'I think he'll be to RomeAs is the osprey to the fish, whotakesitBy sovereignty of nature.'
The poet finds, indeed, this monstrosity full-blown in his time. He finds it 'in the civil streets,' 'talking plain cannon', 'humming batteries' in the most unmistakeable manner, with no particular account of its origin to give, without, indeed, appearing to recollect exactly how it came there, retaining only a general impression, that a descent from the celestial regions had, in some way, been effected during some undated period of human history, under circumstances which the memory of man was not expected to be able to recall in detail, and a certificate to that effect, divinely subscribed, was understood to be included among its properties, though it does not appear to have been, on the face of it, so absolutely conclusive as to render a little logical demonstration, on the part of royalty itself, superfluous.
It was not very far from this time, that a very able and loyal servant of the crown undertook, openly, to assist the royal memory on this delicate point; and, though the details of that historical representation, and the manner of it, are, of course, quite different from those of the Play, it will be found, upon careful examination, not so dissimilar in purport as the exterior would have seemed to imply. The philosopher does not feel called upon, in either case, to begin by contradicting flatly, in so many words, the theory which he finds the received one on that point. Even thepoet, with all his freedom, is compelled to go to work after another fashion.
'Andthusdo we, of wisdom, and of reach,Withwindlasses, and with ASSAYS of BIAS,By indirections find directions out.'
He has his own way of creating an historical retrospect. No one need know that itisa retrospect; no one will know it, perhaps, who has not taken the author's clue elsewhere. The crisis is already reached when the play begins. The collision between the civil want and the military government is at its height. It is a revolution on which the curtain rises. It is a city street filled with dark, angry swarms of men, who have come forth to seek out this government, in the person of its chief, who stop only to conduct their summary trial of it, and then hurry on to execute their verdict.
But the poet arrests this revolution. Before we proceed any further, 'Hearmespeak,' he cries, through the lips of the plebeian leader. The man of science demands a hearing, before this movement proceed any further. He has a longer story to tell than that with which Menenius Agrippa appeases his Romans. There is a cry of war in the streets. The obscure background of that portentous scene opens, and the long vista of the heroic ages, with all its pomp and stormy splendours, scene upon scene, grows luminous behind it. The foreground is the same. The arrested mutineers stand there still, with the frown knit in their angry brows, with the weapons of their civil warfare in their hands; there is no stage direction for a change of costume, and none perceives that they have grown older as they stand, and that the shadow of the elder time is on them. But the manager of this stage is one who knows that the elder time of history is the childhood of his kind.
There is a cry of war in that ancient street. The enemy of the infant state is in arms. The people rush forth to conflict with the leader of armies at their head. But this time, for the first time in the history of literature, the philosopher goes with him. The philosopher, hitherto, has been otherwise occupied. He has been too busy with his fierce war of words; he has had too much to do with his abstract generals, his logical majors and minors, to get them in squadrons and right forms of war, to have any eye for such vulgar solidarities. 'All men are mortal. Peter and John are men. Therefore Peter and John are mortal,' he concludes; but that is his nearest and most vivacious approach to historical particulars, and his cell is broad enough to contain all that he needs for his processes and ends. He finds enough and to spare, ready prepared to his hands, in the casual, rude, unscientific observations and spontaneous distinctions of the vulgar. His generalizations are obtained from their hasty abstractions. It has never occurred to him, till now, that he must begin with criticising theseterms; that he must begin by making a new and scientific terminology, which shall correspond toterms in nature, and not be air-lines merely;—that he must take pains to collect them himself, from severest scrutiny of particulars, before ever he can arrive at 'the notions of nature,' the universal notions, which differ from the spontaneous specific notions of men, and their chimeras; before ever he can put man into his true relations with nature, before ever he can teach him to speak the word which she responds to,—the words of her dictionary—the word which ispower.
This is, in fact, the first time that the philosopher has undertaken to go abroad. It is the first time he has ever been in the army. Softly, invisibly, he goes. There is nothing to show that he is there. As modestly, as unnoticed, as the Times 'own correspondent,' amid all the clang and tumult, the pomp and circumstance of glorious war, he goes. But he is there notwithstanding. There is no breath of scholasticism, no perfume of the cell, that the most vigorous and robust can perceive, in his battle. The scene unwinds with all its fierce reality, undimmed by the pale cast of thought: the shout is as wild, the din as fearful, the martial fury rises, as if the old heroic poet had it still in hand.
But it is not the poet's voice that you hear, bursting forth into those rhythmical ecstasies of heroic passion,—unless that faint tone of exaggeration,—that slight prolonging of it, be his. That mad joy in human blood, that wolfish glare, that lights the hero's eye, gets no reflection in his: those fiendish boasts are not fromhislips. Through all the frenzy of that demoniacal scene, he is still himself, with all hishumansense about him. Through all the crowded incidents of that day of blood—into which he condenses, with dramatic license, the siege and assault of the city, the conquest and plunder of it, and the conflict in the open field,—he is keeping watch on his hero. He is eyeing him, and sketching him, as critically as if he were indeed an entomological or botanical specimen. He is making a specimen of him, for scientific purposes,—not 'a preservation,'—he does not think much of dried specimens in science. He proposes to dismiss the logical Peter and John, and the logical man himself, that abstract notion which the metaphysicians have been at loggerheads about so long. It is the true heroism,—it is the sovereign flower which he is in search of. This specimen that he is taking here will, indeed, go by the board. He is taking him on his negative table. But forthatpurpose,—in order to get him on his 'table of rejections,' it is necessary to take himalive. The question is of government, of supreme power, and universalsuffrage, of the abnegation of reason, of the annihilation of judgment, in behalf of a superiority which has been understood, heretofore, to admit ofnoquestion. The question is of awe and reverence, and worship, and submission. The Poet has to put his sacrilegious hand through the dust that lies on antique time, through the sanctity of prescription and time-honoured usage, through 'mountainous error' 'too highly heaped for truth to overpeer,' in order to make this point in his scientific table. And he wishes to blazon it a little. He will pin up this old exploded hero—this legacy of barbaric ages, to the ages of human advancement—in all his actualities, in all the heroic splendours of his original, without 'diminishing one dowle that's in his plume.'
