CATO.—Fathers! we once again are met in council.Cæsar's approach, has summon'd us together,And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?Success still follows him, and backs his crimes,Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has sinceReceiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cæsar's.Why should I mention Juba's overthrow,And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sandsStill smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decreeWhat course to take. Our foe advances on us,And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry deserts.Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are they still fix'dTo hold it out and fight it to the last?Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought;By time and ill success, to a submission?—Sempronius, speak.SEMPRONIUS.—My voice is still for war.Gods! can a Roman senate long debateWhich of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death?No—let us rise at once; gird on our swords;And, at the head of our remaining troops,Attack the foe; break through the thick arrayOf his throng'd legions; and charge home upon him.Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest,May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help;Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens,Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senateManure the fields of Thessaly, while weSit here, delib'rating' hi told debates,If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,Or wear them out in servitude and chains.Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of PharsaliaPoint at their wounds, and cry aloud—to battle!Great Pompey's shade complains that we are flow;And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us!CATO.—Let not a torrent of impetuous zealTransport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason.True fortitude is seen in great exploits,That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides;All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction.Are not the lives of those who draw the swordIn Rome's defence, entrusted to our care?Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter,Might not th' impartial world, with reason, sayWe lavish'd, at our deaths, the blood of thousands;To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.LUCIUS.—My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on peace,Already have our quarrels fill'd the worldWith widows and with orphans. Scythia mournsOur guilty wars, and earth's remotest regionsLie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome.'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind,It is not Cæsar, but the gods, my fathers!The gods declare against us, and repelOur vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle,(Prompted by a blind revenge and wild despair)Were, to refuse th' awards of providence,And not to rest in heav'n's determination.Already have we shewn our love to Rome;Now, let us shew submission to the gods.We took up arms not to revenge ourselves,But free the commonwealth. When this end fails,Arms have no further use. Our country's cause,That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands,And bids us not delight in Roman bloodUnprofitably shed. What men could doIs done already. Heav'n and earth will witness,If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.CATO—Let us appear, not rash, nor diffident,Immoderate valour swells into a fault;And fear, admitted into public councils,Betray like treason. Let us shun 'em both.—Father's, I cannot see that our affairsAre grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks round us;Within our walls, are troops inur'd to toilIn Afric heats, and season'd to the sun.Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us,Ready to rise at its young prince's call.While there is hope, do not distrust the gods:But wait, at least, till Cæsar's near approachForce us to yield. 'Twill never be too lateTo sue for chains, and own a conqueror.Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?No—let us draw our term of freedom outIn its full length, and spin it to the last:So shall we gain still one day's liberty.And, let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment,A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty,Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.
CATO.—Fathers! we once again are met in council.Cæsar's approach, has summon'd us together,And Rome attends her fate from our resolves.How shall we treat this bold aspiring man?Success still follows him, and backs his crimes,Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has sinceReceiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is Cæsar's.Why should I mention Juba's overthrow,And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning sandsStill smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decreeWhat course to take. Our foe advances on us,And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry deserts.Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are they still fix'dTo hold it out and fight it to the last?Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length, and wrought;By time and ill success, to a submission?—Sempronius, speak.
SEMPRONIUS.—My voice is still for war.Gods! can a Roman senate long debateWhich of the two to chuse, slav'ry or death?No—let us rise at once; gird on our swords;And, at the head of our remaining troops,Attack the foe; break through the thick arrayOf his throng'd legions; and charge home upon him.Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the rest,May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands your help;Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd citizens,Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senateManure the fields of Thessaly, while weSit here, delib'rating' hi told debates,If we should sacrifice our lives to honour,Or wear them out in servitude and chains.Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of PharsaliaPoint at their wounds, and cry aloud—to battle!Great Pompey's shade complains that we are flow;And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd amongst us!
CATO.—Let not a torrent of impetuous zealTransport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason.True fortitude is seen in great exploits,That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides;All else is tow'ring frenzy and distraction.Are not the lives of those who draw the swordIn Rome's defence, entrusted to our care?Should we thus lead them to a field of slaughter,Might not th' impartial world, with reason, sayWe lavish'd, at our deaths, the blood of thousands;To grace our fall, and make our ruin glorious?Lucius, we next would know what's your opinion.
LUCIUS.—My thoughts, I must confess, are turn'd on peace,Already have our quarrels fill'd the worldWith widows and with orphans. Scythia mournsOur guilty wars, and earth's remotest regionsLie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome.'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and spare mankind,It is not Cæsar, but the gods, my fathers!The gods declare against us, and repelOur vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle,(Prompted by a blind revenge and wild despair)Were, to refuse th' awards of providence,And not to rest in heav'n's determination.Already have we shewn our love to Rome;Now, let us shew submission to the gods.We took up arms not to revenge ourselves,But free the commonwealth. When this end fails,Arms have no further use. Our country's cause,That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands,And bids us not delight in Roman bloodUnprofitably shed. What men could doIs done already. Heav'n and earth will witness,If Rome must fall, that we are innocent.
