The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe open sea

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe open seaThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The open seaAuthor: Edgar Lee MastersRelease date: August 12, 2016 [eBook #52786]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPEN SEA ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The open seaAuthor: Edgar Lee MastersRelease date: August 12, 2016 [eBook #52786]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

Title: The open sea

Author: Edgar Lee Masters

Release date: August 12, 2016 [eBook #52786]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPEN SEA ***

THE OPEN SEA

ByEDGAR LEE MASTERSStarved RockMitch MillerDomesday BookToward the GulfSongs and SatiresThe Great ValleySpoon River Anthology

EDGAR LEE MASTERS

Starved RockMitch MillerDomesday BookToward the GulfSongs and SatiresThe Great ValleySpoon River Anthology

ByEDGAR LEE MASTERSNew YorkTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY1921All rights reservedPRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICACopyright, 1921,ByTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY.Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1921.Press ofJ. J. Little & Ives CompanyNew York, U. S. A.

BRUTUS AND ANTONY

Part I

(Lucilius Talks at a Feast Given to Aristocrates in Rome)

B.C. 20

How shall I write this out? I do not write.Talk to you? Yes, and tell of Antony,And how I knew him. There at PhilippiI let myself be captured, so to giveTime to escape to Brutus—made pretenseThat I was Brutus, and so Brutus fliesAnd I am captured. Antony forgives me,And to his death I was his faithful friend.Well, after Actium, in Africa,He roamed with no companions but us two,Our friend Aristocrates, here, myself,And fed upon his bitter heart. Our guestNods truth to what I say, he knows it all.And after certain days in solitudeHe seeks his Cleopatra. As for her,She was the sovereign queen of many nations;Yet that she might be with her Antony,Live with him and enjoy him, did not shunThe name of mistress, and let Fulvia keepHer wifehood without envy. As for him,A lover’s soul lives in the loved one’s body,And where bode Cleopatra, there his soulLived only, though his feet of flesh pursuedThe Parthian, or Cæsar’s hateful heir....And if this Antony would wreathe his spearWith ivy like a thyrsus; from the chamberOf his beloved rush to battle, helmetSmelling of unguents and of Egypt; leaveGreat action and great enterprise to playAlong the seashore of Canopus with her;And fly the combat, not as Paris did,Already beaten, with lift sail, desertThe victory that was his, yet true it isHis rank, his eloquence, his liberal blood,His interest in all grades and breeds of men,His pity and his kindness to the sick,His generous sympathies, stamped AntonyA giant in this dusty, roaring placeWhich we call earth. Who ruined Antony?Why, Brutus! For he gave to AntonyThe truth of which the Queen of Egypt stoodAs proof in the flesh:—Beauty and Life. His heartWas apt to see her for mad days in Rome,And soul created sateless for the cupOf ecstasy in living.On a dayMyself and Aristocrates and Antony,We two companioning him in Africa,Wandering in solitary places, AntonyBrooding on Actium, and the love that keptHis soul with Cleopatra, up he speaks,And asks us if we knew what Brutus said,While nearing death, to Cassius. “No,” we said.And Antony began to tell of Brutus:—How all his life was spent in study, howHe starved his body, slept but briefly, cutHis hours of sleep by practice; fixed his thoughtOn virtue and on glory; made himselfA zealot of one purpose: liberty;A spirit as of a beast that knows one thing:Its food and how to get it; over its spiritNo heaven keeps of changing light; no starsOf wandering thought; no moons that charmStill groves by singing waters, and no sunsOf large illumination, showing lifeAs multiform and fathomless, filled with wingsOf various truth, each true as other truth.This was that Brutus, made an asp by thoughtAnd nature, to be used by envious handsAnd placed to Cæsar’s breast. So AntonyDiscoursed upon our walk, and capped it offWith Brutus’ words when dying. They were these:“O virtue, miserable virtue, bawd and cheat;Thou wert a bare word and I followed theeAs if thou hadst been real. But even as evil,Lust, ignorance, thou wert the plaything tooOf fortune and of chance.”So AntonyConsoled himself with Brutus, sighed and lapsedTo silence; thinking, as we deemed, of lifeAnd what it yet could be, and how ’twould end;And how to join his Cleopatra, whatThe days would hold amid the toppling wallsOf Rome in demolition, now the handOf Cæsar rotted, and no longer stayedThe picks and catapults of an idiot world!So, as it seemed, he would excuse himselfFor Actium and his way in life. For soonHe speaks again, of Theophrastus now,Who lived a hundred years, spent all his lifeIn study and in writing, brought to deathBy labor; dying lay encompassed byTwo thousand followers, disciples, preachersOf what he taught; and dying was penitentFor glory, even as Brutus was penitentFor virtue later. And so AntonySpoke Theophrastus’ dying words, and toldHow Theophrastus by a followerAsked for a last commandment, spoke these words:“There is none. But ’tis folly to cast awayPleasure for glory! And no love is worseThan love of glory. Look upon my life:—Its toil and hard denial! To what end?Therefore live happy; study, if you must,For fame and happiness. Life’s vanityExceeds its usefulness.”So speaking thusWise Theophrastus died.Now I have saidThat Brutus ruined Antony. So he did,If Antony were ruined—that’s the question.For Antony hearing Brutus say, “O virtue,Miserable virtue, bawd and cheat,” and seeingThe eyes of Brutus stare in death, threw over himA scarlet mantle, and took to his heartThe dying words of Brutus.It is trueThat Cicero said Antony as a youthWas odious for drinking-bouts, amours,For bacchanals, luxurious life, and trueWhen as triumvir, after Cæsar’s death,He kept the house of Pompey, where he lived,Filled up with jugglers, drunkards, flatterers.All this before the death of Brutus, orHis love for Cleopatra. But it’s trueHe was great Cæsar’s colleague. Cæsar dead,This Antony is chief ruler of all Rome,And wars in Greece, and Asia. So it’s trueHe was not wholly given to the cup,But knew fatigue and battle, hunger too,Living on roots in Parthia. Yet, you see,With Cæsar slaughtered in the capitol,His friend, almost his god; and Brutus gasping“O miserable virtue”; and the feet of menFrom Syria to Hispania, slipping offThe world that broke in pieces, like an islandFalling apart beneath a heaving tide—Whence from its flocculent fragment wretches leap—You see it was no wonder for this Antony,Made what he was by nature and by life,In such a time and fate of the drifting world,To turn to Cleopatra, and leave warAnd rulership to languish.Thus it was:Cæsar is slaughtered, Antony must avengeThe death of Cæsar. Brutus is brought to death,And dying scoffs at virtue which took offIn Brutus’ hand the sovran life of Cæsar.And soon our Antony must fight againstThe recreant hordes of Asia, finding hereHis Cleopatra for coadjutor....He’s forty-two and ripe. She’s twenty-eight,Fruit fresh and blushing, most mature and rich;Her voice an instrument of many stringsThat yielded laughter, wisdom, folly, song,And tales of many lands, in Arabic,And Hebrew, Syriac and Parthiac.She spoke the language of the troglodytes,The Medes and others. And when AntonySent for her in Cilicia, she took time,Ignored his orders, leisurely at lastSailed up the Cydnus in a barge whose sternWas gilded, and with purple sails. ReturnedHis dining invitation with her own,And bent his will to hers. He went to her,And found a banquet richer than his