But this retrospect has not yet reached its limit. It is not enough to go back, in the unravelling of this business, to the full-grown hero on the field of victory. 'For that which, in speculative philosophy, corresponds to the cause in practical philosophy becomes the rule;' and it is the Cure of the Common Weal, which the poet is proposing, and having determined to proceed specially against Caius Marcius, or against himfirst, he undertakes now to 'delve him to the root.' We are already on the battle field; but before ever a stroke is struckthere, before he will attempt to show us the instinct of the warrior in hisgame,—'he is a lion that I am proud to hunt,'—when all is ready and just as the hunt is going to begin, he steals softly back to Rome; he unlocks the hero's private dwelling, he lays open to us the secrets of that domestic hearth, the secrets of that nursery in which his hero had had his training; he shows us the breasts from which he drew that martial fire; he produces the woman alive who sent him to that field. [Act 1, Scene 3.An apartment in the martial chieftain's house; two women, 'on two low stools, sewing.' 'There is where your throne begins, whatever it be.'] In that exquisite relief which the natural graces of youth and womanhood provide for it, in the young, gentle, feminine wife, desolate in her husband's absence, starting at the rumour of news from the camp, and driving back from her appalled conception, the images which her mother-in-law's fearful speech suggests to her,—in that so beautiful relief, comes out the picture of the Roman matron, the woman in whom the martial instincts have been educated and the gentler ones repressed, by the common sentiments of her age and nation, the woman in whom the common standard of virtue, the conventional virtue of her time, has annihilated the wife and the mother.
Virgilia. Had he died in the business, madam, what then?
Volumnia. Then his good report should have been my son,I therein would have found issue.
It is the multiplied force of a common instinct in the nation, it is the pride of conquest in a whole people, erected into the place of virtue and usurping all its sanctity, which has entered this woman's nature and reformed its yielding principles. It is theMartialSpirit that has subdued her, for she is virtuous and religious. It is her people's god to whom she has borne her son, and in his temple she has reared him.
But the poet is not satisfied with all this. It is not enough to introduce us to the hero's mother and permit us to listen to her confidential account of his birth and training. He will produce the little Coriolanus himself—Coriolanus in germ—he will show us the rudiments of those instincts, which his unscientific education has stimulated into such monstrous 'o'ergrowth' (butnotenlightened), so that the hero on the battle-field who is winning there the oaken crown, which he will transmit if he can to his posterity, is only, after all, a boy overgrown,—a boy with hisboyishness unnaturally prolonged by his culture,—the impersonation of the childishness of a childish time,—the crowned impersonation of the instinct which is SOVEREIGN in an age of instinct. He shows us the drum and the sword in the nursery, and the boy who would rather look at the military parade than his schoolmaster;—he shows us the little viperous egg of a hero torturing and tearing the butterfly, with his 'confirmed countenance, in one of his father's moods.'
Surely we have reached 'the grub' at last, 'the creeping thing' that will have one day imperial armies in its wings. And we return from this little excursion to the field again, in time for the battle; and when we see the tiger in the man let loosethere, and the boy's father comes out in one of hisownmoods, that we may note it the better; we begin to observe where we are in the human history, and what age of the Advancement of Learning it is that this poet is driving at so stedfastly, and trying to get dated; and whether it is indeed one from which the advancing ages of Learning can accept the bourne of the human wisdom, the limit of that advance.
'And to speaktruly[and that after allisthe best way of speaking]Antiquitas seculi juventus mundi.'
'Those times are the ancient times, when theworldis ancient and not those we account ancient by a computationbackwardfromourselves.'—Advancement of Learning. But that was put down in a book in which we have only general statements, very wise indeed, and both new and true, most exactly true, but not ready for practice, as the author stops to tell us, and it is practice he is aiming at. That is from a book in which we have only 'the husks and shells of sciences,all the kernelbeing forced out,' as the author informs us, 'by thetorture and pressof the method.' But it was a method which saved them, notwithstanding. This is the book that contains the 'nuts,' andthisis the kernel that goes in that particular shell or a corner of it, 'Antiquitas seculi juventus mundi.'
There, on the spot, he shows us the process by which a king,—an historic king,—is made. He detects and brings out and blazons, the moment in which the inequality of fortune begins, in the division of the spoils of victory. His hero isnot, as he takes pains to tell us, covetous,—unlessit be a sin to covet honour, if it be, he is the most offending soul alive;—it is because he is not mercenary, that his soldiers will enrich him. The poet shows us where the throne begins, and the machinery of that engine which the earth shrinks from when it moves. On his stage, it is the moment in which, the soldiers raise their victorious leader from his feet, and carry him in triumph above them. We are there at the ceremony, for this is selected, illuminated history; this, too, is what he calls 'visible history,' but amid all those martial acclamations and plaudits, the philosopher contrives to get in a word.
'He that has effected hisgood will, has o'ertaken my act.'
From the field he tracks his hero to the chair of state. First we have the news of the victory in the city, and its effect:—
'I'll report itWheresenatorsshall mingle tears with smiles;Where greatpatriciansshall attend, andshrug;I' the end admire; where ladies shall be frighted,And, gladly quaked, hear more; where thedull tribunes,That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours,Shall say against their hearts, We thank the godsOur Romehath such a soldier.'
Then we have the hero's return—the conqueror's reception; first in the city whose battle he has won, and afterwards his reception in the city he has conquered. Here is the latter:—
'Your native townyouenteredlike a post,And had no welcomes home; but he returns,Splitting the air with noises.Andpatient fools,Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tearWITH GIVING HIM GLORY.'
'A goodly city is this Antium! City,'TisIthat made thy widows; many an heirOfthese fair edifices, 'fore my warsHave I heard groan and droop. Then know me not,Lest that thy wives with spits, and boys with stones,Inpuny battle slay me.' [—know me not—lest—''Let us kill him, and we will havecorn, at our own price.']
But the Poet does not forget that it is the proof of the military virtue, as well as the history of the military power, that he has undertaken; 'the touch of its nobility,' as he himself words it. He is trying it by his own exact scientific standard; he is putting the test to it which the new philosophy, which is the philosophy of nature, authorises.