CATO—Let us appear, not rash, nor diffident,Immoderate valour swells into a fault;And fear, admitted into public councils,Betray like treason. Let us shun 'em both.—Father's, I cannot see that our affairsAre grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks round us;Within our walls, are troops inur'd to toilIn Afric heats, and season'd to the sun.Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us,Ready to rise at its young prince's call.While there is hope, do not distrust the gods:But wait, at least, till Cæsar's near approachForce us to yield. 'Twill never be too lateTo sue for chains, and own a conqueror.Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time?No—let us draw our term of freedom outIn its full length, and spin it to the last:So shall we gain still one day's liberty.And, let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment,A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty,Is worth a whole eternity of bondage.
CATO, solus,sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand Plato's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the table by him.
It must be so—Plato, thou reason'st well!—Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,This longing after immortality?Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soulBack on herself, and startles at destruction?'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;'Tis heav'n itself, that points out—an hereafter,And intimates—eternity to man.Eternity!—thou pleasing—dreadful thought!Through what variety of untry'd beings,Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me—But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.—Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us,(And that there is all nature cries aloudThrough all her works) he must delight in virtue;And that which he delights in must be happy.But, when! or where! this world—was made for Cæsar.I'm weary of conjectures—this must end 'em.[Laying his hand on his sword.Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life,My bane and antidote are both before me:This, in a moment, brings me to an end;But this informs me I shall never die.The soul, secur'd in her existence, smilesAt the drawn dagger, and defies its point.The stars shall fade away, the sun himselfGrow dim with age, and nature sink in years;But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,Unhurt amid the war of elements,The wrecks of matter; and the crush of worlds.What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with care;Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her;That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life;An offering fit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fearDisturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of 'em;Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep or die.
It must be so—Plato, thou reason'st well!—Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,This longing after immortality?Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soulBack on herself, and startles at destruction?'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;'Tis heav'n itself, that points out—an hereafter,And intimates—eternity to man.Eternity!—thou pleasing—dreadful thought!Through what variety of untry'd beings,Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me—But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.—Here will I hold. If there's a pow'r above us,(And that there is all nature cries aloudThrough all her works) he must delight in virtue;And that which he delights in must be happy.But, when! or where! this world—was made for Cæsar.I'm weary of conjectures—this must end 'em.[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life,My bane and antidote are both before me:This, in a moment, brings me to an end;But this informs me I shall never die.The soul, secur'd in her existence, smilesAt the drawn dagger, and defies its point.The stars shall fade away, the sun himselfGrow dim with age, and nature sink in years;But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,Unhurt amid the war of elements,The wrecks of matter; and the crush of worlds.What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with care;Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her;That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life;An offering fit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fearDisturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of 'em;Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep or die.
To be—or not to be!—that is the question.—Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to sufferThe stings and arrows of outrageous fortune;Or to take arms against a siege of troubles,And, by opposing, end them?—To die—to sleep—No more;—and, by a sleep, to say we endThe heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to—'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish'd. To die—to sleep—To sleep—perchance to dream—aye, there's the rub.—For, in that sleep of death what dreams may come;When we have shuffled off this mortal coil;Must give us pause.—There's the respectThat makes calamity of so long a lifeFor, who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time,Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes;When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To groan and sweat under a weary life;But that the dread of something after death(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourneNo traveller returns) puzzles the will;And makes us rather bear those ills we have,Than fly to others that we know not of;Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;And enterprizes of great pith and moment,With this regard, their currents turn away,And lose the name of action.
To be—or not to be!—that is the question.—Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to sufferThe stings and arrows of outrageous fortune;Or to take arms against a siege of troubles,And, by opposing, end them?—To die—to sleep—No more;—and, by a sleep, to say we endThe heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to—'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish'd. To die—to sleep—To sleep—perchance to dream—aye, there's the rub.—For, in that sleep of death what dreams may come;When we have shuffled off this mortal coil;Must give us pause.—There's the respectThat makes calamity of so long a lifeFor, who would bear the whips and scorns o' th' time,Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes;When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To groan and sweat under a weary life;But that the dread of something after death(That undiscover'd country, from whose bourneNo traveller returns) puzzles the will;And makes us rather bear those ills we have,Than fly to others that we know not of;Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;And enterprizes of great pith and moment,With this regard, their currents turn away,And lose the name of action.