largessCould give her. For while feasting, branches sunkAround them, budding lights in squares and circles,And lighted up their heaven, as with stars.She found him broad and gross, but joined her tasteTo him in this. And then their love began.And while his Fulvia kept his quarrels aliveWith force of arms in Rome on Octavianus,And while the Parthian threatened Syria,He lets the Queen of Egypt take him offTo Alexandria, where he joins with herThe Inimitable Livers; and in holidayPlays like a boy and riots, while great BrutusIs rotting in the earth for Virtue’s sake;And Theophrastus for three hundred yearsHas changed from dust to grass, and grass to dust!And Cleopatra’s kitchen groans with food.Eight boars are roasted whole—though only twelveOf these Inimitable Livers, with the QueenAnd Antony are to eat—that every dishMay be served up just roasted to a turn.And who knows when Marc Antony may sup?Perhaps this hour, perhaps another hour,Perhaps this minute he may call for wine,Or start to talk with Cleopatra; fish—For fish they did together. On a dayThey fished together, and his luck was ill,And so he ordered fishermen to diveAnd put upon his hook fish caught before.And Cleopatra feigned to be deceived,And shouted out his luck. Next day invitedThe Inimitable Livers down to see him fish,Whereat she had a diver fix his hookWith a salted fish from Pontus. AntonyDrew up amid their laughter. Then she said:“Sweet Antony, leave us poor sovereigns here,Of Pharos and Canopus, to the rod;Your game is cities, provinces and kingdoms.”Were Antony serious, or disposed to mirth?She had some new delight. She diced with him,Drank with him, hunted with him. When he wentTo exercise in arms, she sat to see.At night she rambled with him in the streets,Dressed like a servant-woman, making mischiefAt people’s doors. And Antony disguisedGot scurvy answers, beatings from the folk,Tormented in their houses. So it wentTill Actium. She loved him, let him beBy day nor night alone, at every turnWas with him and upon him.Well, this lifeWas neither virtue, glory, fame, nor study,But it was life, and life that did not slayA Cæsar for a word like Liberty.And it was life, its essence nor changed nor lostBy Actium, where his soul shot forth to herAs from a catapult a stone is cast,Seeing her lift her sixty sails and fly.His soul lived in her body as ’twere bornA part of her, and whithersoever she wentThere followed he. And all their life togetherWas what it was, a rapture, justifiedBy its essential honey of realest blossoms,In spite of anguished shame. When hauled aboardThe ship of Cleopatra, he sat downAnd with his two hands covered up his face!Brutus had penitence at PhilippiFor virtue which befooled him. AntonyRemorse and terror there at ActiumDeserting with his queen, for love that madeHis body not his own, as Brutus’ willWas subject to the magic of a word....For what is Virtue, what is Love? At leastWe know their dire effects, that both befool,Betray, destroy.The Queen and AntonyHad joined the Inimitable Livers, now they joinedThe Diers Together. They had kept how oftThe Festival of Flagons, now to keepThe Ritual of Passing Life was theirs.But first they suffered anger with each otherWhile on her ship, till touching TenarusWhen they were brought to speak by women friends,At last to eat and sleep together. YetPoison had fallen on their leaves, which strippedTheir greenness to the stalk, as you shall see....Here to make clear what flight of Antony meant,For cause how base or natural, let me sayThat Actium’s battle had not been a lossTo Antony and his honor, if Canidius,Commanding under Antony, had not flownIn imitation of his chief; the soldiersFought desperately in hope that AntonyWould come again and lead them.So it wasHe touched, with Cleopatra, Africa,And sent her into Egypt; and with us,Myself and Aristocrates, walked and broodedIn solitary places, as I said.But when he came to AlexandriaHe finds his Cleopatra dragging her fleetOver the land space which divides the seaNear Egypt from the Red Sea, so to floatHer fleet in the Arabian Gulf, and there,Somewhere upon earth’s other side, to findA home secure from war and slavery.She failed in this; but Antony leaves the city,And leaves his queen, plays Timon, builds a houseNear Pharos on a little mole; lives hereUntil he hears all princes and all kingsDesert him in the realm of Rome; which newsBrings gladness to him, for hope put away,And cares slipped off. Then leaving Timoneum,—For such he named his dwelling there near Pharos—He goes to Cleopatra, is received,And sets the city feasting once again.The order of Inimitable Livers breaks,And forms the Diers Together in its place.And all who banquet with them, take the oathTo die with Antony and Cleopatra,Observing her preoccupation withDrugs poisonous and creatures venomous.And thus their feast of flagons and of loveIn many courses riotously consumedAwaits the radiate liquor dazzling throughTheir unimagined terror, like the raysShot from the bright eyes of the cockatrice,Crackling for poison in the crystal servedBy fleshless hands! A skeleton steward soonWill pass the liquer to them; they will drink,And leave no message, no commandment either—As Theophrastus was reluctant to—Denied disciples; for Inimitable LiversRaise up no followers, create no faith,No cult or sect. Joy has his special wisdom,Which dies with him who learned it, does not fireMad bosoms like your Virtue.I must noteThe proffered favors, honors of young CæsarTo Cleopatra, if she’d put to deathHer Antony; and Antony’s jealousy,Aroused by Thyrsus, messenger of Cæsar,Whom Cleopatra gave long audiences,And special courtesies; seized, whipped at lastBy Antony, sent back to Cæsar. YetThe queen was faithful. When her birth-day cameShe kept it suitable to her fallen state,But all the while paying her Antony love,And honor, kept his birth-day with such richnessThat guests who came in want departed rich ...Wine, weariness, much living, early ageMade fall for Antony. October’s cloudsIn man’s life, like October, have no sunTo lift the mists of doubt, distortion, fear.Faces, events, and wills around us showMalformed, or ugly, changed from what they were.And when his troops desert him in the cityTo Cæsar, Antony cries out, the queen,His Cleopatra, has betrayed him. SheIn terror seeks her monument, sends wordThat she is dead. And Antony believesAnd says delay no longer, stabs himself,Is hauled up dying to the arms of her,Where midst her frantic wailings he expires!Kings and commanders begged of Cæsar graceTo give this Antony his funeral rites.But Cæsar left the body with the queenWho buried it with royal pomp and splendor.Thus died at fifty-six Marc Antony,And Cleopatra followed him with poison,The asp or hollow bodkin, having livedTo thirty-nine, and reigned with AntonyAs partner in the empire fourteen years ...Who in a time to come will gorge and drink,Filch treasure that it may be spent for wine,Kill as Marc Antony did, war as he did,Because Marc Antony did so, taking himAs warrant and exemplar? Why, never a soul!These things are done by souls who do not think,But act from feeling. But those mad for starsGlimpsed in wild waters or through mountain mistsSeen ruddy and portentous will take BrutusAs inspiration, since for Virtue’s sakeAnd for the good of Rome he killed his friend;And in the act made Liberty as farFrom things of self, as murder is apartFrom friendship and its ways. Yes, Brutus livesTo fire the mad-men of the centuriesAs Cæsar lives to guide new tyrants. YetTyrannicide but snips the serpent’s head.The body of a rotten state still writhesAnd wriggles though the head is gone, or worse,Festers and stinks against the setting sun....Marc Antony lived happier than BrutusAnd left the old world happier for his lifeThan Brutus left it.