For, in truth, this philosopher, this civilian, is a little jealous of this simple virtue of valour, which he finds in his time, as in the barbaric ages, still in such esteem, as 'the chiefest virtue, and that which most dignifies the haver.' He is of opinion, that there may be some other profession, beside that of the sword, worth an honest man's attention; that, if the world were more enlightened, there would be another kind of glory, that would make 'the garland of war' shrivel. He thinks thatJupiter, andnot Mars, should reign supreme: that there is another kind of distinction and leadership, better worth the public esteem, better deserving the popular gratitude and reverence.
And when he has once taken an analysis of this kind in hand, he is not going to permit any scruples of delicacy to impair the operation. He will invade that graceful modesty in the hero, who shrinks from hearing his exploits narrated. He will analyse that blush, and show us chemically what its hue is made of. He will bring out those retiring honours from the haze and mist which the vague, unanalytic, popular notions, have gathered about them. Tucked up in scarlet, braided with gold, under its forest of feathers, through all its pomp and blazonry, through all its drums; and trumpets, and clarions, undaunted by the popular cry, undaunted by that so potent word of 'patriotism' which guards it from invasion, he will search it out.
For this purpose he will go a little nearer to it than is the heroic poet's wont. When the city is wild with the news of this great victory, and the streets are swarming at the tidings of the hero's approach, he will takehisstand withthe family party, and beckon us to a place where we can listen to what is going onthere, though the heroics and the blank verse must halt for it.
The glee and fluster might appear to a cool spectator a little undignified; but then we are understood to be, like Menenius, old friends of the family, and too much carried away with the excitement of the moment to be very critical.
Volumnia. Honourable Menenius,my boy, Marcius, approaches. For the love ofJuno, let's go.
Men. Ha! Marcius coming home!
Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperousapprobation.
Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee.Hoo! Marcius coming home?
Two Ladies. Nay, 't is true.
Vol. Look! Here's a letter from him;the statehath another,his wifeanother, and I think there's one at home foryou.
Men. I will make my very house reel to night:—A letter for me?
The Wife. Yes, certainly, there a letter for you; I saw it.
Men. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician … Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded.
The Wife. Oh, no, no, no!
The Mother. Oh, he is wounded. I thank the gods for 't.
Men. So do I, too, if it be not too much:—Brings a victory in his pocket: The wounds become him.
Vol. On's brow, Menenius: he comes the third time home withthe oaken garland.
Men…. Is the senate possessed of this?
Vol. Good ladies, let's go! Yes, yes, yes: the senate has letters from the general, wherein he givesmy sonthe whole name of the war.
Valeria. In truth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.
Men. Wondrous, ay, I warrant you…
Vir. The gods grant them true!
Vol. True? Pow wow!
Men. True? I'll be sworn they are true. Where's he wounded? [To the Tribunes, whocome forward.] Marcius is coming home: he has—more cause to be—PROUD.—Where is he wounded?
Vol. I' the shoulder, and i' the left arm:There will be large cicatrices to shew the people, when he shall stand FOR HIS PLACE. He received in the repulse ofTarquinseven hurts i' the body.
Men. Onein the neck, andtwoin the thigh,—there'sninethatIknow.
Vol. He had, before this last expedition,twenty-fivewounds upon him.
Men. Now it'stwenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave.
[Of course there is no satire intended here at all. This is a Poet who does not know what he is about.]
But now we come to the blank verse again; for at this moment the shout that announces the hero's entrance is heard; and, mingling with it, the martial tones of victory.
shout and flourish.Hark! the trumpets!
Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius: before himHe carries noise;behind him he leaves tears.Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie;Which being advanced, declines, andthen men die.
Then comes the imposing military pageant. A sennet. Trumpets sound, and enter the hero, 'crowned' with hisoakengarland, sustained by the generals on either hand, with the victorious soldiers, and a herald proclaiming before him his victory.
Herald. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fightWithin Corioli's gates: where he hath wonWith fame, a name to Caius Marcius; theseIn honour follows Coriolanus:Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
But while Rome is listening to this great story, and the people are shouting his name, the demi-god catches sight of his mother and of his wife; and full of private duty and affection, he forgets his state, his garland stoops, the conqueror is on his knee, in filial submission. The woman had said truly, 'my boyMarcius is coming home.' And when he greets the weeping Virgilia, who cannot speak but with her tears, these are the words with which he measures thatprivate joy—
Would'st thou have laughed, had I come coffin'd home,That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,Such eyesthewidowsin Corioli wear,Andmothersthat lacksons.
No; these are the Poet's words, rather—'such eyes.'
Sucheyes. It was the Poet who could look through the barriers—those hitherto impervious barriers of anenemy's town, and see in it, at that moment, eyes as beautiful—eyes that had been 'dove's eyes,' too, to those who had loved them, wet with other tears,—mothers that lovedtheirsons, and 'lacked them'; it was the Poet to whosehumansense those hard hostile walls dissolved and cleared away, till he could see the Volscian wives claspingtheirloves, as they 'came coffined home'; it was the Poet who dared to stain the joy and triumph of that fond meeting, the glory and pride of that triumphal entry, with thosehumanthoughts; it was he who heard above the roll of the drum, and the swell of the clarions and trumpets, and the shout of the rejoicing multitude above the herald's voice—the groans of mortal anguish in the field, the cries of human sorrow in the city, the shrieks of mothers that lacked sons, the greetings of wives whose loves 'came coffined home.' And he does not mind aggravating the intense selfishness, and narrowness, and stolidity of these private passions and affections of the individual to a truly unnatural and diabolical intensity, by charging on poor Volumnia and Marcius his own reminiscences; as if they could have dared to heighten their joy at that moment by counting its cost—as if they could have looked in the face—as if they could have comprehended, in its actual dimensions, the theme of their vulgar,narrow, unlearned exultation. But this is a trick this author is much given to, we shall find, when we come to study him carefully. He is not scrupulous on such points. He has a tolerable sense of the fitness of things, too. His dramatic conscience is as nice as another man's; but he is always ready to sin against it, when he sees reason. He is much like his own Mr. Slender in one respect, 'he will do anything in reason'; and his theory of the Chief End of Man appears to differ essentially from the one which our modern Doctors of 'Art' propound incidentally in their criticisms. It is the mother who cries, when she catches the swell of the trumpets that announce her son's approach—'Theseare the ushers of Marcius. Before him he carries noise.' It is the Poet who adds,sotto voce, 'behind him he leaves TEARS.'