Then is Orestes blest! My griefs are fled!Fled like a dream! Methinks I tread in air!—Surprising happiness! unlook'd for joy!Never let love despair! The prize is mine!—Be smooth, ye seas! and, ye propitious winds,Blow from Epirus to the Spartan coast!
Then is Orestes blest! My griefs are fled!Fled like a dream! Methinks I tread in air!—Surprising happiness! unlook'd for joy!Never let love despair! The prize is mine!—Be smooth, ye seas! and, ye propitious winds,Blow from Epirus to the Spartan coast!
I'll go; and in the anguish of my heart—-Weep o'er my child—If he must die, my lifeIs wrapt in his; I shall not long survive.'Tis for his sake that I have suffer'd life;Groan'd in captivity; and outliv'd Hector.—Yes, my Astyanax! we'll go together;Together—to the realms of night we'll go.
I'll go; and in the anguish of my heart—-Weep o'er my child—If he must die, my lifeIs wrapt in his; I shall not long survive.'Tis for his sake that I have suffer'd life;Groan'd in captivity; and outliv'd Hector.—Yes, my Astyanax! we'll go together;Together—to the realms of night we'll go.
Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at last,Thy beauties, Belvidera, like a wretchThat's doom'd to banishment, came weeping forth,Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she lean'd,Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew sad!E'en the lewd rabble, that were gather'd roundTo see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her,Govern'd their roaring throats—and grumbled pity.
Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at last,Thy beauties, Belvidera, like a wretchThat's doom'd to banishment, came weeping forth,Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she lean'd,Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew sad!E'en the lewd rabble, that were gather'd roundTo see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her,Govern'd their roaring throats—and grumbled pity.
Come on, Sir,—here's the place—stand still,—How fearful 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!The crows and coughs, that whig the midway air,Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down,Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade!Methinks he seems no bigger than one's head,The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring barkSeems lesson'd to a cock; her cock, a buoyAlmost too small for fight. The murmuring surge;That on th' unnumbered idle pebbles chases,Cannot be heard so high.—I'll look no more,Lest my brain turn and the disorder make meTumble down headlong.
Come on, Sir,—here's the place—stand still,—How fearful 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!The crows and coughs, that whig the midway air,Shew scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down,Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade!Methinks he seems no bigger than one's head,The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring barkSeems lesson'd to a cock; her cock, a buoyAlmost too small for fight. The murmuring surge;That on th' unnumbered idle pebbles chases,Cannot be heard so high.—I'll look no more,Lest my brain turn and the disorder make meTumble down headlong.
Now, all is hush'd and still as death—How reverend is the face of this tall pile,Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof,By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable,Looking tranquillity! It strikes an aweAnd terror on my aking sight. The tombs,And monumental caves of death look cold,And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice—Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hearThy voice—my own affrights me with its echoes.
Now, all is hush'd and still as death—How reverend is the face of this tall pile,Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof,By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable,Looking tranquillity! It strikes an aweAnd terror on my aking sight. The tombs,And monumental caves of death look cold,And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice—Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hearThy voice—my own affrights me with its echoes.
Hark!—the death-denouncing trumpet foundsThe fatal charge, and shouts proclaim the onset.Destruction rushes dreadful to the field,And bathes itself in blood. Havock, let loose.Now, undistinguish'd, rages all around;While Ruin, seated on her dreary throne,Sees the plain strew'd, with subjects truly her's,Breathless and cold.
Hark!—the death-denouncing trumpet foundsThe fatal charge, and shouts proclaim the onset.Destruction rushes dreadful to the field,And bathes itself in blood. Havock, let loose.Now, undistinguish'd, rages all around;While Ruin, seated on her dreary throne,Sees the plain strew'd, with subjects truly her's,Breathless and cold.
Hear me, rash man; on thy allegiance hear me,Since thou hast striven to make us break our vow,Which, nor our nature, nor our place can bear,We banish thee forever from our sightAnd kingdom. If, when three days are expir'd,Thy hated trunk be found in our dominions,That moment is thy death—-Away!
Hear me, rash man; on thy allegiance hear me,Since thou hast striven to make us break our vow,Which, nor our nature, nor our place can bear,We banish thee forever from our sightAnd kingdom. If, when three days are expir'd,Thy hated trunk be found in our dominions,That moment is thy death—-Away!
If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason—I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? if you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And, if you wrong us—shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility?—Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example?—Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.
If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason—I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? if you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And, if you wrong us—shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility?—Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example?—Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.