It is trueThat Cicero said Antony as a youthWas odious for drinking-bouts, amours,For bacchanals, luxurious life, and trueWhen as triumvir, after Cæsar’s death,He kept the house of Pompey, where he lived,Filled up with jugglers, drunkards, flatterers.All this before the death of Brutus, orHis love for Cleopatra. But it’s trueHe was great Cæsar’s colleague. Cæsar dead,This Antony is chief ruler of all Rome,And wars in Greece, and Asia. So it’s trueHe was not wholly given to the cup,But knew fatigue and battle, hunger too,Living on roots in Parthia. Yet, you see,With Cæsar slaughtered in the capitol,His friend, almost his god; and Brutus gasping“O miserable virtue”; and the feet of menFrom Syria to Hispania, slipping offThe world that broke in pieces, like an islandFalling apart beneath a heaving tide—Whence from its flocculent fragment wretches leap—You see it was no wonder for this Antony,Made what he was by nature and by life,In such a time and fate of the drifting world,To turn to Cleopatra, and leave warAnd rulership to languish.Thus it was:Cæsar is slaughtered, Antony must avengeThe death of Cæsar. Brutus is brought to death,And dying scoffs at virtue which took offIn Brutus’ hand the sovran life of Cæsar.And soon our Antony must fight againstThe recreant hordes of Asia, finding hereHis Cleopatra for coadjutor....He’s forty-two and ripe. She’s twenty-eight,Fruit fresh and blushing, most mature and rich;Her voice an instrument of many stringsThat yielded laughter, wisdom, folly, song,And tales of many lands, in Arabic,And Hebrew, Syriac and Parthiac.She spoke the language of the troglodytes,The Medes and others. And when AntonySent for her in Cilicia, she took time,Ignored his orders, leisurely at lastSailed up the Cydnus in a barge whose sternWas gilded, and with purple sails. ReturnedHis dining invitation with her own,And bent his will to hers. He went to her,And found a banquet richer than his largessCould give her. For while feasting, branches sunkAround them, budding lights in squares and circles,And lighted up their heaven, as with stars.She found him broad and gross, but joined her tasteTo him in this. And then their love began.And while his Fulvia kept his quarrels aliveWith force of arms in Rome on Octavianus,And while the Parthian threatened Syria,He lets the Queen of Egypt take him offTo Alexandria, where he joins with herThe Inimitable Livers; and in holidayPlays like a boy and riots, while great BrutusIs rotting in the earth for Virtue’s sake;And Theophrastus for three hundred yearsHas changed from dust to grass, and grass to dust!And Cleopatra’s kitchen groans with food.Eight boars are roasted whole—though only twelveOf these Inimitable Livers, with the QueenAnd Antony are to eat—that every dishMay be served up just roasted to a turn.And who knows when Marc Antony may sup?Perhaps this hour, perhaps another hour,Perhaps this minute he may call for wine,Or start to talk with Cleopatra; fish—For fish they did together. On a dayThey fished together, and his luck was ill,And so he ordered fishermen to diveAnd put upon his hook fish caught before.And Cleopatra feigned to be deceived,And shouted out his luck. Next day invitedThe Inimitable Livers down to see him fish,Whereat she had a diver fix his hookWith a salted fish from Pontus. AntonyDrew up amid their laughter. Then she said:“Sweet Antony, leave us poor sovereigns here,Of Pharos and Canopus, to the rod;Your game is cities, provinces and kingdoms.”Were Antony serious, or disposed to mirth?She had some new delight. She diced with him,Drank with him, hunted with him. When he wentTo exercise in arms, she sat to see.At night she rambled with him in the streets,Dressed like a servant-woman, making mischiefAt people’s doors. And Antony disguisedGot scurvy answers, beatings from the folk,Tormented in their houses. So it wentTill Actium. She loved him, let him beBy day nor night alone, at every turnWas with him and upon him.

Well, this lifeWas neither virtue, glory, fame, nor study,But it was life, and life that did not slayA Cæsar for a word like Liberty.And it was life, its essence nor changed nor lostBy Actium, where his soul shot forth to herAs from a catapult a stone is cast,Seeing her lift her sixty sails and fly.His soul lived in her body as ’twere bornA part of her, and whithersoever she wentThere followed he. And all their life togetherWas what it was, a rapture, justifiedBy its essential honey of realest blossoms,In spite of anguished shame. When hauled aboardThe ship of Cleopatra, he sat downAnd with his two hands covered up his face!Brutus had penitence at PhilippiFor virtue which befooled him. AntonyRemorse and terror there at ActiumDeserting with his queen, for love that madeHis body not his own, as Brutus’ willWas subject to the magic of a word....For what is Virtue, what is Love? At leastWe know their dire effects, that both befool,Betray, destroy.