'You are three,' says Menenius, after some further prolongation of these private demonstrations, addressing himself to the three victorious generals—
You are three,That Romeshoulddote on: yet,by the faithofmen,Wehavesome old crab-trees here at home, that willnotBe grafted to your relish. Yet WELCOME, WARRIORS:We call anettlebut anettle; andThefaultsof fools, butfolly.
But the herald is driving on the crowd; and considering how very public the occasion is, and how very, very private and personal all this chat is, it does appear to have stopped the way long enough. Thus hurried, the hero gives hastily a hand 'to HIS WIFE and MOTHER' [stage direction], but stops to say a word or two more, which has the merit of being at least to the POET'S purpose, though the common-weal may appear to be lost sight of in the HERO'S a little; and that delicacy and reserve of manner, that modesty of nature, which is the characteristic of this Poet's art, serves here, as elsewhere, to disguise the internal continuities of the poetic design. The careless eye will not track it in these finer touches. 'Where some stretched-mouth rascal' would have roared you out his prescribed moral, 'outscolding Termagant' with it, the Poet, who is the poet of truth, and who would have such fellows 'whipped' out of the sacred places of Art, with a large or small cord, as the case may be, is content to bring in his 'delicate burdens,' or to keep sight of them, at least, with some such reference to them as this—
'Ere inour own houseI do shade my head,The good patricians must be visited;From whom I have received not only greetingsBut with them change of honours'—[change.]
That is his visit to the state-house which he is speaking of. It is the Capitol which is put down inhisplan of the city on his way to his own house. 'The state has a letter from him, and his wife another; and I think there is one for you, too.'
Volumnia understands that delicate intimation as tothe changeof honours, and in return, takes occasion to express to him, on the spot, her views about the consulship, and the use to which the new cicatrices are to be converted.
Coriolanus replies to this in words that admit, as this Poet's words often do, of a double construction; for the Poet is, indeed, lurking under all this. He is always present, and he often slips in a word for himself, when his characters are busy, and thinking of their own parts only. He is very apt to make use of occasions for emphasis, to put inone wordfor his speakers, andtwofor himself. It is irregular, but he does not stand much upon precedents; it was the only way he had of writing his life then—
'Know, good mother, I had rather betheir servant in my way, Thansway with them in theirs.Cominius. On, toTHE CAPITOL.' [Flourish Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. The Tribunes remain.]
And when the great pageant has moved on 'in state, as before'—when the shouts of the people, and the triumphal swell and din, have died away, this is the manner in which our two tribunes look at each other. They know their voices would not make so much as a ripple, at that moment, in the tide of that great sea of popular ignorance, which it is their business to sway,—the tide which is setting all one way then, in one ofitsmonstrous swells, and bearing every living thing with it,—the tide which is taking the military hero 'On toTHE CAPITOL.' But though they cannot then oppose it, they can note it. And it is thus that they register that popular confirmation at home, of the soldier's vote on the field.
It is a picture of the hero's return, good for all ages in its living outline, composed in that 'charactery' which lays the past and future open. It is a picture good for the Roman hero's entry; 'and were now the general of our gracious empress, as ingood time he may, from Ireland coming, bringingrebellionbroachedon his sword'—would it, or would it not, suit him?
It is a picture of the hero's return, good for all ages in its main feature, for all the ages, at least of a brutish popular ignorance, of a merely instinctive human growth and formation; but it is a picture taken from the life,—caught,—detained with the secret of that palette, whose secret none has yet found, and the detail is all, notRoman, but,Elizabethan. Those 'variable complexions,' that one sees, 'smothering the stalls, bulks, windows, filling the leads,' and roofs, even to the 'ridges,' all agreeing in one expression, are Elizabethan. It is an Elizabethan crowd that we have got into, in some way, and it is worth noting if it were only for that. There goes 'the seld shown flamen,puffinghis way towin a vulgar station,' here is a 'veiled dame' who lets us see that 'war of white and damask in her nicely gawded cheeks,' a moment;—look at that 'kitchen malkin,' peering over the wall there with 'her richest lockram' 'pinned on her reechy neck,' eyeing the hero as he passes; and look at this poor baby here, this Elizabethan baby, saved, conserved alive, crying himself 'into arapture' while his 'prattling nurse' has ears and eyes for the hero only, as 'she chats him.' Look at them all, for every creature you see here, from 'the seld shown flamen' to the 'kitchen malkin,' belongs soul and body to 'our gracious Empress,' and Essex and Raleigh are still winning their garlands of the war,—that is when the scene is taken, but not when it was put in its place and framed in this composition; for their game was up ere then. England preferred old heroes and their claims to new ones. 'I fear there will a worse come in his place,' was the cautious instinct.
Bru. All tongues speak of him, and thebleared sightsAre spectacled to see him: YourprattlingnurseInto a rapture lets her baby cry,While she chats him: the kitchin malkin pinsHer richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck.Clambering the wallsto eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges horsedWithvariable complexions; all agreeingIn earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamensDo press among the popular throng, and puffTo win a vulgar station: our veil'd damesCommit the war of white and damask, inTheir nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoilOf Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother,As if that whatsoever god, who leads him,Were slyly crept into his human powers,And gave him graceful posture.
Sic. On the sudden,I warrant him consul.
Bru. Then our office may,During his power, go sleep.
Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours…. but willLose that he hath won.
Cru. In that there's comfort.
Sic. Doubt not, thecommoners, for whom we stand,—
[While they resolve upon the measures to be taken, which we shall note elsewhere, a messenger enters.]
Bru. What's the matter?
Mess. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought,ThatMarciusshall be consul: I have seenThe dumb men throng to see him, and the blindTo hear him speak: The matrons flung their gloves,Ladiesandmaidsthescarfsandhandkerchiefs,Upon him as he passed:the nobles bended,As to Jove's statue; and the commons madeA shower, and thunder, with theircaps, and shouts:I never saw the like.
Bru. Lets to the Capitol; And carrywith usears and eyes forTHE TIME,But heartsfor the EVENT.
