dollar or two;For the pen sells its praise for a dollar or two;And flings its abuse for a dollar or two;And you'll find that it's easy to manage the crewWhen you put up the shape of a dollar or two!Do you wish your existence with Faith to imbue,And so become one of the sanctified few;Who enjoy a good name and a well cushioned pewYou must freely come down with a dollar or two.For the gospel is preached for a dollar or two,Salvation is reached for a dollar or two;Sins are pardoned, sometimes, but the worst of all crimesIs to find yourself short of a dollar or two!
With circumspect steps as we pick our way throughThis intricate world, as all prudent folks do,May we still on our journey be able to viewThe benevolent face of a dollar or two.For an excellent thing is a dollar or two;No friend is so true as a dollar or two;In country or town, as we pass up and down,We are cock of the walk with a dollar or two!
Do you wish that the press should the decent thing do,And give your reception a gushing review,Describing the dresses by stuff, style and hue,On the quiet, hand "Jenkins" a dollar or two;For the pen sells its praise for a dollar or two;And flings its abuse for a dollar or two;And you'll find that it's easy to manage the crewWhen you put up the shape of a dollar or two!
Do you wish your existence with Faith to imbue,And so become one of the sanctified few;Who enjoy a good name and a well cushioned pewYou must freely come down with a dollar or two.For the gospel is preached for a dollar or two,Salvation is reached for a dollar or two;Sins are pardoned, sometimes, but the worst of all crimesIs to find yourself short of a dollar or two!
Although the Bard delivered this truthful poem off hand, so to speak, in "broken" French, the cosmopolitan, polyglot audience "caught on" and "shipped" the Stratford "poacher" a wave of tumultuous cheers!
That very night at the Theatre Saint Germain the new play of Garnier, "Juives," was to be enacted before Henry the Fourth and a brilliant audience.
William and myself were invited by a band of rollicking students to join them in a front bench "clapping" committee, as Garnier himself was to take the part of Old King Nebuchadnezzar in the great play, illustrating the siege and capture of Jerusalem.
The curtain went up at eight o'clock, and the French actors began their mimic contortions of face, lips, legs and shoulders for three mortal hours, and while there was a constant shifting of scenes, citizens, soldiers, Jews and battering rams, yells, groans and cheers, it looked as if the audience, including King Henry, was doing the most of the acting, and all the cheering! A maniac would be thoroughly at home in a French theatre!
The play had neither head, tail nor body, but it was sufficient for the excitable, revolutionary Frenchman to see that the Jews were being robbed, banished and slaughtered in the interest of Christianity and the late Jesus, who is reported as having taught the lessons of "love," "charity" and "mercy!"
The "Son of God," it seems, had been crucified more than fifteen hundred years before the audience had been created; and although "Old Neb" of Babylon had destroyed a million of Hebrews several hundred years previous to the birth of the Bethlehem "Savior of Mankind," the "frog" and "snail" eaters of France were still breaking their lungs and throats in cheering for the destruction of anybody!
It was one o'clock in the morning when we got back to the hotel; and with the Bacchanalian racket made by the "students" and fantastic "grisettes" it must have been nearly daylight before William and myself fell into the arms of sleep.
Sliding into the realm of dreams I heard the "mammoth man" murmur:
"Sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,Chief nourisher in life's feast!"
"Sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,Chief nourisher in life's feast!"
Jodelle, Lariney, Corneille, Moliere, Racine, La Fontaine, Rousseau, Voltaire, Balzac, or even Hugo, never uttered such masterly philosophy.
After partaking of a French breakfast, smothered with herbs and mystery, we hired a fancy phaeton and voluble driver to whirr us around the principal streets, parks and buildings of the rushing, brilliant city, everything moving as if the devil were out with a search warrant for some of the stray citizens of his imperial dominions.
The driver spoke English very well, and with a telephone voice, surcharged with monkey gestures, we listened to and saw the history of Paris from the advent of Cæsar, Clovis, Charlemagne to Louis and Henry. A city directory would have been a surplusage, and we flattered the "garcon" by seeming to believe everything he said, exclaiming "Oh my!" "Do tell!" "Gee whizz!" "Did you ever!" "Wonderful!" and "Never saw the like!"