What find I here?Fair Portia's counterfeit?—What demi-godHath come so near creation! Move these eyes!Or, whether, riding on the balls of mine,Seem they in motion?—Here are sever'd lips,Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a barShould sunder such sweet friends.—Here, in her hair,The painter plays the spider, and hath wovenA golden mesh, t' entrap the hearts of menFalter than gnats in cobwebs.—But her eyes—How could he see to do them! having made one,Methinks it should have power to steal both his,And leave itself unfinish'd!
What find I here?Fair Portia's counterfeit?—What demi-godHath come so near creation! Move these eyes!Or, whether, riding on the balls of mine,Seem they in motion?—Here are sever'd lips,Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a barShould sunder such sweet friends.—Here, in her hair,The painter plays the spider, and hath wovenA golden mesh, t' entrap the hearts of menFalter than gnats in cobwebs.—But her eyes—How could he see to do them! having made one,Methinks it should have power to steal both his,And leave itself unfinish'd!
Make thy demands to those that own thy power!Know, I am still beyond thee. And tho' fortuneHas strip'd me of this train, this pomp of greatness;This outside of a king, yet still my soul,Fix'd high, and on herself alone dependant,Is ever free and royal: and, even now,As at the head of battle—does defy thee!
Make thy demands to those that own thy power!Know, I am still beyond thee. And tho' fortuneHas strip'd me of this train, this pomp of greatness;This outside of a king, yet still my soul,Fix'd high, and on herself alone dependant,Is ever free and royal: and, even now,As at the head of battle—does defy thee!
Away! no woman could descend so low,A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are;Fit only for yourselves. You herd together;And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts,You talk of beauties that you never saw,And fancy raptures that you never knew.
Away! no woman could descend so low,A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are;Fit only for yourselves. You herd together;And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts,You talk of beauties that you never saw,And fancy raptures that you never knew.
Yet, yet endure—nor murmur, O my foul!For, are not thy transgressions great and numberless?Do they not cover thee, like rising floods?And press then, like a weight of waters, down?Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee?And who shall plead against it? who shall sayTo Pow'r Almighty, Thou hast done enough;Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance it stay?—Wait, then, with patience, till the circling hoursShall bring the time of thy appointed restAnd lay thee down in death.
Yet, yet endure—nor murmur, O my foul!For, are not thy transgressions great and numberless?Do they not cover thee, like rising floods?And press then, like a weight of waters, down?Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee?And who shall plead against it? who shall sayTo Pow'r Almighty, Thou hast done enough;Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance it stay?—Wait, then, with patience, till the circling hoursShall bring the time of thy appointed restAnd lay thee down in death.
Oh! rid me of this torture, quickly there,My Madam, with the everlasting voice.The bells, in time of pestilence, ne'er madeLike noise, or were in that perpetual motion.————————————All my house,But now, steam'd like a bath, with her thick breath,A lawyer could not have been heard, nor scarceAnother woman, such a hail of wordsShe has let fall.
Oh! rid me of this torture, quickly there,My Madam, with the everlasting voice.The bells, in time of pestilence, ne'er madeLike noise, or were in that perpetual motion.————————————All my house,But now, steam'd like a bath, with her thick breath,A lawyer could not have been heard, nor scarceAnother woman, such a hail of wordsShe has let fall.
Henceforth, let no man trust the first false stepOf guilt. It hangs upon a precipice,Whose deep descent in last perdition ends.How far am I plung'd down, beyond all thoughtWhich I this evening fram'd—Consummate horror! guilt beyond, a name!—Dare not, my soul, repent. In thee, repentanceWere second guilt; and 'twere blaspheming Heav'nTo hope for mercy. My pain can only ceaseWhen gods want power to punish.—Ha!—the dawn—Rise never more, O fun!—let night prevail:Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene—And hide me from myself.
Henceforth, let no man trust the first false stepOf guilt. It hangs upon a precipice,Whose deep descent in last perdition ends.How far am I plung'd down, beyond all thoughtWhich I this evening fram'd—Consummate horror! guilt beyond, a name!—Dare not, my soul, repent. In thee, repentanceWere second guilt; and 'twere blaspheming Heav'nTo hope for mercy. My pain can only ceaseWhen gods want power to punish.—Ha!—the dawn—Rise never more, O fun!—let night prevail:Eternal darkness close the world's wide scene—And hide me from myself.
Mercy!—I know it not—for I am miserable.I'll give thee misery—for here she dwells,This is her house—where the sun never dawns:The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof;Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom;And nought in heard, but wailings and lamenting.Hark!—something cracks above;—it shakes—it totters!And see—the nodding ruin falls to crush me!—'Tis fallen—'Tis here!—I feel it on my brain!A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me!And now 'tis out—and I am drown'd in blood.—Ha! what art thou? thou horrid headless trunk!—It is my Hastings—See, he wafts me on!Away I go!—I fly!—I follow thee!