[And let us to the Capitol also, and hear the civic claim of the oaken garland, the military claim to dispose of thecommon-weal, as set forth by one who is himself a general 'commander-in-chief' of Rome's armies, and see whether or no the Poet's own doubtful cheer on the battle-field has any echo in this place.]
Com. It is held, That valour is the chiefest virtue, andMost dignifies the haver: IF IT BE,The man I speakof cannot in the world Besinglycounterpois'd.
[If it be? And he goes on to tell a story which fits, in all its points, a great hero, a true chieftain, brave as heroes of old romance, who lived when this was written, concluding thus—]
Com. Hestopped the fliers;And, by his rare example, made the cowardTurn terror into sport:as waves beforeA vessel under sail, SO MEN OBEY'D,And fell below his stem: his sword, (death's stamp.)Where it did mark, it took;from face to footHe was a thing of blood, whose every motionWas timed with dying cries: alone he enter'dThe mortal gate o'the city, which he paintedWith shunless destiny, aidless came off,And with a sudden re-enforcement struckCorioli, like a planet: now, ALL'S HIS:When by and by the din of war 'gan pierceHis ready sense: then straighthis doubled spiritRe-quicken'd what in flesh was fatigate,And to the battle came he; where he didRun reeking o'er the lives of men, as if'Twere a perpetual spoil: andtill we call'dBoth field and city ours, he never stoodTo ease his breast with panting.
Men. WORTHY MAN!
First Sen. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him.
[One more quality, however, his pleader insists on, as additional proof of this 'fitness' for though it is a negative one, its opposite had not been reckoned among the kingly virtues, and the poet takes some pains to bring that opposite quality into relief, throughout, by this negative.]
Com. Ourspoilshe kicked at; And look'd upon things precious, as they were The common muck o' the world.
Men. HE'S RIGHT NOBLE;Let him be call'd for.
First Sen. Call for Coriolanus.
Off. He doth appear.
At the opening of this scene, two officers appeared on the stage, 'laying cushions,' for this is one of those specimens of the new method of investigation applied to the noblest subjects, 'which represents, as it were,to the eye, the whole order of the invention,' and into the Capitol stalks now the casque, for this is that 'step from the casque to the cushion' which the Poet is considering in the abstract; but it does not suit his purpose to treat of it in these abstract terms merely, because 'reason cannot be so sensible.' This, too, is one of those grand historic moments which this new, select, prepared history must represent to the eye in all its momentous historic splendour, for this is the kind of popular instruction which reproduces the past, which represents the historic event, not in perspective, but as present. And this is the 'business,' and this is the play in which we are told 'action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant more learned than the ears.'
The seats of state are prepared for him. 'CallCoriolanus,' is the senate's word. The conqueror's step is heard. 'He does appear.'
Men. The senate, Coriolanus, are well pleasedTo make thee consul.
Cor. I do owe them stillMy life, and services.
Men. IT THEN REMAINS,THAT YOU DO SPEAK TO THE PEOPLE.
Cor. I do beseech you,Let me overleap that custom.
Sic. Sir, the peopleMust have their voices; neither will they bateOne jot of their ceremony.
Men. Put them not to't:—[his friendly adviser says.]Pray you, go fit youto the custom; andTake to you,as your predecessors have,Your honour, withyour form.
Cor. It is a partThat I shall blush in acting,and might wellBe taken from the people.
Bru. Mark you that!
Cor. To brag unto them,—Thus I did, and thus;—Show them the unaching scars which I should hide,As if I had receivedthem for the hireOftheir breath only.
'The greater part carries it.If he would but incline to the people,There never was a worthier man.'
And yet, after all, that is what he wants for them, and must have or he is nothing; for as the Poet tells us elsewhere, 'our monarchs and our outstretched heroes are but the beggar's shadows.' The difficulty is, that he wishes to take his 'hire' in some more quiet way, without being rudely reminded of the nature of the transaction.
But the Poet's toils are about him. The man of science has caught the hero, the king in germ; the dragon wings are not yet spread. He wishes to exhibit the embryo monarch in this particular stage of his development, and the scientific process proceeds with as little regard to the victim's wishes, as if he were indeed that humble product of nature to which the Poet likens him. 'There's a differency between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub.' Just on that step between 'the casque and the cushion,' the philosopher arrests him.
For this history denotes, as we have seen, a foregone conclusion. The scholar has privately anatomized in his study the dragon's wings, and this theatrical synthesis is designed to be an instructive one. He wishes to show, in a palpable form, whatisand what isnot, essential to the mechanism of that greatness which, though it presents itself to the eye in the contemptible physique, and moral infirmity and pettiness of the human individual, is yet clothed with powers so monstrous, so real, so terrific, that all men are afflicted with them;—this thing in which 'the conditions of a man are so altered,' this thing which 'has grown from man to dragon, which is more than a creeping thing.' He will show that after all it is nothing in the world but thepopular poweritself, the power of the people instinctively, unscientifically and unartistically exercised.
The Poet has analysed that so potent name by which men call it, and he will show upon his stage, by that same method which his followers have made familiar to us, in other departments of investigation, the elements of its power. He will let us see how it was those despised 'mechanics,' those 'poor citizens,' with their strong arms and voices, who were throwing themselves,—in their enthusiasm,—en-masse into that engine, and only asking to be welded in it; that would have made of this citizen a thing so terrific. He will show how, after all, it was the despisedcommonswho were making of that citizen a king, of that soldier a monarch,—who were changing with the alchemy of the 'shower and thunder they made with their caps and voices,' his oak leaves and acorns, into gold and jewels.
He will show it on the platform of a state, where that vote is formally and constitutionally given, and not in a state where it is only a virtual and tacit one. He will show it in detail. He will cause the multitude to berepresented, and pass bytwosandthreesacross his stage, and compel the haughty chief, the would be ruler, to beg of them, individually, their suffrages, and show them his claim,—such as it is, the 'unaching scars that he should hide.'
It is to this Poet's purpose to exhibit that despised element in the state, which the popular submission creates, that unnoticed element of the common suffrage which looks so smooth on its surface, which seems to the haughty chief so little worth his notice, when it goes his way and bears him on its crest. But the experimenter will undertake to show what it is by ruffling it, by instigating this chief to put himself in the madness of his private affections, in the frenzy of his pride, into open opposition with it. He will show us what it is by playing with it. He will wake it from its unvisited depths, and bid his hero strive with it.
