leSSLWcI'S:?*' ^;r'v. BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME PROM THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF il^nirg W. Sage 1891 Aupp. Xopf/^^L arv itaiw Elocution and the dramatic art. I 3 1924 032 223 806 olin,anx Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924032223806 ELOCUTION AND THE DRAMATIC AR GEORGE BELL & SONS LONDON : YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN NEW YORK : 66, FIFTH AVENUE, AND BOMBAY: 53, ESPLANADE ROAD CAMBRIDGE : DEIGHTON, BELL & CO. ELOCUTION AND THE DRAMATIC ART BY DAVID J. SMITHSON Formerly Lecturer on MlocuHon at iMuniversity of St. Andrews^ and also at the Royal Polytechnic Institution^ London NEW EDITION REVISED BY CHAS. REEVE TAYLOR, M.A., LLB. Lecturer in Public Reading' and Speaking in Kin^s College^ London LONDON GEORGE BELITAND SONS 1897 CHISWICK PRESS '.—CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. T0OKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. PREFACE. The author of this work was a teacher of good repute in Edinburgh ; and that the book was in some measure successful and useful is indicated by the fact that a fourth edition was published in 1887. That, in due course, was sold out ; but the death of the author pre- vented any further issue, until his rights were acquired by the present publishers, who have thought well, before re-issuing the book, to submit the whole work to a thorough revision. This has been undertaken by the present Editor, who was first associated with and then succeeded the late Professor D'Orsey, as Lecturer in Elocution in King's College, London. The author remarks in his preface, " Elocution cannot be taught without a master, and, however humble the abilities of the teacher may be, the pt^pil who is diligent will be sure to learn something." His book therefore does not pretend to teach elocution, nor does it offer all th^ teaching that may fairly be conveyed , by, the printed page : some books for that purpose are mentioned in a note on page 4. But the Preliminary Essay on Elocution gives an outline of the Principles, VI PREFACE. which should be useful both to teacher and student, and may also serve to interest others and lead them to become students. The selections have been made rather with a view to their use and suitableness for practical instruction, whether in class or in private, than for the purposes of the entertaining amateur re- citer. They will be found to include examples of Various styles, not without literary merit, and the prose readings may be supplemented from almost any book that comes to hand, or even from newspapers and magazines. The plan of giving speeches from Shake- speare dissected from their context has in most in- stances been avoided, in order that they may be more iutelligently rendered. Punctuation has been carefully revisedj so as properly to indicate the sense; but without specially adapting it to the pauses required in reading aloud, as that is a plan only fitting to the exceptional case of prepared and marked passages, which are in- deed of little real value. The disuse of capital letters for the uniform beginning of the lines in verse will, it is hoped, assist the reader to refrain from making an unnecessary break at the end of every line. Some few of the author's selections, and some por- tions of his essay have been omitted, other parts have been re-arranged, and much new matter has been added by the Editor. It has not been thought necessary to notify these particulars in detail ; but — by way of ex- ample-^it may be stated that from page 2 to the end of page 9, and again the whole of chap, iv., is written by PREFACE. VU the Editor. The remaindei' of the essay is by the original author (with very few additions), and the last two chapters are left intact, except for the omission of some lines. Of the readings in prose there were only four in the original work : the rest have been added. The Editor is responsible also for most of the Shake- speare and for additions to the other divisions of the selections. The whole book is enlarged from 416 to 580 pages ; still the Editor does not wish it to be con- sidered as his book, but as the original author's work, revised and enlarged. Thanks are due to various authors and firms for permission to reprint selections from copyright works, and acknowledgment is made in a note at the end of such pieces. The Editor desires to thank the Lord Bishop of London, Sir Edwin Arnold, the Eev. W. H. Shaw, Mr. Joseph Cowen, Messrs. Murray, Longmans, Macmillan, Kegan Paul, Ghatto & Windus, and George Allen for kind permissions granted to himself. The importance of Elocution in education has been strongly marked by the Memorial on Voice-training adopted by the Council of the British Medical Associa- tion in November, 1893, which was ordered to be sent out to Public Schools, the Universities, and other public bodies interested in the question ; also by the circular (No. 372) to Training Colleges, issued from the Education Departjnent, Whitehall, in November, 1895, wherein some very apposite remarks are concluded by the advice that "Unless there be a member of the VUl PKEFACE. College staff who is adequately qualified, recourse should be had to expert help from without, and that the students should be carefully and methodically drilled in the arts of elocution and voice-production." It is to be hoped that the new Society for Physical Voice-training will very materially assist in the de- velopement of the Educational teaching of Elocution: and it should be more generally known that this work has been quietly and faithfully carried on at King's College, London, for many years. CONTENTS. PEELIMINAET ESSAY ON ELOCUTION AND THE DEAMATIC AET. CHAP. PAGE I. Intbodtjotoey 1 II. The Voice 4 III. Speech 9 rV. Inflection — Emphasis — Pause . . . .11 V. Modulation — Force — Time ■ 14 VI. Action and G-esttibe 18 The Oul'tdbe of the Emotions . . . .19 VII. Public Speaking 21 Pebaching •. .24 Beading of the Lessons 25 VIII. Becitation 26 The Elocution of Song 27 IX. The Dbamatic Abt : The Power of Imagination ... .29 Comedy and Tragedy 33 X. Beminiscenoes of Distinguished Aotobs . 