Mercy!—I know it not—for I am miserable.I'll give thee misery—for here she dwells,This is her house—where the sun never dawns:The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof;Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom;And nought in heard, but wailings and lamenting.Hark!—something cracks above;—it shakes—it totters!And see—the nodding ruin falls to crush me!—'Tis fallen—'Tis here!—I feel it on my brain!A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me!And now 'tis out—and I am drown'd in blood.—Ha! what art thou? thou horrid headless trunk!—It is my Hastings—See, he wafts me on!Away I go!—I fly!—I follow thee!
My Father! Oh! let me unlade my breast;Pour out the fullness of my soul before you;Shew ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful thought,This wond'rous goodness stirs. But 'tis impossible,And utt'rance all is vile; since I can onlySwear you reign here, but never tell how much.
My Father! Oh! let me unlade my breast;Pour out the fullness of my soul before you;Shew ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful thought,This wond'rous goodness stirs. But 'tis impossible,And utt'rance all is vile; since I can onlySwear you reign here, but never tell how much.
Reward him for the noble deed, just Heavens!For this one action, guard him, and distinguish himWith signal mercies, and with great deliverance,Save him from wrong, adversity, and shame,Let never-fading honours flourish round him;And consecrate his name; ev'n to time's end.Let him know nothing else, but good on earthAnd everlasting blessedness hereafter.
Reward him for the noble deed, just Heavens!For this one action, guard him, and distinguish himWith signal mercies, and with great deliverance,Save him from wrong, adversity, and shame,Let never-fading honours flourish round him;And consecrate his name; ev'n to time's end.Let him know nothing else, but good on earthAnd everlasting blessedness hereafter.
Silence, ye winds!That make outrageous war upon the ocean:And then, old ocean? lull thy boist'rous waves.Ye warring elements! be hush'd as death,While I impose my dread commands on hell.And thou, profoundest hell! whose dreary sway,Is given to me by fate and demogorgon—Hear, hear my powerful voice, through all thy regionsAnd from thy gloomy caverns thunder the reply.
Silence, ye winds!That make outrageous war upon the ocean:And then, old ocean? lull thy boist'rous waves.Ye warring elements! be hush'd as death,While I impose my dread commands on hell.And thou, profoundest hell! whose dreary sway,Is given to me by fate and demogorgon—Hear, hear my powerful voice, through all thy regionsAnd from thy gloomy caverns thunder the reply.
A generous few, the vet'ran hardy gleaningsOf many a hapless fight, with a, fierceHeroic fire, inspirited each other:Resolv'd on death, disdaining to surviveTheir dearest country. "If we fall," I cry'd,"Let us not tamely fall, like passive cowards!No—let us live, or let us die—like men!Come on, my friends. To Alfred we will cutOur glorious way: or as we nobly perish,Will offer to the genius of our country—Whole hecatombs of Danes." As if one soulHave mov'd them all, around their heads they flash'dTheir flaming falchions—"lead us to those Danes!Our Country!—Vengeance!" was the general cry.
A generous few, the vet'ran hardy gleaningsOf many a hapless fight, with a, fierceHeroic fire, inspirited each other:Resolv'd on death, disdaining to surviveTheir dearest country. "If we fall," I cry'd,"Let us not tamely fall, like passive cowards!No—let us live, or let us die—like men!Come on, my friends. To Alfred we will cutOur glorious way: or as we nobly perish,Will offer to the genius of our country—Whole hecatombs of Danes." As if one soulHave mov'd them all, around their heads they flash'dTheir flaming falchions—"lead us to those Danes!Our Country!—Vengeance!" was the general cry.
I will tell you, Sir, by the way of private, and under seal. I am a gentleman; and live here, obscure, and to myself; but, were I known to his Majesty, and the Lords, observe me, I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit or the state, not only to spare the entire lives of his subjects in general, but to save the one half, nay three parts of his yearly charge, in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you? Why thus, Sir. I would select nineteen more to myself, throughout the land; gentlemen they should be; of good spirit, strong and able constitution. I would chuse them by an instinct that I have. And I would teach these nineteen, the special rules; as your Punto, your Reverso, your Stoccaio, your Imbroccato, your Passada, your Montonto; till they could all play very near, or altogether, as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong. We twenty, would come into the field the tenth of March or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could not, in their honour refuse us: Well, we would kill them; challenge twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them too. And thus, would we kill, every man, his twenty a day; that's twenty score; twenty score; that's two hundred; two hundred a day; five days, a thousand: forty thousand—forty times five—five times forty—two hundred days kill them all up by computation. And this I will venture my poor gentleman-like carcase to perform (provided there by no treason practised upon) by fair and discreet manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.