As our mentor and nestor pulled up at noted wine cafés to water his horse, we contributed to his own irrigation and our champagne thirst. Be good to yourself.
It was sundown when we nestled in the Hotel Reims, but had been richly repaid in our visit to the king's palace, the great Louvre, St. Denis, Notre Dame and the great cathedrals, picture galleries, cemeteries and monuments that decorated imperial Paris.
The evening before we left Paris we accepted the invitation of Garnier to visit the Latin Quarter. The playwright did not know William or myself, except as young English lords—"Buckingham" and "Bacon," traveling for information and pleasure, sowing "wild," financial "oats" with the liberality of princes.
A well dressed, polite man, with lots of money, and a "spender" from "way back" is a welcome guest in home, church and state; and when it comes to the "ladies," he is, of course, "a jewel," "a trump" and "darling." They know a "soft snap" when they see it.
Some of us have been there.
While basking under the light of flashing eyesand sparkling wine at the Royal Café, surrounded by a dozen of the artistic "friends" of the "toast of the town," Garnier said he noticed us in the front bench the night before, and knowing us to be Englishmen, was desirous to know how his play, depicting the siege of Jerusalem compared with the new man Shakspere, who had recently loomed up into the dramatic sky.
William winked at me in a kind ofsotto voceway, and with that natural exuberance or intellectual "gall" that never fails to strike the "bull's eye," I bluntly said that Garnier's philosophy and composition were as different from Shakspere's as the earth from the heaven!
The Frenchman arose and made an extended bow when his "girl" friends yelled like the "rebels" at Shiloh and kicked off the tall hat of the noted French dramatist! Great sport!
Extra wine was ordered, and then an improvised ballet girl jumped into the middle of the wine room, with circus antics, champagne glasses in hand, singing the praises of the great and only Garnier! Poor devil, he did not know that my criticism was a double ender. Just as well.
I cannot exactly remember how I got to the hotel, but when William aroused my latent energies the next morning, I felt as if I had been put through a Kentucky corn sheller, or caught up in a Texas blizzard and blown into the middle of Kansas.
William was, as usual, calm, polite, sober and dignified, and while he touched the wine cup for sociability, in search of human hearts, I never saw him intoxicated. He had a marvelous capacity ofbody and brain, and like an earthly Jupiter he shone over the variegated satellites around him with the force and brilliancy of the morning sun. He was so far above other thinkers and writers that no one who knew him felt a pang of jealousy, for they saw it was impossible to even twinkle in the heaven of his philosophy.
The day before leaving Paris we visited Versailles and wandered through its pictured palaces, drinking in the historical milestones of the past. Here lords, kings, queens, farmers, mechanics, shop keepers, sailors, soldiers, robbers, murderers and beggars had appropriated in turn these royal halls and stately gardens.
Riot and revolution swept over these memorials like a winter storm, and the thunder and lightning strokes of civil and foreign troops had desolated the works of art, genius and royalty.
Nations rise and fall like individuals, and a thousand or ten thousand years of time are only a "tick" in the clock of destiny.
Early on the morning of the seventh of May, 1598, we went on board a light double-oared galley, swung into the sparkling waters of the Seine, and proceeded on our way to Rouen and Havre.
The morning sun sparkling on the tall spires and towers, the songs of the watermen and gardeners, whirring ropes, flashing flags, blooming flowers, green parks, forest vistas, shining cottages, grand mansions and lofty castles, in the shimmering distance gave the suburbs of Paris a phase of enchantment that lifted the soul of the beholder into the fairy realm of dreamland; and as our jolly crew rowed away with rhythmic sweep we lay undera purple awning, sheltered from the midday sun, gazing out on the works of Dame Nature with entranced amazement.