The Queen and AntonyHad joined the Inimitable Livers, now they joinedThe Diers Together. They had kept how oftThe Festival of Flagons, now to keepThe Ritual of Passing Life was theirs.But first they suffered anger with each otherWhile on her ship, till touching TenarusWhen they were brought to speak by women friends,At last to eat and sleep together. YetPoison had fallen on their leaves, which strippedTheir greenness to the stalk, as you shall see....Here to make clear what flight of Antony meant,For cause how base or natural, let me sayThat Actium’s battle had not been a lossTo Antony and his honor, if Canidius,Commanding under Antony, had not flownIn imitation of his chief; the soldiersFought desperately in hope that AntonyWould come again and lead them.

So it wasHe touched, with Cleopatra, Africa,And sent her into Egypt; and with us,Myself and Aristocrates, walked and broodedIn solitary places, as I said.But when he came to AlexandriaHe finds his Cleopatra dragging her fleetOver the land space which divides the seaNear Egypt from the Red Sea, so to floatHer fleet in the Arabian Gulf, and there,Somewhere upon earth’s other side, to findA home secure from war and slavery.She failed in this; but Antony leaves the city,And leaves his queen, plays Timon, builds a houseNear Pharos on a little mole; lives hereUntil he hears all princes and all kingsDesert him in the realm of Rome; which newsBrings gladness to him, for hope put away,And cares slipped off. Then leaving Timoneum,—For such he named his dwelling there near Pharos—He goes to Cleopatra, is received,And sets the city feasting once again.The order of Inimitable Livers breaks,And forms the Diers Together in its place.And all who banquet with them, take the oathTo die with Antony and Cleopatra,Observing her preoccupation withDrugs poisonous and creatures venomous.And thus their feast of flagons and of loveIn many courses riotously consumedAwaits the radiate liquor dazzling throughTheir unimagined terror, like the raysShot from the bright eyes of the cockatrice,Crackling for poison in the crystal servedBy fleshless hands! A skeleton steward soonWill pass the liquer to them; they will drink,And leave no message, no commandment either—As Theophrastus was reluctant to—Denied disciples; for Inimitable LiversRaise up no followers, create no faith,No cult or sect. Joy has his special wisdom,Which dies with him who learned it, does not fireMad bosoms like your Virtue.

I must noteThe proffered favors, honors of young CæsarTo Cleopatra, if she’d put to deathHer Antony; and Antony’s jealousy,Aroused by Thyrsus, messenger of Cæsar,Whom Cleopatra gave long audiences,And special courtesies; seized, whipped at lastBy Antony, sent back to Cæsar. YetThe queen was faithful. When her birth-day cameShe kept it suitable to her fallen state,But all the while paying her Antony love,And honor, kept his birth-day with such richnessThat guests who came in want departed rich ...

Wine, weariness, much living, early ageMade fall for Antony. October’s cloudsIn man’s life, like October, have no sunTo lift the mists of doubt, distortion, fear.Faces, events, and wills around us showMalformed, or ugly, changed from what they were.And when his troops desert him in the cityTo Cæsar, Antony cries out, the queen,His Cleopatra, has betrayed him. SheIn terror seeks her monument, sends wordThat she is dead. And Antony believesAnd says delay no longer, stabs himself,Is hauled up dying to the arms of her,Where midst her frantic wailings he expires!Kings and commanders begged of Cæsar graceTo give this Antony his funeral rites.But Cæsar left the body with the queenWho buried it with royal pomp and splendor.Thus died at fifty-six Marc Antony,And Cleopatra followed him with poison,The asp or hollow bodkin, having livedTo thirty-nine, and reigned with AntonyAs partner in the empire fourteen years ...

Who in a time to come will gorge and drink,Filch treasure that it may be spent for wine,Kill as Marc Antony did, war as he did,Because Marc Antony did so, taking himAs warrant and exemplar? Why, never a soul!These things are done by souls who do not think,But act from feeling. But those mad for starsGlimpsed in wild waters or through mountain mistsSeen ruddy and portentous will take BrutusAs inspiration, since for Virtue’s sakeAnd for the good of Rome he killed his friend;And in the act made Liberty as farFrom things of self, as murder is apartFrom friendship and its ways. Yes, Brutus livesTo fire the mad-men of the centuriesAs Cæsar lives to guide new tyrants. YetTyrannicide but snips the serpent’s head.The body of a rotten state still writhesAnd wriggles though the head is gone, or worse,Festers and stinks against the setting sun....

Marc Antony lived happier than BrutusAnd left the old world happier for his lifeThan Brutus left it.

(Lionard Diggesis speaking)