3S SELECTIONS EOE PEACTICE INEEADING AND EECITING-. PBOSE SELECTIONS. Prosperity and Adversity .... Framois Bacon 43 Vulgarity .... TMWp, Ba/rl of Chesterfield 4A The Oxford Beformers W. E. Slum 45 CONTENTS. Beligious toleration in Utopia . Art and Nature in Eloquence . Importance of the Clerical Office The Pursuit of Happiness . John Howard, the Philanthropist The Fate of Bums - David Garrick .... England in the Thirteenth Century Mr. Gladstone .... Slavery of Modem Workmen . England and the Colonies The Pageant of Summer . Sir Thos. More Milton Milton . " The Times" Oa/rhjle Sir Semry Irving . Macaulay . Maccmla/y Froude B. Jefferies PAGE 60 51 52 55 58 60 61 64 65 70 74 79 VEESE SELECTIONS. . Paradise Lost, i. 1 Adam and Eve, P. L., iv. 288 . Evening in Paradise, P. L., iv. 598 Satan's Soliloquy, P. L., iv. 32 Sonnets Cato on Immortality The Deserted Village To Mary in Heaven I love my Jean . Love (a tale) Lochinvar . Death of Marmion The Isles of Greece Waterloo . Ocean, Address to the Westminster Bridge, composed upon To the Nightingale . Execution of Montrose The Bridge of Sighs . The Dream of Eugene Aram The Bells .... Milton 85 uaton 86 Milton 87 Milton 89 Shakespeare 93 Addison 95 Goldsmith 96 Bwns 98 Bwms 99 . Coleridge 100 .ScoU 104 .ScoU 107 Byron 110 Byron 114 Byron 117 Wordsworth 119 Keats 120 Aytoun 123 Hood 130 Hood 134 . Foe 143 CONTENTS. XI PAGE The War of the League . Maccmlay. 147 Battle of the Lake EegiUus . Maccmlay 150 Approach of the Armada . . Macaulay 155 Mary of Magdala . . . . Longfellow 158 King Eobert of Sicily Longfellow 161 A Day of Sunshine . . . . Longfellow 169 Lament of the Irish Emigrant . . Lady Dufferin- 170 Claude Melnotte'e Defence Lytton 173 Mummy, Address to a . Koraae Smith 176 Mary Queen of Soots E. 0. Bell 178 David and Absalom . : N. p. WilKs 186 The Delectable Day . C. Kmgsley 189 Legend of Bregenz . A. A. Procter 190 The Bequital . A. A. Froeier 197 Unexpressed . A. A. Procter 200 The Carver's Lesson . . A. A. Procter 202 The Heritage .... J. B. Lowell 204 The Death of Gordon . G. MacDonald 206 TheLight of Asia . Sir iEckom Arnold 208 The Light of the World Sir Udwin Arnold 218 SELECTIONS EEOM SHAKESPEAEE. Julius Csisab. I. 1. Marullus to the Citizen^ 225 I, 2. Cassius inciting Brutus 226 III. 1. Antony meeting the iaurderers of Csesar . 229 III. 2. Brutus addressing the People , . . 234 Antony's Funeral Oration 236 rV. 3. Brutus and Cassius quarrel 243 V. 1, 5. The End 249 ANTONY AND CliBOPATEA. 11. 2. Description of Cleopatra in her Barge 251 JQl CONTENTS. King John. PAQE III. 3. Hubert instigated by the King . . . ,253 rV. 1. Hubert and Arthur 255 IV. 2. Hubert blamed by the King 261 IV. 3. Arthur's Death 264 King Eichaed II. II. 1. Gaunt's Prophecy 265 III. 3. Eiohard on Abdicating 266 rV. 1. The Bishop's Protest and Prophecy . .266 King Henby IV. Pakt 1. I. 1. The King announces a Crusade .... 268 I. 2. The Prince of "Wales . . ' . .269 II. 4. With Falstaff after the Kobbery .... 270 III. 2. The King reproving the Prince . . . 276 King Henry IV. Part 2. III. 1. Apostrophe to Sleep 282 IV. 5. The Prince takes away the Crown . . . 283 The Prince's Apology and Pardon .... 288 King Henby V. IV. Prologue 292 TV. 1. Kingship and Ceremony 294 IV. 3. Before the Battle , . . . . . .296 rV. 7, 8. AfterthebattleofAginoourt . . . .299 King Bichabd III. I. 4. Clarence's Dream 301 IV. 3. The Murder of the Princes 304 Hamlet. I. 3. Laertes' farewell to Ophelia 305 Polonins' parting advice to Laertes . . 307 I. 5. Hamlet and his Father's Ghost .... 308 III. 1, Soliloquy on Death 311 CONTENTS. xiii PAGE III. 2, Advice to the Players 312 III. 3. The King on Prayer 314 III. 4. Hamlet and Queen (Closet Scene) . . . 316 Macbeth. I. 5. Lady Macbeth receiving the News . 322 I. 7. Lady Macbeth instigating Macbeth . . . 325 II. 1. Maobeth's vision of a Dagger .... 328 BoMEo AND Juliet. I. 4. Dreams and Queen Mab . . 330 V. 1. Juliet with the Friar ■ . . . . . 332 IV. 3, Juliet takes the Potion 335 Othello. I. 3. Othello's Defence 338 II. 3. On Drunkenness (adapted) . . 341 The Merchant of Venice. IV. 1. Mercy , 342. V. 1. Music . 343 As You Like It. IL 1, 7. The Duke in Exile ... . . 345 II. 7. Jaques on "Motley" 346 The Seven Ages 360 MODEEN OEATOBY. Examples fbom Speeches. On the Death of Princess Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse Earl of Beaconsfield 853 On the Liberal Party . . . . Earl of Beaconsfield 355 On the Kepresentation of the People Earl of BJiafteshwry 359 On the Homes of the Poor . EAght Hon. John Bright 361 On Eussia Bight Son. John Bright 363 CONTENXS. On the Boers and the Transvaal. On Afghanistan . On the Eastern Question . On the British Empire On the Eight of Eree Speech On ParUamentary Oaths . On Ireland .... Earl OaArns Earl Grey . Viscount Oranbrooh . Joseph Oowen . Joseph Oowen Eight Son. W. E. Gladstone Blight Son. W. E. Gladstone On Conciliation and Coercion . . . Earl Selborne On Irish Distress Mitchell Senry On Ireland .... Bight Son. J. Ohamiberlain On Obstruction in Parliament . . Buke of BevonshAre On Secondary Education . Bight Son. W. E. Forster On Education Earl Bosehery On Disestablishment . . Bight Son W. E. Gladstone On the Established Church . Margms of SaUsbwry On Defence of the Church . Lord Bamdolph Ghwrchill On the National Church . . . Sir Edward OlarJce On the