I will tell you, Sir, by the way of private, and under seal. I am a gentleman; and live here, obscure, and to myself; but, were I known to his Majesty, and the Lords, observe me, I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit or the state, not only to spare the entire lives of his subjects in general, but to save the one half, nay three parts of his yearly charge, in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you? Why thus, Sir. I would select nineteen more to myself, throughout the land; gentlemen they should be; of good spirit, strong and able constitution. I would chuse them by an instinct that I have. And I would teach these nineteen, the special rules; as your Punto, your Reverso, your Stoccaio, your Imbroccato, your Passada, your Montonto; till they could all play very near, or altogether, as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong. We twenty, would come into the field the tenth of March or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could not, in their honour refuse us: Well, we would kill them; challenge twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them too. And thus, would we kill, every man, his twenty a day; that's twenty score; twenty score; that's two hundred; two hundred a day; five days, a thousand: forty thousand—forty times five—five times forty—two hundred days kill them all up by computation. And this I will venture my poor gentleman-like carcase to perform (provided there by no treason practised upon) by fair and discreet manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.
—Let me think—What can this mean—Is it to me aversion?Or is it, as I feared, she loves another?Ha! yes—perhaps the king, the young count Tancred?They were bred up together—surely that,That cannot be—Has he not given his hand,In the most solemn manner, to Constantia?Does not his crown depend upon the deed?No—if they lov'd, and this old statesman knew it,He could not to a king prefer a subject.His virtues I esteem—nay more, I trust them—So far as virtue goes—but could he placeHis daughter on the throne of Sicily—O! 'tis a glorious bribe; too much for man!What is it then!—I care not what it is.
—Let me think—What can this mean—Is it to me aversion?Or is it, as I feared, she loves another?Ha! yes—perhaps the king, the young count Tancred?They were bred up together—surely that,That cannot be—Has he not given his hand,In the most solemn manner, to Constantia?Does not his crown depend upon the deed?No—if they lov'd, and this old statesman knew it,He could not to a king prefer a subject.His virtues I esteem—nay more, I trust them—So far as virtue goes—but could he placeHis daughter on the throne of Sicily—O! 'tis a glorious bribe; too much for man!What is it then!—I care not what it is.
Would he were fatter—but I fear him not.Yes, if my name were liable to fear,I do not know the man I should avoid,So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much—He is a great observer—and he looksQuite through the deeds of men.He loves no plays: he hears no music.Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit,That could be moved to smile at any thing.Such men as he be never at heart's ease,Whilst they behold a greater than themselves—And, therefore, are they very dangerous.
Would he were fatter—but I fear him not.Yes, if my name were liable to fear,I do not know the man I should avoid,So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much—He is a great observer—and he looksQuite through the deeds of men.He loves no plays: he hears no music.Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit,That could be moved to smile at any thing.Such men as he be never at heart's ease,Whilst they behold a greater than themselves—And, therefore, are they very dangerous.
A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain. Dries me there, all-the foolish, dull, and crudy vapours which environ it: makes it apprehensive, quick, inventive; full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered over to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit—The second property of your excellent sherris, is, the warming of the blood; which, before, cold and settled, left the liver white and pale: which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. But the sherris warms it, and makes its course from the inwards to the parts extreme. It illuminateth the face, which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then, the vital commoners, and inland petty spirits, muster me all to their captain, the heart; who, great, and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage—and this value comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon, is nothing without sack; for that sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, with drinking good, and good store of fertile sherris—If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them, should be—to foreswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack.
A plague on all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too, marry and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy—Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether socks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague on all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant?
[Drinks.
You rogue! here's lime in this sack too. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man. Yet a coward is worse> than a cup of sack with lime in it—-Go thy ways, old Jack! die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then a'nt I a shotten herring. There lives not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat, and grows old, God help the while!—A plague on all cowards, I say still!—-Give me a cup of sack.
[Drinks.
I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw—eccesignum!I never dealt better since I was a man. All would not do. A plague on all cowards!—But I have peppered two of them; two, I am sure I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face; call me a horse.—Thou knowest my old ward. Here I lay; and thus I bore my point.—Four rogues in buckram let drive at me. These four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. Then, these nine in buckram, that I told thee of, began to give me ground. But I followed them close; came in foot and hand; and, with a thought—seven of these eleven I paid.—A plague on all cowards, say I!—Give me a cup of sack.
[Drinks.