Yes, so I said: ’twas labored “Cataline”Insufferable for learning, tedious.And so I said: the audience was keptThere at the Globe twelve years ago to hear:“It is no matter; let no imagesBe hung with Cæsar’s trophies.”And to-dayThey played his Julius Cæsar at the Court.I saw it at the Globe twelve years ago,A gala day! The flag over the TheatreFluttered the April breeze and I was thrilled.And look what wherries crossed the Thames with freightOf hearts expectant for the theatre.For all the town was posted with the newsOf Shakespeare’s “Julius Cæsar.” So we paidOur six-pence, entered, all the house was full.And dignitaries, favored ones had seatsBehind the curtain on the stage. At lastThe trumpet blares, the curtains part, MarullusAnd Flavius enter, scold the idiot mobAnd we sat ravished, listening to the close.We knew he pondered manuscripts, foreverWas busy with his work, no rest, no pause.Often I saw him leave the theatreAnd cross the Thames where in a little roomHe opened up his Plutarch. What was that?A fertilizing sun, a morning lightOf bursting April! What was he? The earthThat under such a sun put forth and grew,Showed all his valleys, mountain peaks and fields,Brought forth the forests of his cosmic soul,The coppice, jungle, blossoms good and bad.A world of growth, creation! This the work,Precedent force of Thomas North, his workIn causal link the Bishop of Auxerre,And so it goes.But others tried their handAt Julius Cæsar, witness “Cæsar’s Fall”Which Drayton, Webster, others wrote. And lookAt Jonson’s “Cataline,” that labored thing,Dug out of Plutarch, Cicero. Go read,Then read this play of Shakespeare’s.I recallWhat came to me to see this, scene by scene,Unroll beneath my eyes. ’Twas like a scrollLettered in gold and purple where one themeIn firmest sequence, precious artistryIs charactered, and all the sound and sense,And every clause and strophe ministersTo one perfection. So it was we satUntil the scroll lay open at our feet:“According to his virtue, let us use himWith all respect and rites of burial,”Then gasped for breath! The play’s a miracle!This world has had one Cæsar and one Shakespeare,And with their birth is shrunk, can only bearLess vital spirits.For what did he doThere in that room with Plutarch? First his mindWas ready with the very moulds of nature.And then his spirit blazing like the sunSmelted the gold from Plutarch, till it flowedMolten and dazzling in these moulds of his.And lo! he sets up figures for our viewThat blind the understanding till you closeEyes to reflect, and by their closing seeWhat has been done. O, well I could go onAnd show how Jonson makes homonculus,And Shakespeare gets with child, conceives and bearsBeauty of flesh and blood. Or I could sayJonson lays scholar’s hands upon a trait,Ambition, let us say, as if a manWere peak and nothing else thrust to the skyBy blasting fires of earth, just peak alone,No slopes, no valleys, pines, or sunny brooks,No rivers winding at the base, no fields,No songsters, foxes, nothing but the peak.But Shakespeare shows the field-mice and the cricket,The louse upon the leaf, all things that liveIn every mountain which his soaring lightTakes cognizance; by which I mean to sayShows not ambition only, that’s the peak,But mice-moods, cricket passions in the man;How he can sing, or whine, or growl, or hiss,Be bird, fox, wolf, be eagle or be snake.And so this “Julius Cæsar” paints the mobThat stinks and howls, a woman in complaintMost feminine shut from her husband’s secrets;Paints envy, paints the demagogue, in brief,Paints Cæsar till we lose respect for Cæsar.For there he stands in verity, it seems,A tyrant, coward, braggart, aging man,A stale voluptuary shoved aboutAnd stabbed most righteously by patriotsTo avenge the fall of Rome!Now I have saidEnough to give me warrant to say this:This play of Shakespeare fails, is an abuseUpon the memory of the greatest manThat ever trod this earth. And Shakespeare failedBy just so much as he might have achievedSurpassing triumph had he made the playCæsar instead of Brutus, had he shownA sovereign will and genius struck to earthWith loss irreparable to Time and ruinTo Cæsar’s dreams; struck evilly to deathBy a mad enthusiast, a brutal stoic,In whom all gratitude was tricked asideBy just a word, the word of Liberty.Or might I also say the man had envyOf Cæsar’s greatness, or might it be trueBrutus took edge for hatred with the thoughtThat Brutus’ sister flamed with love for Cæsar?But who was Brutus, by the largest wordThat comes to us that he should be exalted,Forefronted in this play, and warrant givenTo madmen down the ages to repeatThis act of Brutus’, con the golden wordsOf Shakespeare as he puts them in his mouth:“Not that I loved him less, but loved Rome more.He was ambitious so I slew him. TearsFor his love, joy for his fortune, honor for valor,Death for ambition. Would you die all slavesThat Cæsar might still live, or live free menWith Cæsar dead?”And so it is the echoOf Cæsar’s fall is cried to by this voiceOf Shakespeare’s and increased, to travel forth,To fool the ages and to madden menWith thunder in the hills of time to deedsAs horrible as this.Did Shakespeare knowThe worth of Cæsar, that we may imputeFault for this cartoon—caricature? Why look,Did he not write the “mightiest Julius,” write“The foremost man of all the world,” “the conquerorWhom death could conquer not,” make Cleopatra,The pearl of all the east, say she was gladThat Cæsar wore her on his hand? He knewWhat Cæsar’s greatness was! Yet what have we?A Cæsar with the falling sickness, deaf,Who faints upon the offering of the crown;Who envies Cassius stronger arms in swimming,When it is known that Cæsar swam the Tiber,Being more than fifty; pompous, superstitious,Boasting his will, but flagging in the act;Greedy of praise, incautious, unalertTo dangers seen of all; a lust incarnateOf power and rulership; a Cæsar smashingA great republic like a criminal,A republic which had lived except for him.So what was Rome when Cæsar took control?All wealth and power concentered in the few;A coterie of the rich who lived in splendor;A working class that lived on doles of cornAnd hordes of slaves from Asia, Africa,Who plotted murders in the dark purlieus;The provinces were drained to feed the rich;The city ruled by bribery, and corruption;Armed gladiators sold their services.And battled in the Forum; magistratesWere freely scoffed at, consuls were attacked;And orators spat in each other’s facesWhen reason failed them speaking in the Forum;No man of prominence went on the streetsWithout his hired gladiators, slaves.The streets were unpoliced, no fire brigade,Safe-guarded property. Domestic lifeWas rotten at the heart, and vice was taught.Divorce was rife and even holy CatoPut by his wife.And this was the republicThat Cæsar took; and not the lovely stateOrdered and prospered, which ambitious Cæsar,As Shakespeare paints him, over-whelmed. For CæsarCould execute the vision that the peopleDeserve not what they want, but otherwiseWhat they should want, and in that mind was kingAnd emperor.And what was here for ShakespeareTo love and manifest by art, who hatedThe Puritan, the mob? Colossus Cæsar,Whose harmony of mind took