Church in Wales . . . Archbishop Benson On International Law and Arbitration Lord Bussell of Killowen ExiMPLBS PROM Sermons. PAQE 366 368 370 372 374 377 385 889 392 394 397 400 403 405 407 411 413 415 417 Singleheart . The Love of the Brethren Decision Spiritual Warfare Immortality On Archbishop Laud Light . Music . The Courage of Faith Besurreotion The Widow of Zarephath The Influence of Jesus The aiory of God . The Death of Stephen Bi Archbishop Benson 421 .shop Sanvuel Wilberforee 428 Bishop A. W. Thorold 427 . Bishop J. 0. Byle 430 Bishop J. B. Idghtfooi 434 Bishop M. OreigUon 438 Beam Vaughan 441 Gamon Charles Kingsley 443 . Canon Liddon 449 . Canon Knox Little 454 Br. Guthrie 456 . Br. Bonald Eraser 460 0. S. Bpurgeon 461 Morley Pimshon 465 CONTENTS. XT FAQE A Mother's Consolation .... Newman Hall 466 The Growth of Humanity towards God . .7'. P. Hopps 468 Holy Thoughts .... Henry Wa/rd Beecher 472 HUMOEOTJS SELECTIONS. Shelter 0. S. Oalverley 477 Gemini and Virgo G. S. Gakerley 478 Sad Memories 0. S. Gaherley 483 The Oane-bottomed Chair . . . Thackeray 486 About Barbers Ma/rh Twaj,n 489 Our Guide in Bome Marh Twam 493 Gone with a Handsomer Man ■ . . W. Gourhton 498 Speech of Seqeant Buzfuz .... Biakens SOS Copperfield and the Waiter .... Dickens 509 Our First Horse . . . . . . Mass Adeler 515 Terrible Mishap to Mr. Fogg's Baby . . Mam Adeler 524 Woman's Eights ,^ ArtemMs Wa/rd 530 The Execution (Ingoldsby) .... Ba/rham 533 The Coronation of Queen Victoria (Ingoldsby) . Ba/rham 539 The Charity Dinner L. Moseley 543 A Curtain Lecture . . . . Douglas Jerrold 553 Bowton's Yard S. Laycoch 557 To my Old Piddle Edwim, Wamgh 561 The Tarn of the " Nancy Bell " . W. 8. Gilbert 563 Dr. Pangloss and Dick Dowlas . . 0. Golman, Jmn. 567 Sir Peter and Lady Teazle .... Sheridan 575 EEBATA. Page 134, line 2, read " spurred." Page 208, line 13, read " paths." Page 535, line 4 from bottom, read " hot with." Page 537, line 17, read " Sweetly, oh 1 " Page 541, line 2 from bottom, read " dish up." ELOCUTION. CHAPTEE I. INTBODUCTOET. /^RATOET is the child of our emotions, the offspring of ^^ the human heart. It may he, and has been, developed by culture and art ; but neither of them gave, nor can give, birth to it. It is the gravest misapprehension of the purpose of art, to suppose that its office or result is to take us away from its own source — ^Nature ; that it is a body of rules, a code of devices invented by man ; it is not so. Art is founded on Nature, as truly and really as Nature is founded in its turn on rules and principles, on codes and systems, on laws of form, shade, and colour. No one can deny that the Orator has been a great historical figure in all ages. Who can doubt that he has exerted a vast influience on the institutions and the progress of Society? No intelligent observer who has visited the House of Lords or the House of Commons, who has sat in our Churches, entered our Courts of Justice, or attended one of our Municipal Councils, can have failed to notice the very wide difference between the accomplished speaker and him who is devoid of oratorical art. If there is one thing more interesting than another, or better known with regard to our greatest orators, it is the instructive fact, whether we take Demosthenes, or that great example in our own time, the late Lord Beaoonsfield, 2 ELOCUTION. that they became masters of speech, not by accident or birth, but by indomitable perseverance, and by careful and intense study. It is our object here to set forth briefly the lines in which this study should proceed. We cannot all expect to be Orators (for which are required natural qualifications that are not common, as may be said of Poets also), but the student may at least learn how to manage his breath, and may endeavour to articulate his words, and modulate his voice, according to the rules f)f Elocution ; and thus may hope to become both an acceptable and graceful Speaker and Eeader, if he place himself in the hands of a well- qualified and careful Teacher. Elocution is the art of speaking out so as to be dis- -tinctly heard and clearly tmderstood. ; and, further, so as to impress the hearers with the sentiments suitable to the subjects spoken of. It is thus an essential part of the art •of Ehetoric, or Public Speaking ; and the mastery of its principles must be acquired, in addition to the natural gifts, in order to produce an Orator. But inasmuch as it concerns the manner, not the matter, of speaking — or, in other words, the delivery of speech — Elocution is applic- able and requisite, not only for Oratory, but also for a perfect rendering of Songs and of Kecitations, for Beading aloud, and even for refined and agreeable Conversation. Like other arts it is founded upon science. Science -teaches us the laws of Nature, and Art enables us to be natural ; i.e., to conform to Nature's laws : but we must not display the art, lest we become artificial : Ars est celare artem is a motto always to be remembered. , ■ We have to deal, then, with the perfect utterance of Speech, that marvellous gift by which mankind is distin- guished above all other creatures. Speech is made up of intelligible words ; Words of syllables ; Syllables of voice, shaped and articulated ; Voice is the sound produced by the PRACTICE. 