He will show what that popular consent, or the consent of 'the commons' amounts to, in the king-making process, byomitting itor bywithdrawing it, before it is too late to withdraw it;—according to the now well-known rules of that new art of scientific investigation, which was then getting worked out and cleared, from this author's own methods of investigation. For it was because this faculty was in him, so unlike what it was in others, that he was able to write that science of it, by which other men, stepping into his armour, have been able to achieve so much.
He will show how those dragon teeth and claws, that were just getting the steel into them, which would have armed that single will against the whole, and itsweal, crumble for the lack of it; he will show us the new-fledged wings, with all their fresh gauds, collapsing and dissolving with that popular withdrawal. He will continue the process, till there is nothing left of all that gorgeous state pageant, which came in with the flourish of trumpets and the voice of the herald long and loud, and the echoing thunder of the commons, but a poor grub of a man, in his native conditions, a private citizen, denied even the common privilege of citizenship,—with only his wife and his mother and a friend or two, to cling to him,—turned out of the city gates, to seek his fortune.
But that is the moment in which the Poet ventures to bring out a little more fully, in the form of positive statement, that latent affirmation, that definition of the true nobility which underlies all the play and glistens through it in many a fine, but hitherto, unnoticed point; that affirmation which all these negatives conclude in, that latent idea of the true personal greatness and its essential relation to the common-weal and the state, which is the predominant idea of the play, which shapes all the criticism and points all the satire of it. It is there that the true hero speaks out for a moment from the lips of that old military heroism, of a greatness which does not cease when the wings of state drop off from it, of an honour that takes no stain though all the human voices join to sully it,—the dignity that rises and soars and gains the point of immutability, when all the world would have it under foot. But in that nobility men need training,—scientific training. The instinctive, unartistic human growth, or the empirical unscientific arts of culture, give but a vulgar counterfeit of it, or at best a poor, sickly, distorted, convulsive, unsatisfactory type of it, for 'being gentle, wounded,'—(and it is gentility and nobility and the true aristocracy that we speak of here,)—'craves a NOBLE CUNNING;' so the old military chieftain tells us. It is acunningwhich his author does not puthimupon practising personally. Practically he represents another school of heroes. It is thewordof that higher heroism in which he was himself wanting, it is the criticism on his own part, it is the affirmation which all this grand historic negative is always pointing to, which the author borrows his lips to utter.
The result in this case, the overthrow of the military hero on his way to the chair of state, is occasioned by theprematurearrogance to which his passionate nature impels him. For his fiery disposition refuses to obey the decision of his will, and overleaps in its passion, all the barriers of that policy which his calmer moments had prescribed. The result is occasioned by his open display of his contempt for the people, before he had as yet mastered the organizations which would make that display, in an unenlightened age, perhaps, a safe one.
This point of time is much insisted on, and emphasized.
'Let them pull all about mine ears,' cries the hero, as he enters his own house, after his first encounter with the multitude in their wrath.
'Let them pull all about mine ears, present meDeath on the wheel, or at wild horses' heels, Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight, yet will I still—BeTHUSto them.'
[For that is the sublime conclusion of these heroics.]
'You do thenobler,' responds the Coryphæus of that chorus of patricians who accompany him home, and who ought, of course, to be judges of nobility. But there is another approbation wanted. Volumnia is there; but she listens in silence. 'I muse,' he continues—
'I muse my motherDoes not approve me further—who was wontTo call them woollen vassals,things createdTo buy and sell with groats; to show bare headsIncongregations, to YAWN, be STILL, AND WONDER,When one but of myordinancestood upTo speak of PEACE or WAR. I talk of you [to Volumnia.]Why did you wish me milder? Would you have meFalse to my nature? [Softly] Either say IplayThe man I am.
Vol. O sir, sir, sir,I would have had youput your power well on,Ere you had worn it out.
Cor. Let go.
Vol. Lesser had beenThethwarting of your dispositions, IFYou had not shown themhowyou weredisposedEre they lackedpowerto cross you.
Cor. Let them HANG!
Vol.Ay, andBURNtoo!
For that was the 'disposition' which these Commons, if they had waited but a little longer, might have 'lackedpower to cross.' That was the disposition they had thwarted.
But then it is necessary to our purpose, as it was to the author's, to notice that the collision in this case is aforcedone. It grows by plot. The people areput up to it. For there are men in that commonwealth who are competent to instruct the Commons in the doctrine of thecommon weal, and who are carefully and perseveringly applying themselves to that task; though they are men who know how to bide their time, and they will wait till the soaring insolence of the hero is brought into open collision with that enlightened popular will.
They will wait till the military hero's quarrel with the commonwealth breaks out anew. For they know that it lies in the nature of things, and cannot but occur. The éclat of his victory, and the military pride of the nation, films it over for a time; but the quarrel is a radical one, and cannot be healed.
For this chief of soldiers, and would-be head and ruler of the state knows nocommonwealth. His soul is not large enough to admit of that conception. The walls of ignorance, that he shuts himself up in, darken and narrow his world to the sphere of his ownmicrocosm,— and, therefore, there is a natural war between the world and him. Thestateof universal subjection, on the part of others, to his single exclusive passions and affections, the state in which the whole is sacrificed to the part, is the only state that will satisfy him. That is the peace he is disposed to conquer; that is the consummation with which he wouldstay; that ishisnotion ofstate. When that consummation is attained, or when such an approximation to it as he judges to be within his reach, is attained, then, and not till then, he is forconservation;—revolution thenis sin; but, till then he will have change and overturning—he will fill the earth with rapine, and fire, and slaughter. But this is just the peace and war principle, which this man, who proposes a durable and solid peace, and the true state, a state constructed with reference to true definitions and axioms,—this is the peace and war principle which the man of science, on scientific grounds, objects to. 'He likes nor peace nor war' on those terms. The conclusions he has framed from those solid premises which he finds in the nature of things, makes him the leader of the opposition in both cases. In one way or another he will make war on that peace; he will kindle the revolutionary fires against that conservation. In one way or another, in one age or another, he will silence that war with all its pomp and circumstance, with all the din of its fifes, and drums, and trumpets. He will make over to the ignominy of ignorant and barbaric ages,—'for we call a nettle but a nettle,' he will turn into a forgotten pageant of the rude, early, instinctive ages, the yet brutal ages of an undeveloped humanity, that triumphant reception at home, of the Conqueror of Foreign States. He will undermine, in all the states, the ethics and religion of brute force, till men shall grow sick, at last, of the old, rusty, bygone trumpery of its insignia, and say, 'Take away those baubles.'