William, in one of his periodical bursts of impromptu poetry, uttered these lines on
CREATION.The smallest grain of ocean sand,Or continent of mountain land,With all the stars and suns we seeAre emblems of eternity.God reigns in everything he made—In man, in beast, in hill and glade;In sum and substance of all birth;Component parts of Heaven and Earth.The moving, ceaseless vital airIs managed by Almighty care,And from the center to the rim,All creatures live and die in Him.We know not why we come and goInto this world of joy and woe,But this we know that every hourIs clipping off our pride and power.The links of life that make our chainOf golden joy and passing pain,Are broken rudely day by day,And like the mists we melt away.The voice of Nature never lies,Presents to all her varied skies,And wraps within her vernal breastThe dust of man in pulseless rest.A billion years of life and deathAre but a moment or a breathTo one unknown Immortal ForceWho guides the planets in their course!
CREATION.
The smallest grain of ocean sand,Or continent of mountain land,With all the stars and suns we seeAre emblems of eternity.
God reigns in everything he made—In man, in beast, in hill and glade;In sum and substance of all birth;Component parts of Heaven and Earth.
The moving, ceaseless vital airIs managed by Almighty care,And from the center to the rim,All creatures live and die in Him.
We know not why we come and goInto this world of joy and woe,But this we know that every hourIs clipping off our pride and power.
The links of life that make our chainOf golden joy and passing pain,Are broken rudely day by day,And like the mists we melt away.
The voice of Nature never lies,Presents to all her varied skies,And wraps within her vernal breastThe dust of man in pulseless rest.
A billion years of life and deathAre but a moment or a breathTo one unknown Immortal ForceWho guides the planets in their course!
As the stars began to peep through the gathering curtains of night, and the young moon like a broken circle of silver split the evening sky, we came in sight of the busy town of Rouen, with its embattled walls and iron gates still bidding defiance to British invasion.
After a night's slumber and a speedy passage our galley drew up against the side of our stout ship Albion, when gallant Captain Jack O'Neil greeted us on board, and refreshed our manhood with a fine breakfast, interspersed with brandy and champagne.
The next morning, with all sails filled, we wafted away into the open waters of the rolling Atlantic Ocean, touching at the town of Brest, land's end port of France, and then away to Corunna in Spain, and on to Lisbon, Portugal, where we remained three days viewing the architectural and natural sights of the great commercial and shipping city of the Tagus.
About the middle of May we swung out again into the breakers of old ocean, and held our course to the wonderful "Strait of Gibraltar," separating Europe from Africa, whose inland, classic shoresare bathed by the emerald waters of the romantic Mediterranean Sea.
We remained for a day at the rocky, stormy town of Gibraltar, meeting variegated men of all lands, who spoke all dialects, and preached and practiced all religions.
The pagan, the Moslem, the Buddhist, the Jew and the Christian dressed in the garb of their respective nationalities, were wrangling, trading, praying and swearing in all languages, every one grasping for the "almighty dollar."
As the sun went down over the shining shoulders of the Western Atlantic, flashing its golden rays over the moving, liquid floor of the heaving ocean and Mediterranean Sea, William and myself stood on the topmost crag of giant Gibraltar, and the Bard sent forth this impulsive sigh from his romantic soul:
How I long to roam o'er the bounding sea,Where the waters and winds are fierce and free,Where the wild bird sails in his tireless flight,As the sunrise scatters the shades of night;Where the porpoise and dolphin sport at playIn their liquid realm of green and gray.Ah, me! It is there I would love to beEngulfed in the tomb of eternity!In the midnight hour when the moon hangs lowAnd the stars beam forth with a mystic glow;When the mermaids float on the rolling tideAnd Neptune entangles his beaming bride,—It is there in that phosphorescent waveI would gladly sink in an ocean grave—To rise and fall with the songs of the seaAnd live in the chant of its memory.Around the world my form should sweep—Part of the glorious, limitless deep;Enmeshed by fate in some coral cave,And rising again to the topmost wave,That curls in beauty its snowy sprayAnd kisses the light of the garish day;Ah! there let me drift when this life is o'er,To be tossed and tumbled from shore to shore!