deep offenseAt ugliness, disharmony! See the man:Of body perfect and of rugged health,Of graceful carriage, fashion, bold of eye,A swordsman, horseman, and a generalNot less than Alexander; oratorWho rivalled Cicero, a man of charm,Of wit and humor, versed in books as well;Who at one time could dictate, read and write,Composing grammars as he rode to war,Amid distractions, dangers, battles, writingGreat commentaries. Yes, he is the manIn whom was mixed the elements that NatureMight say:—this was a man—and not this Brutus.Look at his camp, wherever pitched in Gaul,Thronged by young poets, thinkers, scholars, wits,And headed by this Cæsar, who when armsAre resting from the battle, makes reportsOf all that’s said and done to Cicero.Here is a man large minded and sincere,Active, a lover, conscious of his place,Knowing his power, no reverence for the past,Save what the past deserved, who made the taskWhat could be done and did it—seized the powerOf rulership and did not put it byAs Shakespeare clothes him with pretence of doing.For what was kingship to him? empty name!He who had mastered Asia, Africa,Egypt, Hispania, after twenty yearsOf cyclic dreams and labor—king indeed!A name! when sovereign power was nothing new.He’s fifty-six, and knows the human breed,Sees man as body hiding a canalFor passing food along, a little brainThat watches, loves, attends the said canal.He’s been imperator at least two years—King in good sooth! He knows he is not valued,That he’s misprized and hated, is compelledTo use whom he distrusts, despises too.Why, what was life to him with such contemptOf all this dirty world, this eagle setAmid a flock of vultures, cow-birds, bats?His ladder was not lowliness, but genius.Read of his capture in Bithynia,When he was just a stripling by CilicianPirates whom he treated like his slaves,And told them to their face when he was ransomedHe’d have them crucified. He did it, too.His ransom came at last, he was released,And set to work at once to keep his word;Fitted some ships out, captured every oneAnd crucified them all at Pergamos.Not lowliness his ladder, but the strengthThat steps on shoulders, fit for steps alone.So on this top-most rung he did not scanThe base degrees by which he did ascend,But sickened rather at a world whose heightsAre not worth reaching. So it was he wentUnarmed and unprotected to the Senate,Knowing that death is noble, being nature,And scorning fear. Why, he had lived enough.The night before he dined with Lepidus,To whom he said the death that is not seen,Is not expected, is the best. But look,Here in this play he’s shown a weak old man,Propped up with stays and royal robes, to amble,Trembling and babbling to his coronation;And to the going, driven by the fearThat he would be thought coward if he failed.Who was to think so? Cassius, whom he cowed,And whipped against strong odds, this Brutus, too,There at Pharsalus! Faith, I’d like to knowWhat Francis Bacon thinks of this.My friend,Seeing the Rome that Cæsar took, we turnTo what he did with what he took. This RomeAt Cæsar’s birth was governed by the peopleIn name alone, in fact the Senate ruled,And money ruled the Senate. Rank and fileWas made of peasants, tradesmen, manumittedSlaves and soldiers—these the populares,Who made our Cæsar’s uncle MariusChief magistrate six times. This was the partyThat Cæsar joined and wrought for to the last.He fought the aristocracy all his life.His heart was democratic and his headPatrician—was ambitious from the first,As Shakespeare is ambitious, gifted byThe Muses, must work out his vision orRot down with gifts neglected; so this CæsarGifted to rule must rule—but what’s the dream?To use his power for democratic weal,Bring order, justice in a rotten state,And carry on the work of Marius,His democratic uncle. Now behold,He’s fifty when he reaches sovereign power;Few years are left in which he may achieveHis democratic ideas, for he soughtNo gain in power, but chance to do his work,Fulfill his genius. Well, he takes the SenateAnd breaks its aristocracy, then freesThe groaning debtors; reduces the congestionOf stifled Italy, founds colonies,Helps agriculture, executes the laws.Crime skulks before him, luxury he checks.The franchise is enlarged, he codifiesThe Roman laws, and founds a money system;Collects a library, and takes a census;Reforms the calendar, and thus bestrodeThe world with work accomplished. Round his legsAll other men must peer; and envy, hatredWere serpents at his heels, whose poison reachedHis heart at last. He was the tower of Pharos,That lighted all the world.Now who was Brutus?Cæsar forgave this Brutus seven times seven,Forgave him for Pharsalia, all his actsOf constant opposition. Who was Brutus?A simple, honest soul? A heart of hate,Bred by his uncle Cato! Was he gentle?Look what he did to Salamis! BesiegedIts senate house and starved the senatorsTo force compliance with a loan to themAt 48 per cent! This is the manWhom Shakespeare makes to say he’d rather beA villager than to report himselfA son of Rome under these hard conditions,Which Cæsar wrought! Who thought or called them hard?Brutus or Shakespeare? Is it Plutarch, maybe,Whom Shakespeare follows, all against the grainOf truth so long revealed?Do you not seeMatter in plenty for our Shakespeare’s hand,To show a sovereign genius and its workPursued by mad-dogs, bitten to its death,Its plans thrown into chaos? Is there clayWherewith to mould the face of Cæsar; takeWhat clay remains to mould the face of Brutus?Do you not see a straining of the stuff,Making that big and salient which should beLittle and hidden in a group of figures?And why, I ask? Here is the irony:Shakespeare has minted Plutarch, stamped the coinWith the face of Brutus. It’s his inner genius,The very flavor of his genius’ fleshTo do this thing. Here is a world that’s mad,A Cæsar mad with power, a Brutus madder,Being a dreamer, student, patriotWho can’t see things as clearly as the madmanCæsar sees them, Brutus sees through books.A mad-man butchered by a man more mad.His father mad before him. Why, it’s trueThat every one is mad, because the worldCannot be solved. Why are we here and whyThis agony of being? Why these tasksImposed upon us never done, which driveOur souls to desperation. So to printThe tragedy of life, our Shakespeare takes,And by the taking shows he deems the themeGreater than Cæsar’s greatness: human will,A dream, a hope, a love, and makes them big.Strains all the clay to that around a formToo weak to hold the moulded stuff in place.Thus from his genius fashioning the talesOf human life he passes judgment onThe mystery of life. Which could he doBy making Cæsar great, and would it beSo bitter and so hopeless if he did,So adequate to curse this life of ours?Why make a man as great as Nature canThe gods will raise a manakin to kill him,And over-turn the order that he founds.A grape seed strangles Sophocles, a turtleFalls from an eagle’s claws on Aeschylos,And cracks his shiny pate.So at the lastThe question is, is history the truth,Or is the Shakespeare genius, which arrangesHistory to speak the Shakespeare mood,Reaction to our life, the truth?And hereI leave you to reflect. Let’s one more aleAnd then I go.