But the hero that we deal with here, is but the pure negation of that heroism which his author conceives of, aspires to, and will have, historical, which he defines as the pattern of man's nature in all men. This one knows nocommon-wealth; the wealth that is wealth in his eyes, is all his own; the weal that he conceives of, is the weal that is warm at his own heart only. At best he can go out of his particular only as far as the limits of his own hearthstone, or the limits of his clique or caste. And in his selfish passion, when that demands it, he will sacrifice the nearest to him. As to the Commons, they are 'but things to buy and sell with groats,' a herd, a mass, a machine, to be informed with his single will, to be subordinated to his single wishes; in peace enduring the gnawings of hunger, that the garners their toil has filled may overflow for him,—enduring the badges of a degradation which blots out the essential humanity in them, to feed his pride;—in war offered up in droves, to win the garland of the war for him. That is the old hero's commonwealth. His small brain, his brutish head, could conceive no other. The ages in which he ruled the world with his instincts, with his fox-like cunning, with his wolfish fury, with his dog-like ravening,—those brute ages could know no other.
But it is the sturdy European race that the hero has to deal with here; and though, in the moment of victory, it is ready always to chain itself to the conqueror's car, and, in the exultation of conquest, and love for the conqueror, fastens on itself, with joy, the fetters of ages, this quarrel is always breaking out in it anew: it does not like being governed with the edge of the sword;—it is not fond of martial law as a permanent institution.
Two very sagacious tribunes these old Romans happen to have on hand in this emergency: birds considerably too old to be caught with this chaff of victory and military virtue, which puts the populace into such a frenzy, and very learnedly they talk on this subject, with a slight tendency to anachronisms in their mode of expression, in language which sounds a little, at times, as if they might have had access to some more recent documents, than the archives of mythical Rome could just then furnish to them.
But the reader should judge for himself of the correctness of this criticism.
Refusing to join in the military procession on its way to the Capitol, and stopping in the street for a little conference on the subject, when it has gone by, after that vivid complaint of the universal prostration to the military hero already quoted, the conference proceeds thus:—
Sic. On the sudden,I warrant him consul.
Bru. Thenour officemay,During his power, go sleep.
Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours From where he should begin, and end; but will Lose those that he hath won.
Bru. Inthatthere's comfort.
Sic. Doubt not, the commoners,for whom we stand.Butthey, upon their ancient malice, willForget, with the least cause, thesehis new honours;Which that he'll give them, make as little questionAs he is proud to do't.
Bru. I heard him swear,Wereheto stand for consul, never would heAppear i'the market-place, nor on him putThe napless vesture of humility;Nor, showing (as themanner is) his woundsTo the people, beg their stinking breaths.
Sic.'Tis right.
Bru. It was his word: O, he would miss it, ratherThancarry it, but by the suit o'the gentry to him,And thedesire of the nobles.
Sic.I wish no better,Than have him holdthatpurpose, and to put itIn execution.
Bru. 'Tis most like he will.
Sic. It shall be to him then, as our good willsA sure destruction.
Bru. So it must fall outTo him, or our authorities. For an end,We must suggest the people, in what hatredHe still hath held them; that to his power he wouldHave made them mules, silenced their pleaders, andDISPROPERTIED THEIR FREEDOMS: [—note the expression—]holding them,IN HUMAN ACTION AND CAPACITY,Of no more soulnor fitness forTHE WORLDThan CAMELS in their war; who have their provandOnly for bearing burdens, and sore blowsFor sinking under them.
Sic.This as you say, suggestedAt some time, when his soaring insolenceShall teach the people(which time shall not want)If he be put upon't; and that's as easyAs to set dogs on sheep; will be HIS FIREToKINDLE THEIR DRY STUBBLE; AND THEIR BLAZESHALL DARKEN HIM FOR EVER.
[There is a history in all men's lives,Figuring the nature of the times deceased,The which observed a man may prophesy,With a near aim of the main chance of things,As yet not come to life, which in their seedsAnd weak beginnings, lie intreasured:Such things become the hatch and brood of time.—Henry IV.]
Coriolanus, elected by the Senate to the consulship, proposes, in his arrogance, as we have already seen, to dispense with the usual form, which he understands to be a form merely, of asking the consent of the people, and exhibiting to them his claim to their suffrages. The tribunes have sternly withstood this proposition, and will hear of 'no jot' of encroachment upon the dignity and state of the Commons. After the flourish with which the election in the Senate Chamber concludes, and the withdrawal of the Senate, again they stop to discuss, confidentially, 'the situation.'
Bru. Youseehow he intends to use the people.
Sic. Maythey perceive his intent; he will require themAs if he did contemn what they requestedShould be in their power to give.
Bru. Come, we'll inform themOf our proceedings here: on the market-placeI know they do attend us.
And to the market-place we go; for it is there that the people are collecting in throngs; no bats or clubs in their hands now, but still full of their passion of gratitude and admiration for the hero's patriotic achievements, against the common foe; and, under the influence of that sentiment, wrought to its highest pitch by that action and reaction which is the incident of the common sentiment in 'the greater congregations,' or 'extensive wholes,' eager to sanction with their 'approbation,' the appointment of the Senate, though the graver sort appear to be, even then, haunted with some unpleasant reminiscences, and not without an occasional misgiving as to the wisdom of the proceeding. There is a little tone of the former meeting lurking here still.
First Cit. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him.
Second Cit. We may, Sir, if we will.
Third Cit. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do. Ingratitude ismonstrous: and for the multitude to be ungrateful, were to make a monster of the multitude,—
[There are scientific points here. This term 'monstrosity' is one of the radical terms in the science of nature; but, like many others, it is used in the popular sense, while the sweep and exactitude of the scientific definition, or 'form' is introduced into it.]