How I long to roam o'er the bounding sea,Where the waters and winds are fierce and free,Where the wild bird sails in his tireless flight,As the sunrise scatters the shades of night;Where the porpoise and dolphin sport at playIn their liquid realm of green and gray.Ah, me! It is there I would love to beEngulfed in the tomb of eternity!
In the midnight hour when the moon hangs lowAnd the stars beam forth with a mystic glow;When the mermaids float on the rolling tideAnd Neptune entangles his beaming bride,—It is there in that phosphorescent waveI would gladly sink in an ocean grave—To rise and fall with the songs of the seaAnd live in the chant of its memory.
Around the world my form should sweep—Part of the glorious, limitless deep;Enmeshed by fate in some coral cave,And rising again to the topmost wave,That curls in beauty its snowy sprayAnd kisses the light of the garish day;Ah! there let me drift when this life is o'er,To be tossed and tumbled from shore to shore!
I clapped my hands intensely at the rendition of the poem, and echo from her rocky caves sent back the applause, while the sea gulls in their circling flight, screamed in chorus to the voice of echo and the eternal roar of old ocean.
At sunrise we sailed away into the land-locked waters of the Mediterranean Sea, where man for a million years has loved, lived, fought and died among beautiful, blooming islands that nestle on its bosom like emeralds in the crown of immortality.
We passed along the coast of Spain to Cape Nao, in sight of the Balearic Islands, on to Barcelona, to the mouth of the river Rhone, and up to the ancient city of Avignon.
In and around this city popes, princes and international warriors lived in royal style; but they are virtually forgotten, while Petrarch, the poetic saint and laureate of Italy, is as fresh in the memory of man as the day he died—July 18th, 1374, at the age of seventy.
William and myself remained all night in the Lodge House of the Gardens of "Vacluse," thehermit home of the sighing, soaring poet, who pined his life away in platonic love for "Laura," who married Hugh de Sade, when she was only seventeen years of age, and presented the nobleman ten children as pledges of her homespun affection.
And this is the married lady who Petrarch, the poet, wasted his sonnets upon, and was treated in fact as we were told by the "oldest inhabitant" of Avignon, with supercilious contempt.
Boccaccio and Petrarch were intimate friends, and both of these passionate poets lavished their love on "married flirts," who give promise to the ear and disappointment to the heart.
I could see that while Shakspere reveled deep in the mental philosophy of Petrarch, and even plucked a flower from his rustic bower, he had no sympathy with lovesick swains, and as we signed our names in the Lodge House book, he wrote this:
Petrarch, grand, immortal in thy sonnets;Sugared by the eloquence of philosophy—Destined to shine through the rolling ages;Emulating, competing with the stars.Thy love for Laura, pure, unreciprocated;Yet, thou, foolish man, passion dazed and sad,Like many of the greatest of mankindLie dashed in the vale of disappointment;And flowers of hope, given by woman,Have crowned thy brows with nettles of despair!
Petrarch, grand, immortal in thy sonnets;Sugared by the eloquence of philosophy—Destined to shine through the rolling ages;Emulating, competing with the stars.Thy love for Laura, pure, unreciprocated;Yet, thou, foolish man, passion dazed and sad,Like many of the greatest of mankindLie dashed in the vale of disappointment;And flowers of hope, given by woman,Have crowned thy brows with nettles of despair!
Next day the Albion sailed into the Mediterranean, passed by the island of Corsica (cradle of one of the greatest soldiers of the world), throughthe Strait of Bonifacio, and in due course kept on to the flourishing city of Naples.
It was dark twilight when we came to peer into the surrounding hills and mountains of classic Italy.
To the wonder and amazement of every passenger on board, Mount Vesuvius was in brilliant action, and the flash of sparks and blazing lights from this huge chimney top of Nature dazzled the beholder, and produced a fearful sensation in the soul.
As the great jaws of the mountain opened its fiery lips and belched forth molten streams of lava, shooting a million red hot meteors into the caves of night, the earth and ocean seemed to tremble with the sound and birds and beasts of prey rushed screaming and howling to their nightly homes.