3 vocal organs ; and Sound is the effect of vibrations of the air conveyed to our auditory nerves. However desirable it may be for the teacher, it is not necessary for the mere voice-user to have a minute acquaiat- ajice with the anatomy of the vocal organs ; nevertheless it is well to obtain a general and correct idea of the mechanism of speech in order to be able more intelligently to produce good tone and clear articulation, as well as to know how to take care of an instrument which is very delicate, and, if spoiled, can never be exchanged for another or replaced. But this knowledge will not be enough without practice ; and very few persons, if any, can progress satisfactorily without the aid of an honest and candid Teacher who is properly qualified by education and experience. Eegular exercises are necessary, some generally useful to all, some specially applicable to each individual, in order to the eradication of bad habits and the formation of good; these must be persevered in, with such modifications as the teacher may from time to time advise, and must be done very carefully and patiently. Sometimes people have acquired tricks of voice or speech of which they are even unaware; and sometimes they may perseveringly practise themselves unknowingly in a course which may be doing more harm than good. Even those who are by nature the most gifted, and may best be trusted to teach themselves, by the aid of books on the subject, and by attentively hearing good elocutionists, require the guiding ear and kindly criticism of some faith- f ulrfriend who may at least point out faults and deficiencies, though unable to suggest how such could be corrected. Much may be learned by the intelligent student of elocu- tion by reading (though there are not many really useful books on the subject),' and then listening critically to ' The following are among the best books that can be recom- ELOCUTION. , speakers at public meetings, the clergy in church, barristers in court, and lecturers, as well as actors on the stage a,nd professional reciters ; and also by noticing the conversation of those -with whom one meets in daily life ; but you wiU learn far, far more what to avoid than what to imitate. After having acquired a good quality and distinct articu- lation of voice and speech, further attention is required to convey accurately the sense, and to give that expression which shall stir up the sympathetic feelings of the audience. All this is necessary that it may be said of us, as of them of old time, " They read in the book, in the law of Grod, distinctly, and gave the sense, and caused them to under- stand the reading." (Neh. viii. 8.) CHAPTEE II. THE VOICE. Foe good elocution and use of the voice it is highly desirable that the general health of the body and mind be in good condition. The voice-user should practise gym- nastic exercises with this end in view, as well as for the sake of cultivating graceful movement in gestures ; when using the voice he should stand in an upright but easy position, with both feet on the ground ; or at least must mended: "Practical Elements of Elocution," Fulton and True- Wood; Ginn and Co., Boston, U.S.A. ; London agents, Arnold, Bedford Street, Strand. " Grammar of Elocution," Millard ; Longmans. "The Art of Elocution," "The Art of Heading Aloud," Vandenhoff; Sampson Low and Co. " Principles of Elocu- tion," Alex. Melville Bell ; Simpkin, Marshall and Co. " Speakers, Singers, and Stammerers," F. Helmore ; Masters. " The Cultiva- tion of the Speaking Voice," HuUah ; Clarendon Press. THE VOICE. 5 sit upright, ■without any slouching or lounging ; and should be neither fasting nor fresh filled, but should have had a sufficiency of food some hour or two before the time for appearing in public. The reason of this may be seen when we come to consider that the motive power of voice and speech is situated in the chest, just above the abdomen, or stomach. The chest is the upper portion of the trunk, containing the lungs, and bronchial tubes, and heart, etc. It is bounded behind by the spinal column, at the sides by the ribs, in front by the breast-bone, and beneath by the mid- riff, or diaphragm — a large, flat, thin muscle attached all round to the inside of the lower ribs, which forms, as it were, the floor of the chest, the upper chamber, and the roof of the abdomen, the lower chamber. The chest has thus a somewhat conical shape, with the base of the cone below; and it admits of expansion by the raising of the ribs and also by the depression of the diaphragm. In ordinary breathing the expansion is to a great extent diaphragmatic (in men more so than in women), and the consequent external movement is seen in the front wall of the abdo- men. In the more than ordinary breathing that is required with use of the voice, the shoulders should be held well back, not moved wp and down, and the chest- walls must be kept well raised, so as to give the voice a sonorous ring. By cultivating this method, and by the careful and regular use of judicious exercises, the breathing may be much improved. The Imngs consist of two conical masses of cells, and as the chest is expanded by muscular contraction, air is drawn in, or rushes in. through the windpipe, inflating the lungs, because " Nature abhors a vacuum." Now, having the lungs well filled with air, we begin our work of voice-production by the steady relaxation of the muscles of inspiration, followed by some forcible movement of expiratory muscles well under control; so that the chest. b ELOCUTION. contracting gradually and steadily, squeezes the lungs ; and the air goes forth from the minute cells, along the little tubes, which join into tiny branchlets and then form branches by small degrees of gradually increasing size tUl they are all gathered into the two Bronchi, one for each lung, and after a few inches of length those are united into the one Trachea, or wind-pipe. This wind-pipe is kept open by cartilaginous rings, somewhat in the same manner as the feed-pipe of a fire-engine. Tip goes the air, passing through the larynx to the back of the mouth, and then out through mouth or nose, or both. Through the nose it should be, when we are not using the voice, for the