I can as well be hanged, as tell the manner of it; it was mere foolery.—I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; and, as I told you, he put it by once—but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then, he put it by again—but, to my thinking, he was very loth to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it a third time; he put it the third time by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapt their chopt hands, and threw by their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath, because Cæsar refused the crown, that it had almost choaked Cæsar, for he swooned, and, fell down at it; and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips, and receiving the bad air.Before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd were glad, he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an' I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues!—and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, "if he had done, or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity." Three or four wenches where I stood, cried, Alas, good soul!—and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Cæsar had stabbed their mothers they would have done no less.
I can as well be hanged, as tell the manner of it; it was mere foolery.—I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; and, as I told you, he put it by once—but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then, he put it by again—but, to my thinking, he was very loth to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it a third time; he put it the third time by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapt their chopt hands, and threw by their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath, because Cæsar refused the crown, that it had almost choaked Cæsar, for he swooned, and, fell down at it; and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips, and receiving the bad air.
Before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd were glad, he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an' I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues!—and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, "if he had done, or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity." Three or four wenches where I stood, cried, Alas, good soul!—and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Cæsar had stabbed their mothers they would have done no less.
Vengeance! death! plague! confusion!Fiery! what quality?—-Why, Gloster, Gloster!I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife:The King would speak with Cornwall—-the dear fatherWould with his daughter speak; commands her service.Are they inform'd of this?—-My breath and blood!Fiery! the fiery Duke! Tell the hot Duke—No' but not yet: may be he is not well:I beg his pardon: and I'll chide my rashness,That took the indisposed and sickly fit.For the sound man,—-But wherefore sits he there?—Death on my state! this act convinces me,That this retiredness of the Duke and herIs plain contempt—Give me my servant forth—Go tell the Duke and's wife I'd speak with 'em:Now: instantly—Bid 'em come forth and hear me;Or, at their chamber-door, I'll beat the drum—'Till it cry—Sleep to death.
Vengeance! death! plague! confusion!Fiery! what quality?—-Why, Gloster, Gloster!I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife:The King would speak with Cornwall—-the dear fatherWould with his daughter speak; commands her service.Are they inform'd of this?—-My breath and blood!Fiery! the fiery Duke! Tell the hot Duke—No' but not yet: may be he is not well:I beg his pardon: and I'll chide my rashness,That took the indisposed and sickly fit.For the sound man,—-But wherefore sits he there?—Death on my state! this act convinces me,That this retiredness of the Duke and herIs plain contempt—Give me my servant forth—Go tell the Duke and's wife I'd speak with 'em:Now: instantly—Bid 'em come forth and hear me;Or, at their chamber-door, I'll beat the drum—'Till it cry—Sleep to death.
Elocution has, for some years past, been an object of attention in the most respectable schools in this country. A laudable ambition of instructing youth in the pronunciation and delivery of their native language, has made English speeches a very conspicuous part of those exhibitions of oratory which do them so much credit.
This attention to English pronunciation has induced several ingenious men to compile Exercises in Elocution for the use of schools, which have answered very useful purposes; but none, so far as I have seen, have attempted to give us a regular system of gesture suited to the wants and capacities of school-boys. Mr. Burgh, in his Art of Speaking, has given us a system of the passions, and has shewn us how they appear in the countenance, and operate on the body; but this system, however useful to people of riper years, is too delicate and complicated to be taught in schools. Indeed, the exact adaptation of the action to the word, and the word to the action, as Shakespear calls it, is the most difficult part of delivery, and therefore can never be taught perfectly to children; to say nothing of distracting their attention with two difficult things at the same time. But that boys should stand motionless, while they are pronouncing the most impassioned language, is extremely absurd and unnatural; and that they should sprawl into an aukward, ungain, and desultory action, is still more offensive and disgusting. What then remains, but that such a general style of action be adopted, as shall be easily conceived and easily executed, which, though not expressive of any particular passion, shall not be inconsistent with the expression of any passion; which shall always keep the body in a graceful position, and shall so vary its motions; at proper intervals, as to seem the subject operating on the speaker, and not the speaker on the subject. This, it will be confessed, is a great desideratum; and an attempt to do this, is the principal object of the present publication.
The difficulty of describing action by words, will be allowed by every one; and if we were never to give any instructions but such as should completely answer our wishes, this difficulty would be a good reason for not attempting to give any description of it. But there are many degrees between conveying a precise idea of a thing, and no idea at all. Besides, in this part of delivery, instruction may be conveyed by the eye; and this organ is a much more rapid vehicle of knowledge than the ear. This vehicle is addressed on the present, occasion, and plates, representing the attitudes which are described, are annexed to the several descriptions, which it is not doubted will greatly facilitate the reader's conception.