Shakspere entranced stood on the bow of the ship and soliloquized:
Great God! Almighty in thy templed realm;And mysterious in thy matchless might;Suns, moons, planets, stars, ocean, earth and airMove in harmony at thy supreme will;And yonder torch light of eternity,Blazing into heaven, candle of omnipotence—Lights thy poor, wandering human midgets—An hundred miles at sea, with lofty hope—That nothing exists or dies in vain;But changed into another form lives onThrough countless, boundless, blazing, brilliant worldsBeyond this transient, seething, suffering sod!
Great God! Almighty in thy templed realm;And mysterious in thy matchless might;Suns, moons, planets, stars, ocean, earth and airMove in harmony at thy supreme will;And yonder torch light of eternity,Blazing into heaven, candle of omnipotence—Lights thy poor, wandering human midgets—An hundred miles at sea, with lofty hope—That nothing exists or dies in vain;But changed into another form lives onThrough countless, boundless, blazing, brilliant worldsBeyond this transient, seething, suffering sod!
At this moment the vessel struck the dock and lurched William out of his reverie, coming "within an ace" of pitching the poet into the harbor of Naples.
Captain O'Neil informed us that he would be engaged unloading and loading his ship for a week or ten days at Naples, before he started for Sicily, Greece and Egypt.
William and myself concluded to hire a guide and ride and tramp by land to Rome, and view the ancient capital and test the hospitality of the Italians.
Early the next morning we set out for the Imperial City, perched on her seven hills, and enlightening the world with the radiance of her classic memorials.
Our guide, Petro, was a villainous looking fellow, yet the landlord of the Hotel Columbo told us he was well acquainted with the mountain bypaths and open roads, and could, in the event of meeting robbers, be of great service to us.
Petro wanted ten "florins" in advance, and wine and bread on the road; and as we could not do any better, the bargain was made, and off we tramped through the great city of Milan, scaling the surrounding hills and pulling up as the sun went down at the town of Terracino.
After a good night's rest and hot breakfast, we started on horseback through a mountain trail for the banks of the Tiber, but when within three miles of the Capitoline hills Petro seemed to lose his way and rode off into the underbrush to find it.
We stopped in the trail, and in less than five minutes after the disappearance of our faithfulguide we were captured by a gang of bandits, whose garb and countenance convinced us that robbery or murder or both would be our fate.
We were dragged off our horses, hustled into the forest gloom, through briars, over streams and rocks, until finally pitched into the tiptop mountain lair of Roderick, the Terrible.
The evening camp fire was lit, and Tamora, the queen of the robbers, with a couple of robber cooks, was preparing supper for the whole band when they returned from their daily avocations.
They seemed to be a jolly set, and with joke, laughter and song, these chivalric sons of sunny Italy were relating their various exploits, and laughing at the trepidation and futile resistance of their former victims.
Just before the band sat around on the ferny, pine clad rocks for supper, Roderick addressed William, and asked him if he had anything to say why he should not be robbed and murdered.
William said he was perfectly indifferent; for, being only a writer of plays and an actor, working for the amusement of mankind, he led a kind of dog's life anyhow, and didn't give a damn what they did with him.
The Robber Chief gave a yell and a roar that could be heard for three miles among the columned pines and oaks of the Apennines, and yelled, "Bully for you! Shake!"
Roderick then turned to me and said, "Who are you?"
I replied at once, "I am a fool and a poet."
He grasped my hand intensely and yelled, "I'm another." That sealed our friendship.
Then these gay and festive robbers invited us to partake of the best in the mountain wilds, with the request that after the evening feast was over we should give samples of our trade.
With the blazing light of a mountain fire, hemmed in by inaccessible rocks and gulches, from a tablerock overhanging a roaring, dashing stream, five thousand feet below, William stood and was requested to give a sample of his dramatic poetry for the edification of the beautiful cut-throat audience! And this, as I well remember, was his encomium in Latin to the "Gentlemen" and "Queen" of independent, gold-getting, robbing, murdering, fantastic Italian "society."