nostrils require to be kept free and clear by the air passing through them, and in in^iration it is important that the air be filtered and warmed before passing through the throat. But let us see where the vibrations may be caused which set ofE waves of sound in the upgoing air. At about four and a half inches above the junction of the bronchi the windpipe opens out into a little cartilaginous "box, called the larynx, with an angular prominence in front that is very commonly known as "Adam's apple." The top ring of the windpipe is widened out behind like a signet- ring, and forms the cricoid cartilage of the larynx: and on this moves the double-shield-like cartiMge called the thyroid, forming the angle in front, but open behind: within the box so formed are a pair of smaller cartilages, three-sided pyramids, named arytmnoid, which move freely one on each side of the cricoid ; and from their lower front extremities run the vocal lamds, of strong whitish and highly elastic tissue, joining in a point on the angle of the thyroid cartilage. These vocal bands are not detached cords, but are attached throughout their length to the edges of muscle which forms a sort of fold over the top of the windpipe : they can be drawn more or less widely apart posteriorly, or altogether closed, but are fixed to the one spot anteriorly ; THE VOICE. SECTION OF PART OF HEAD AND NECK. A. Frontal Sinus or Cavity. F. Soft Palate and Uvula. B. Sphenoidal Sinus. G. Tonsil. C. Upper Middle and Lower H. Epiglottis. Nasal Cavities. I. Bight Ventricle of the D. Openings of Eustachian Larynx, and Vocal Band. Tubes. K. Trachea. E. Arch of Hard Palate. L. CEsophagus. 8 ELOCUTION. and when they are open the Bpace between them, triangular in shape, is called the glottis. Ahove the flat upper surface of the Tocal bands, on each side, are deep cavities called the ventricles, closed over by the ventricular hands which con- trol the emission of the breath ; and surmounting the whole larynx is a sort of cartilaginous lid, named epiglottis, which serres to prevent our food from " going the wrong way " into the larynx, and passes it over safely (if we are not talking and laughing while we have food in the mouth), to the gullet, or oesophagus, behind. Now, the glottis, or space between the vocal bands, is varying in dimensions every moment ; with deep inspira- tion the aperture is wider, but for the production of voice it is closed more or less tightly : the vocal bands are so approximated that the stream of air, coming up through the windpipe, has to force its way between them, and thus causes vibrations of their pearly edges, in a series of pufEs, and the waves of sound are produced. The variation of the rate of vibrations, according' to the tension or ap- proximation of the vocal bands, wiU alter the pitch of the tone. The force of the upcoming air will determine the amplitude of vibrations, and so affect the intensity or loudness : and due control of our breathing, by giving a steady column of air, will make all the difference between a pure steady sound, and a wobbling " tremolo." The economic management of the breath, also, not only gives purity of tone, but should prevent the air from ever failing when wanted, or, in other words, prevent us from ever being out of breath in the ordinary course of speech or song. Our sound-waves, or voice, being thus produced, and gaining some resonance in the ventricles, passes up the pharynx, or back of the mouth, and is projected through the gate of the soft palate on to the concavity of the hard palate: this, with the teeth, is an important resonator. If the gate between the fauces be wide open, we get a good spEEca y full tone ; if not, we have a throaty, disagreeable quality of voice which is often productive of inflammation in the throat; while, if the tongue and soft palate meet and close the gate, our voice acquires unpleasing tones of nasal quality. That the nasal cavities assist the oral resonance may be easily demonstrated by holding the nose tightly between finger and thumb, when another disagree- able quality of voice is the result, similar to that when the nasal passages are stopped by a cold in the head. We may perhaps compare the hard palate to, the sound-board of the violin, and the nasal and frontal cavities above it to the chamber or the belly of that instrument, and steady breathing to good bowing. CHAPTEE III. SPEECH. Thus far we have spoken only of inarticulate voice ;• but the voice, whether good, bad, or indifferent, whether well produced or not, whether pleasing or otherwise, to become speech, must be shaped and articulated in the mouth. It is aha/ped into vowel-forms ; and articulated by various modifications, or clicks, or stoppages, which are called the consonants because for the most part they can only be sounded with the vowels. The combinations of these con- sonants and vowels produce syllables. In the case of any difSculty in uttering the peculiarities indicated by any of the letters of the alphabet, it is necessary that the pupil learn exactly how they ought to be accomplished ; and it is most necessary for every student to learn the exact shapes of the vowel-forms, and to practise them correctly. 