The first plate represents the attitude in which a boy should always place himself when he begins to speak. He should rest the whole weight of his body on the right leg; the other, just touching the ground, at the distance at which it would naturally fall, if lifted up to shew that the body does not bear upon it. The knees should be strait and braced, and the body, though perfectly strait, not perpendicular, but inclining as far to the right as a firm position on the right leg will permit. The right arm must then be held out with the palm open, the fingers straight and close, the thumb almost as distant from them as it will go, and the flat of the hand neither horizontal nor vertical, but exactly between both. The position of the arm perhaps will be best described by supposing an oblong hollow square, formed by the measure of four arms, as in plate the first, where the arm in its true position forms the diagonal of such an imaginary figure. So that, if lines were drawn at right angles from the shoulder, extending downwards, forwards, and sideways, the arm will form a& angle of forty-five degrees every way.
PLATE I.
PLATE I.
When the pupil has pronounced one sentence in the position thus described, the hand, as if lifeless, must drop down to the side, the very moment the last accepted word is pronounced; and the body, without altering the place of the feet, poise itself on the left leg, while the left hand rises itself into exactly the same position as the right was before, and continues in this position till tine end of the next sentence, when it drops down on the side, as if dead; and the body poizing itself on the right leg as before, continues with the right arm extended, till the end of the succeeding sentence, and so on from right to left, and from left to right alternately, till the speech is ended.
PLATE II.
PLATE II.
Great care must he taken that the pupil end one sentence completely, before he begin another. He must let the arm drop to the side, and continue for a moment in that posture in which he concluded, before he poizes his body on the other leg, and raises the other arm into the diagonal position before described; both which should be done before he begins to pronounce the next sentence. Care must also he taken in shifting the body from one leg to the other, that the feet do not alter their distance. In altering the position of the body, the feet will necessarily alter their position a little; but this change must be made by turning the toes in a somewhat different direction, without suffering them to shift their ground. The heels, in this transition, change their place, but not the toes. The toes may be considered as pivots, on which the body turns from side to side.
If the pupil's knees are not well formed, or incline inwards, he must be taught to keep his legs at as great a distance as possible, and to incline his body so much to that side, on which the arm is extended, as to oblige him to rest the opposite leg upon the toe; and this will, in a great measure, hide the defect of his make. In the same manner, if the arm be too long, or the elbow incline inwards, it will be proper to make him turn the palm of his hand downwards, so as to make it perfectly horizontal. This will infallibly incline the elbow outwards, and prevent the worst position the arm can possibly fall into, which is that of inclining the elbow to the body. This position of the hand so necessarily keeps the elbow out, that it would not be improper to make the pupil sometimes practice it, though he may have no defect in his make; as an occasional alteration of the former position to this, may often be necessary both for the sake of justness and variety. These two last positions of the legs and arms, are described in plate second.
When the pupil has got the habit of holding his hand and arm properly, he may be taught to move it. In this motion he must be careful to keep the arm from the body. He must neither draw the elbow backwards, nor suffer it to approach to the side, bur, while the hand and lower joint of the arm are curving towards the shoulder, the whole arm, with the elbow forming nearly an angle of a square, should move upwards from the shoulder, in the same position as when gracefully taking off the hat; that is, with the elbow extended from the side, and the upper joint of the arm nearly on a line with the shoulder, and forming an angle of a square with the body—(see plate III.) This motion of the arm will naturally bring the hand with the palm downwards, into an horizontal position, and when it approaches to the head, the arm should with a jerk be suddenly straitened into its first position, at the very moment the emphatical word is pronounced. This coincidence of the hand and voice, will greatly enforce the pronunciation; and if they keep time, they will be in tune as it were to each other, and to force and energy add harmony and variety.
As this motion of the arm is somewhat complicated, and may be found difficult to execute, it would be adviseable to let the pupil at first speak without any motion of the arm at all. After some time he will naturally fall into a small curvature of the elbow, to beat time, as it were, to the emphatic word; and if, in doing this, he is constantly urged to raise the elbow, and to keep it at a distance from the body, the action of the arm will naturally grow up into that we have just described. So the diagonal position of the arm, though the most graceful and easy when the body is at rest, may he too difficult for boys to fall into at first; and therefore it may be necessary, in order to avoid the worse extreme, for some time to make them extend the arm as far from the body as they can, in a somewhat similar direction, but higher from the ground, and inclining more to the back. Great care must be taken to keep the hand open, and the thumb at some distance from the fingers; and particular attention must be paid to keeping the hand in the exact line with the lower part of the arm, so as not to bend at the wrist, either when it is held out without motion, or when it gives the emphatic stroke. And above all, the body must be kept in a straight line with the leg on which it bears, and not suffered to bend to the opposite side.