And to-dayThey played his Julius Cæsar at the Court.I saw it at the Globe twelve years ago,A gala day! The flag over the TheatreFluttered the April breeze and I was thrilled.And look what wherries crossed the Thames with freightOf hearts expectant for the theatre.For all the town was posted with the newsOf Shakespeare’s “Julius Cæsar.” So we paidOur six-pence, entered, all the house was full.And dignitaries, favored ones had seatsBehind the curtain on the stage. At lastThe trumpet blares, the curtains part, MarullusAnd Flavius enter, scold the idiot mobAnd we sat ravished, listening to the close.

We knew he pondered manuscripts, foreverWas busy with his work, no rest, no pause.Often I saw him leave the theatreAnd cross the Thames where in a little roomHe opened up his Plutarch. What was that?A fertilizing sun, a morning lightOf bursting April! What was he? The earthThat under such a sun put forth and grew,Showed all his valleys, mountain peaks and fields,Brought forth the forests of his cosmic soul,The coppice, jungle, blossoms good and bad.A world of growth, creation! This the work,Precedent force of Thomas North, his workIn causal link the Bishop of Auxerre,And so it goes.

But others tried their handAt Julius Cæsar, witness “Cæsar’s Fall”Which Drayton, Webster, others wrote. And lookAt Jonson’s “Cataline,” that labored thing,Dug out of Plutarch, Cicero. Go read,Then read this play of Shakespeare’s.

I recallWhat came to me to see this, scene by scene,Unroll beneath my eyes. ’Twas like a scrollLettered in gold and purple where one themeIn firmest sequence, precious artistryIs charactered, and all the sound and sense,And every clause and strophe ministersTo one perfection. So it was we satUntil the scroll lay open at our feet:“According to his virtue, let us use himWith all respect and rites of burial,”Then gasped for breath! The play’s a miracle!This world has had one Cæsar and one Shakespeare,And with their birth is shrunk, can only bearLess vital spirits.

For what did he doThere in that room with Plutarch? First his mindWas ready with the very moulds of nature.And then his spirit blazing like the sunSmelted the gold from Plutarch, till it flowedMolten and dazzling in these moulds of his.And lo! he sets up figures for our viewThat blind the understanding till you closeEyes to reflect, and by their closing seeWhat has been done. O, well I could go onAnd show how Jonson makes homonculus,And Shakespeare gets with child, conceives and bearsBeauty of flesh and blood. Or I could sayJonson lays scholar’s hands upon a trait,Ambition, let us say, as if a manWere peak and nothing else thrust to the skyBy blasting fires of earth, just peak alone,No slopes, no valleys, pines, or sunny brooks,No rivers winding at the base, no fields,No songsters, foxes, nothing but the peak.But Shakespeare shows the field-mice and the cricket,The louse upon the leaf, all things that liveIn every mountain which his soaring lightTakes cognizance; by which I mean to sayShows not ambition only, that’s the peak,But mice-moods, cricket passions in the man;How he can sing, or whine, or growl, or hiss,Be bird, fox, wolf, be eagle or be snake.And so this “Julius Cæsar” paints the mobThat stinks and howls, a woman in complaintMost feminine shut from her husband’s secrets;Paints envy, paints the demagogue, in brief,Paints Cæsar till we lose respect for Cæsar.For there he stands in verity, it seems,A tyrant, coward, braggart, aging man,A stale voluptuary shoved aboutAnd stabbed most righteously by patriotsTo avenge the fall of Rome!

Now I have saidEnough to give me warrant to say this:This play of Shakespeare fails, is an abuseUpon the memory of the greatest manThat ever trod this earth. And Shakespeare failedBy just so much as he might have achievedSurpassing triumph had he made the playCæsar instead of Brutus, had he shownA sovereign will and genius struck to earthWith loss irreparable to Time and ruinTo Cæsar’s dreams; struck evilly to deathBy a mad enthusiast, a brutal stoic,In whom all gratitude was tricked asideBy just a word, the word of Liberty.Or might I also say the man had envyOf Cæsar’s greatness, or might it be trueBrutus took edge for hatred with the thoughtThat Brutus’ sister flamed with love for Cæsar?But who was Brutus, by the largest wordThat comes to us that he should be exalted,Forefronted in this play, and warrant givenTo madmen down the ages to repeatThis act of Brutus’, con the golden wordsOf Shakespeare as he puts them in his mouth:“Not that I loved him less, but loved Rome more.He was ambitious so I slew him. TearsFor his love, joy for his fortune, honor for valor,Death for ambition. Would you die all slavesThat Cæsar might still live, or live free menWith Cæsar dead?”

And so it is the echoOf Cæsar’s fall is cried to by this voiceOf Shakespeare’s and increased, to travel forth,To fool the ages and to madden menWith thunder in the hills of time to deedsAs horrible as this.

Did Shakespeare knowThe worth of Cæsar, that we may imputeFault for this cartoon—caricature? Why look,Did he not write the “mightiest Julius,” write“The foremost man of all the world,” “the conquerorWhom death could conquer not,” make Cleopatra,The pearl of all the east, say she was gladThat Cæsar wore her on his hand? He knewWhat Cæsar’s greatness was! Yet what have we?A Cæsar with the falling sickness, deaf,Who faints upon the offering of the crown;Who envies Cassius stronger arms in swimming,When it is known that Cæsar swam the Tiber,Being more than fifty; pompous, superstitious,Boasting his will, but flagging in the act;Greedy of praise, incautious, unalertTo dangers seen of all; a lust incarnateOf power and rulership; a Cæsar smashingA great republic like a criminal,A republic which had lived except for him.

So what was Rome when Cæsar took control?All wealth and power concentered in the few;A coterie of the rich who lived in splendor;A working class that lived on doles of cornAnd hordes of slaves from Asia, Africa,Who plotted murders in the dark purlieus;The provinces were drained to feed the rich;The city ruled by bribery, and corruption;Armed gladiators sold their services.And battled in the Forum; magistratesWere freely scoffed at, consuls were attacked;And orators spat in each other’s facesWhen reason failed them speaking in the Forum;No man of prominence went on the streetsWithout his hired gladiators, slaves.The streets were unpoliced, no fire brigade,Safe-guarded property. Domestic lifeWas rotten at the heart, and vice was taught.Divorce was rife and even holy CatoPut by his wife.

And this was the republicThat Cæsar took; and not the lovely stateOrdered and prospered, which ambitious Cæsar,As Shakespeare paints him, over-whelmed. For CæsarCould execute the vision that the peopleDeserve not what they want, but otherwiseWhat they should want, and in that mind was kingAnd emperor.

And what was here for ShakespeareTo love and manifest by art, who hatedThe Puritan, the mob? Colossus Cæsar,Whose harmony of mind took deep offenseAt ugliness, disharmony! See the man:Of body perfect and of rugged health,Of graceful carriage, fashion, bold of eye,A swordsman, horseman, and a generalNot less than Alexander; oratorWho rivalled Cicero, a man of charm,Of wit and humor, versed in books as well;Who at one time could dictate, read and write,Composing grammars as he rode to war,Amid distractions, dangers, battles, writingGreat commentaries. Yes, he is the manIn whom was mixed the elements that NatureMight say:—this was a man—and not this Brutus.