10 ELOCUTION. carefully, and diligently in the daily exercise of vocalization and breathing, preferably in singing. Articulation is the cardinal rule of Elocution. It lies at the very root of correct and distinct speaking, yet, strange to say, it is the one thing most disregarded. This arises from various causes, but chiefly from want of correction in youth. If parents and teachers of children would take more pains in detecting faults in enunciation, more par- ticularly in the sounding of the vowels, and insist upon their youthful pupils speaking slowly and distinctly, there would be far more likelihood of our having better speakers in the rising generation. When a child is found to hesitate, or to show any signs of stammering, great care should be taken to encourage a slow and deliberate mode of articula- tion, and at the same time to practise economy and control of the breath. In order to speak clearly, it is necessary to open the teeth, to use the lips well, and allow the tongue full play ; to give each vowel its proper value, and to be careful that the words we speak have each a distinct utterance, and are iwt allowed to run one into another. The consonants require great attention. How frequently the present participle, as in walking, guiding, hearing, is pronounced in, the g not being sounded at all. I append, what is probably the best exercise extant on this particular rule, an extract from Southey's description of the " Cataract of Lodore " : " Here it comes sparkling, and there it lies darkling' ; Now smokingr and frothing' its tumult and wrath in Risingr and leapingr, sinking' and creeping'. Swelling' and sweeping', showering' and springing'. Flying' and flinging', writhing and ringing. Eddying and whisking, spouting' and frisking', .... Smiting and fighting, a sight to delight in ; Confounding, astounding, dizzyingi and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting', receding and speeding, THE ASPIRATE. 11 And shocking and rockingr, and darting' and parting, And threading and spreading, and whizzing and hissing, ..." etc. Much care should be taken with the aspirate. Such words as where, what, which, whither, through carelessness, are frequently pronounced as though the h was silent. The following sentences, where the aspirate frequently appears, will be useful for reading aloud : 1. " Se dropped a halfpenny in flbmer's Aat." 2. "Up the Aigh hiU Ae Aeaved a Auge round stone. "—Pope. 3. "^ierodotua of .Salicamassus Aeralded with Mgh Aomage the fiellenic Aeroes." 4. " Sim the highest Aurled Aeadlong from the Aeights." 5. Sere's a Aealth to iJighland Aearts on highland fl^Ols, Siirrah ! f urrah ! fi'urrah ! 6. So ! Sizngarian, Aold Aigh your Aead before the Aaughty Souses of Sbhenstauf en and jBapsburg ! 7. Sow Aappy Ae wAo Aears Seavenly wisdom; Aer right Aand Aolds a length of Aappy days ; Aer left a Aeavy crown for Ais Aoary Aead. There should not be any appearance of over-preciseness. This must be ayoided. It is both unnatural and inelegant. CHAPTER IV. INFLECTION — EMPHASIS PAUSE. We must next consider the requirements necessary to " give the sense." In ordinary conversation we may notice that the voice is continually moving up and down a scale of notes, not merely in sentences but in single words and even syllables : and it moves, not by distinct steps or intervals, as in song, but by slides, as it were, gliding wp and down an inclined pkme. These movements are called the inflections of 12 ELOCUTION. speech : they are of four kinds, simple upward / and simple downward \ compound rise-and-fall /^, and compound fall-and-rise \^. The natural use of these inflections in the speech of well-educated adults, is that which Art must imitate in the elocution of the public reader, reciter, or speaker. The fundamental ideas to be remembered are these two : The upviwrd inflection conveys the feeling of incom- pleteness, and is conjunctive ; The downward inflection that of convpleteness, and is disjunctive. Consequently, as long as there is any sort of incomplete- ness in the sense, the prevailing inflections must be up- ward, / or (^. This is a matter of very great im- portance, especially before any pause, as the descending inflection before a pause is equivalent to a full close ; but with an ascending inflection a pause may be made, and the hearers' attention will remain fixed and expectant as long as you can hold your breath. Under this head of incompleteness, or expectation of something more to follow, may be included passages that are simply interrogative, and many of negative construction ; those dealing with the pleasurable emotions, or expressive of doubt and surprise; exclamations, appeals and supplications. In the category of downward iaflections, with the idea of completeness, may be included disjunctive clauses, inter- rogative sentences where an alternative is suggested, or which could only be answered by a more or less elaborate or lengthy statement ; passages of strong afB.rmation or com- mand, and those expressive of stern and gloomy emotions. As a general rule, special care must be given, according to the aforenamed principles, to the last inflections before any pause; the last but one must be of an opposite kind, and the rest are to be varied. In groups of words with opposing IHTLECTION — EMPHASIS — PAUSE. 13 ideas, we want opposing inflections; and these again needi to he varied. Emphasis is to the sentence what accent is to the word, being a greater stress laid on significant words. Judgment must be used to decide what words should be emphatic, and sometimes an analytic study of the sentence is neces- saryi A change of emphasis will often cause quite a change in the meaning ; consequently, if the meaning of a passage he unmistakable, the emphasis must be right or wrong — ^there can be no question about it. Emphatic stress on any word conveys to the mind its particular idea as contrasted with that of its opposite. It is, therefore, almost invariably wrong to emphasize prepositions and conjunctions, or any word which simply repeats an idea already presented to the mind. If too many words receive the stress, the emphatic force will become annihilated. The most important words, or key-words, and antithetic terms, are those which should receive emphatic distinction; and