—of the which, we, being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members.
First Cit. And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve: for once, when we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us themany-headed multitude.
Third Cit. We have been called soof many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald,but that our wits are so diversely coloured: and truly I think, if ALLour witswere to issue out of ONE skull, they would fly east, west, north, south; andtheir consentofone directway should be at once to ALL the points o'the compass.
[An enigma; but the sphinx could propound no better one. Truly this man has had good teaching. He knows how to translate the old priestly Etruscan into the vernacular.]
Second Cit. Think you so? Which way, do you judge, my wit would fly?
Third Cit. Nay,your witwill not so soon out asanother man'sWILL, 'tisstrongly wedged upin a block-head:but if it were at liberty…
Second Cit. You are never without your tricks:—…
Third Cit. Are youallresolved to give your voices?But that's no matter. The greater part carries it. I say, if he wouldincline to the people, there was never a worthier man.
[Enter Coriolanus and Menenius.]
Here he comes, and in thegownofhumility; mark his behaviour. We are not to stayalltogether, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He's to make hisrequests by particulars: whereinevery one of us has a single honour, in giving him our own voices with our own tongues:thereforeFOLLOW ME, and I'LL DIRECT YOU HOW YOU SHALL GO BY HIM.
[The voice of the true leader is lurking here, and all through these scenes the 'double' meanings are thickly sown.]
All.Content, content!
Men. O Sir, you are not right: have you not knownThe worthiest men have done it?
Cor. What must I say?—I pray, Sir?—Plague upon't! I cannot bringMy tongue to such a pace:—Look, Sir,—my wounds;—I got them in my country's service,whenSome certain of your brethren roar'd, and ranFrom the noise ofOUR OWN DRUMS.
Men. O me, the gods!You must not speak of that; you must desire themTo think upon you.
Cor. Think uponme? Hang 'em!I would they would forget me,like the virtuesWhich ourdivines loseby them.
Men.You'll mar all;I'll leave you: Pray you, speak to them, I pray you,Inwholesomemanner.
[And now, instead of being thronged with a mob ofcitizens—instructed how they are to go by him with the honor oftheirsinglevoices they enter 'by twos' and 'threes.']
[Enter two Citizens.]
Cor. Bid them wash their faces,And keep their teeth clean._—So, here comes abrace,You know the cause, Sir, of my standing here.
First Cit. We do, Sir;tell us what hath brought you to't,
Cor. Mine own desert.—[The would-be consul answers.]
Second Cit. Your own desert?
Cor. Ay, not Mine own desire.
[Hisowndesert has brought him to the consulship; hisowndesire would have omitted the conciliation of the people, and the deference to their will, that with all his desert somehow he seems to find expected from him.]
First Cit. How! not your own desire!
Cor. No, Sir. 'Twas never my desire yet,To trouble the poor with begging.
He desires what the poor have to give him however; but he desires to take it, without begging. But it is the heart of the true hero that speaks in earnest through that mockery, and the reference is to a state of things towards which the whole criticism of the play is steadfastly pointed, a state in which sovereigns were reluctantly compelled to beg from the poor, what they would rather have taken without their leave, or, at least, a state in which theformof this begging was still maintained, though there lacked but little to make it a form only, a state of things in which a country gentleman might be called on to sell 'his brass pans' without being supplied, on the part of the State, with what might appear, to him, any respectable reason for it, putting his life in peril, and coming off, with a hair's-breadth escape, of all his future usefulness, if he were bold enough to question the proceeding; a state of things in which a poor law-reader might feel himself called upon to buy a gown for a lady, whose gowns were none of the cheapest, at a time when the state of his finances might render it extremely inconvenient to do so.
But to return to the Roman citizen, for the play is written by one who knows that the human nature is what it is in all ages, or, at least, until it is improved with better arts of culture than the world has yet tried on it.
First Cit. You must think, if we give you anything, We hope to gain by you.
Cor. Well then, I pray, YOUR PRICE O'THE CONSULSHIP?
First Cit. The price is, Sir, to ask itkindly.
Cor. Kindly?Sir, I pray let me ha't: I have wounds to show you,Which shall be yours in private.—Your good voice, Sir;What say you?
Second Cit. You shall have it,worthySir.
Cor. Amatch, Sir: There is in all two worthy voices begg'd:—I have your alms; adieu.
First Cit. But this is somethingodd.
Second Cit. An 'twere to give again,—But 'tis no matter.
[Exeunt two Citizens.]
[Enter two other Citizens.]
Cor. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices, that I may be consul, I have herethe customary gown.
Third Cit. You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly.
Cor. Your enigma?
Third Cit. You have been ascourge to her enemies, youhave been a rod to her friends; you havenotINDEED, loved the COMMON PEOPLE.
Cor. You should account me the more virtuous, that I have not been common in my love. I will, Sir, flatter my sworn brother the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; 'tis a conditionthey accountGENTLE: and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart,I will practisetheinsinuating nod, and beoff to them most counterfeitly; that is, Sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment ofsome popular man, and give it bountifully to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you, I may be consul.
Fourth Cit. We hope to find youour friend; andthereforegive you our voices heartily.
Third Cit. You have received many wounds for your country.
Cor. I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no further.
Both Cit. The gods give you joy, Sir, heartily! [Exeunt.]
Cor. Most sweet voices!— Better it is to die, better to starve, …Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus.—I am half through;The one part suffer'd, the other will I do.
[Enter three other Citizens.]
Here come more voices,— Your Voices:for yourvoicesI have fought:Watch'dforyour voices; for your voices, bear Of wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six, I have seen and heard of;for your voices, Done many things,some less, some more: your voices:Indeed, I would be consul.
Fifth Cit. He has donenobly, andcannot go without any honest man's voice.
Sixth Cit. Therefore let him be consul: The gods give him joy, andmake himgood friend to the people.
All. Amen, Amen.—God save thee, nobleconsul! [Exeunt Citizens.]
Cor. WORTHY VOICES!
[Re-enter Menenius, with the tribunes Brutus, and Sicinius.]
Men. You have stood your limitation; and the tribunes Endue you with the people's voice:Remains, That in theofficial marksinvested, youAnondo meet the senate.
Cor. Is this done?