Look at his camp, wherever pitched in Gaul,Thronged by young poets, thinkers, scholars, wits,And headed by this Cæsar, who when armsAre resting from the battle, makes reportsOf all that’s said and done to Cicero.Here is a man large minded and sincere,Active, a lover, conscious of his place,Knowing his power, no reverence for the past,Save what the past deserved, who made the taskWhat could be done and did it—seized the powerOf rulership and did not put it byAs Shakespeare clothes him with pretence of doing.For what was kingship to him? empty name!He who had mastered Asia, Africa,Egypt, Hispania, after twenty yearsOf cyclic dreams and labor—king indeed!A name! when sovereign power was nothing new.He’s fifty-six, and knows the human breed,Sees man as body hiding a canalFor passing food along, a little brainThat watches, loves, attends the said canal.He’s been imperator at least two years—King in good sooth! He knows he is not valued,That he’s misprized and hated, is compelledTo use whom he distrusts, despises too.Why, what was life to him with such contemptOf all this dirty world, this eagle setAmid a flock of vultures, cow-birds, bats?His ladder was not lowliness, but genius.Read of his capture in Bithynia,When he was just a stripling by CilicianPirates whom he treated like his slaves,And told them to their face when he was ransomedHe’d have them crucified. He did it, too.His ransom came at last, he was released,And set to work at once to keep his word;Fitted some ships out, captured every oneAnd crucified them all at Pergamos.Not lowliness his ladder, but the strengthThat steps on shoulders, fit for steps alone.So on this top-most rung he did not scanThe base degrees by which he did ascend,But sickened rather at a world whose heightsAre not worth reaching. So it was he wentUnarmed and unprotected to the Senate,Knowing that death is noble, being nature,And scorning fear. Why, he had lived enough.The night before he dined with Lepidus,To whom he said the death that is not seen,Is not expected, is the best. But look,Here in this play he’s shown a weak old man,Propped up with stays and royal robes, to amble,Trembling and babbling to his coronation;And to the going, driven by the fearThat he would be thought coward if he failed.Who was to think so? Cassius, whom he cowed,And whipped against strong odds, this Brutus, too,There at Pharsalus! Faith, I’d like to knowWhat Francis Bacon thinks of this.

My friend,Seeing the Rome that Cæsar took, we turnTo what he did with what he took. This RomeAt Cæsar’s birth was governed by the peopleIn name alone, in fact the Senate ruled,And money ruled the Senate. Rank and fileWas made of peasants, tradesmen, manumittedSlaves and soldiers—these the populares,Who made our Cæsar’s uncle MariusChief magistrate six times. This was the partyThat Cæsar joined and wrought for to the last.He fought the aristocracy all his life.His heart was democratic and his headPatrician—was ambitious from the first,As Shakespeare is ambitious, gifted byThe Muses, must work out his vision orRot down with gifts neglected; so this CæsarGifted to rule must rule—but what’s the dream?To use his power for democratic weal,Bring order, justice in a rotten state,And carry on the work of Marius,His democratic uncle. Now behold,He’s fifty when he reaches sovereign power;Few years are left in which he may achieveHis democratic ideas, for he soughtNo gain in power, but chance to do his work,Fulfill his genius. Well, he takes the SenateAnd breaks its aristocracy, then freesThe groaning debtors; reduces the congestionOf stifled Italy, founds colonies,Helps agriculture, executes the laws.Crime skulks before him, luxury he checks.The franchise is enlarged, he codifiesThe Roman laws, and founds a money system;Collects a library, and takes a census;Reforms the calendar, and thus bestrodeThe world with work accomplished. Round his legsAll other men must peer; and envy, hatredWere serpents at his heels, whose poison reachedHis heart at last. He was the tower of Pharos,That lighted all the world.

Now who was Brutus?Cæsar forgave this Brutus seven times seven,Forgave him for Pharsalia, all his actsOf constant opposition. Who was Brutus?A simple, honest soul? A heart of hate,Bred by his uncle Cato! Was he gentle?Look what he did to Salamis! BesiegedIts senate house and starved the senatorsTo force compliance with a loan to themAt 48 per cent! This is the manWhom Shakespeare makes to say he’d rather beA villager than to report himselfA son of Rome under these hard conditions,Which Cæsar wrought! Who thought or called them hard?Brutus or Shakespeare? Is it Plutarch, maybe,Whom Shakespeare follows, all against the grainOf truth so long revealed?Do you not seeMatter in plenty for our Shakespeare’s hand,To show a sovereign genius and its workPursued by mad-dogs, bitten to its death,Its plans thrown into chaos? Is there clayWherewith to mould the face of Cæsar; takeWhat clay remains to mould the face of Brutus?Do you not see a straining of the stuff,Making that big and salient which should beLittle and hidden in a group of figures?And why, I ask? Here is the irony:Shakespeare has minted Plutarch, stamped the coinWith the face of Brutus. It’s his inner genius,The very flavor of his genius’ fleshTo do this thing. Here is a world that’s mad,A Cæsar mad with power, a Brutus madder,Being a dreamer, student, patriotWho can’t see things as clearly as the madmanCæsar sees them, Brutus sees through books.A mad-man butchered by a man more mad.His father mad before him. Why, it’s trueThat every one is mad, because the worldCannot be solved. Why are we here and whyThis agony of being? Why these tasksImposed upon us never done, which driveOur souls to desperation. So to printThe tragedy of life, our Shakespeare takes,And by the taking shows he deems the themeGreater than Cæsar’s greatness: human will,A dream, a hope, a love, and makes them big.Strains all the clay to that around a formToo weak to hold the moulded stuff in place.Thus from his genius fashioning the talesOf human life he passes judgment onThe mystery of life. Which could he doBy making Cæsar great, and would it beSo bitter and so hopeless if he did,So adequate to curse this life of ours?Why make a man as great as Nature canThe gods will raise a manakin to kill him,And over-turn the order that he founds.A grape seed strangles Sophocles, a turtleFalls from an eagle’s claws on Aeschylos,And cracks his shiny pate.

So at the lastThe question is, is history the truth,Or is the Shakespeare genius, which arrangesHistory to speak the Shakespeare mood,Reaction to our life, the truth?

And hereI leave you to reflect. Let’s one more aleAnd then I go.

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