the adjustment of this distinction constitutes the interpretation of a passage, which is conveyed by speech to the hearer's mind. Besides the ordinary stress of force, emphasis may be given by an unusual pause. Nothing is of greater importance in bringing out the meaning of a passage than proper use of pause, rhetorical or logical punctuation ; and nothing is more frequently neglected, disregarded, or improperly applied — even on the stage and by professional reciters, not to mention clergy- men and public readers,' who often pause for the sake of their breathing, without regard to the sense. Now the first principle of pausing is this : Never pause to take breath, hut tahe breath when you pause. During a long pause, you may draw in a full inspiration through the nostrils, and at short pauses catch the breath quickly through nose and mouth; while at some mere breaks, or shortest of all pauses, you will momentarily hold the breath. 14 ELOCUTION. There are again two fundamental rules to be observed : (1) Pause before verbs, almost always. If the subject of the verb is some little pronoun or other single unimportant word, the pause is unnecessary. If the subject be emphatic, or if it consists of an idea expressed in several words, this pause is very important. (2) Pause between groups of words or logical phrases. Groups of words may be : Explanatory, iu apposition, in the ablative absolute, or a relative or adjectival clause ; a parenthesis, or parenthetical clause ; often, a clause forming the subject, or the object, of the verb ; almost any clause of words which convey a single logical idea ; clauses which may be transposed in their entirety with other clauses without spoiling the sense or the grammar, but whose in- dividual words cannot be separated nor transposed without spoiling the sense. Before and after all such groups of words a pause should be made ; but not between the words in the same group. A pause is required also between each of a series of similar words, and wherever an ellipse occurs. The printed or grammatical punctuation is to convey the sense to the reader's eye; the rhetorical or logical punctuation is to convey the reader's idea of the sense to the hearer's ear. CHAPTEE V. MODTTLATION. Modulation is the art of varying the tones of the voice, so that they fall pleasantly and effectively upon the ear. These changes of key are produced by study and practice. MODULATION. 1§ Speech, when communicated in nionotonous and discordant sounds, loses its charm, influence, and power. The student cannot give too much attention to this point, because upon a pleasing and effective deUvery, will depend his success as a public speaker. Modulation has three modes of expression, the wpper pitch, being indicative of an excited state of the mind, as in triumph, anger, or joy. " I care not for thy sword ! I'll make thee known." — Othello. The middle is generally used for ordinary conversa- tion, and the lower, where grief, despair, and sorrow are denoted — " Thou art the ruins of the noblest man that ever lived." Julius CcBsar. ■ The soliloquy from which this line is taken — Mark Antony mourning over the body of Caesar — ^will be found a very suitable exercise for the student. Commencing in the lower, it passes to the middle, or conversational tone, and finishes in the wpper — " Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, Ciy ' Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war." Never drain your voice. If you imagine you are not sufficiently heard, try and speak more distinctly, and modulate your voice according to the size of the room. Tour ear wUl help you to do this ; but in no case give way to bawling or shouting, or you will suffer from sore throat afterwards and general depression. I have known some actors in playing Othello, Macbeth, and Richard HE., three parts which make a great demand on the strength and resources of the speaker, become quite exhausted, and almost lose their voice before the end of the play. The reason for this is undoubtedly, that sufficient care was not 16 ELOCUTION. t taken with regard to modulation. It does not follow that because the actor is performing a tragic part, he must " rant and tear a passion to tatters," or speak in a loud and demonstrative tone from beginning to end. No : there must be light and shade, pathos and feeling, as well as occasional bursts of passion, and it is attention to these important details of delivery, which produces the highest and most thrilling effects. But here it maybe well to add a caution against a con- stant repetition of the same modulation, which results in a sort of monotonous sing-song : also against a habit which some preachers have of a constant alternation of shouting and whispering ; at every fresh inspiration they begin again /// and then regiilarly drop to p p p. While such monotony or monotonous repetition is to be avoided, the reading monotone may be sometimes used with good effect. The monotone is a prolonged continuation of the tone in which the sentence was begun. It is mainly of use in solemn passages, as the following extracts will show : " The bells begin to toll." — Aytoun. " List to that low funereal bell, It is tolling, alas I a living man's kneU." — Baeham. In Edgar Allan Poe's remarkable poem of the " BeUs," the monotone comes in very appropriately to illustrate the weird description of the poet : " and who tolling, tolling, tolling in that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone." In such places it gives a pleasing variety, and helps to impart a reality to what is passing in the mind of the listener. In fervent supplication again, when man humbly approaches in worship his Heavenly Father's footstool, or FORCE AND TIME, 17 even when one in distress petitions his fellow man, the voice will naturally (as Mr. Helmore remarks) assume a monotone: and therefore the cultivated singing mono- tone with regular intonations has been from the earliest times adopted in the services of the Church ; this requires additional musical training after the elocution has been mastered. But why the clergy should read the lessons or preach in the monotone, it is diflScult to understand, except it be from want of training. " Children," says Mr. Helmore, " in their first efforts to produce articulate sounds, naturally bring the vocal cords (bands) into the position necessary for producing a sus- tained note ; and, as they have quite enough to think about during the process of forming syllables into words and words into sentences, they say their little say mostly in monotone; and not till they are quite at home in language ' do they attempt to indulge in the use of the elastic muscles ■by which the ordinary inflections of speech are regulated." Similarly after having become accustomed to use infl.ec- tions in his talk, the child will still keep to monotony in reading : nor will he improve much as he grows older, unless he have proper educational training. FOECE AND TIME. Force has to do with breath, and the pressure brought to bear upon it There are degrees of force and time in speech, very similar to what are used in music. As the time quickens, so the force should increase, to give a s, reater intensity to the declamation. The time in solemn pa sages is slow ; while, when passion or hilarity is expressed, quick. There is a scene in " Hamlet " where force and time must be very carefully observed : 18 ELOCUTION. ' The force and\ „ ^^^^ ^^.^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ p^^^y ^^^^^^ ^ hme gradually V ^ ^ ^ ^^^ j^^^^^^ U^^,^ ^^^^^ increase. I j j Still am I called ! Unhand me, gentlemen ! By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me ! Slow, and in a ) Away — go on — I'll follow thee." whisper. \ Act I., Scene 4. It will be seen that very mucli depends on the pressure of the hreath, and the time, in which the sentences are delivered. In order to heighten the effect, it is necessary to vary them considerably, to produce that light and shade of modulation, which belong to the highest style of dramatic ^locution. CHAPTEE VI. ACTION AND QESTUEB. Action may either be the result of deep thought, or an inspiration of the moment. With many orators it has been impulsive and momentary, and at times extravagant and overdone. Studied action, while it may appear to some artificial, is however generally more graceful and correct. Garrick possessed remarkable power in his mode of action. According to Hogarth, he made his hands speak as well as his tongue, while his facial expression was wonderful. Some of my readers wiU have seen that splendid picture of Garrick as " Eichard III.." the night before the battle of Bosworth, where Shakespeare makes the ghosts of the murdered princes appear before the terror-stricken king. The fingers of the right hand are distorted and convulsed, while the left grasps his sword. ACTION AND GESTURE. 19 Action should never be exaggerated, or it loses its power and effect. As a rule, during speaking, the hands should •only be employed for the purpose of illustrating and giving effect to some striking part of the speech, and thus impart- ing a finish and grace to the delivery. Some speakers do not know what to do with their hands, while others swing them about as though they were sledge- hammers. Superfluity of action is neither necessary nor graceful. With the great actors of the past, it came by inspiration, and its intensity was thrUling. The hand is the symbol of power, and is well adapted to give expression to the emotions. But the student must be careful to distinguish when, and where, to make a suitable gesture. The action should always precede the words which it is meant to illustrate. The Cwltwre of the JEmotiona. The lives of great orators show us that they have been men of strong and lofty emotions which they have been able more than all others to transfer into speech, to make tremble in the tone and gesture of the word and hand, to make speak in the eye, and roll in passion and life through their whole bodies. Whether we take the great preacher, statesman, or advocate, the subtle power in each has its rise and origin in the emotions, and in the power and effect with which the great , sentiments of the human family, patriotism — religious faith— justice — can be gathered up into form and life, in his representation of them. Neither poet, artist, nor orator can draw from any deeper well than Feeling, and the one who in any age may be counted greatest amongst them, is he who has let down the pitcher deepest, and brought up to us purest and truest the water of common and simple human experience. There 20 ELOCUTION. has been a fashion with some to speak of this or that as " mere sentiment," fancying that they themselves are lifted by such a sneer into some lofty alcove above the weaknesses of their fellow creatures. What a vain con- ceit ! What is patriotism but a sentiment ? " Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said. This is my own — my native land." There is nothing in one's teaching which I would lift up higher aloft to the eyes of the student, and of the young inen who wish to become public speakers, than the neces- sity of drinking La with thirsty lips the great sentiments of humanity, and of cherishing a high and profound and sensitive appreciation of those feelings which are the soul and heart of the noblest oratory. By the culture of the emotions is meant that education of our emotional nature which, on the one hand will allow it to grow into fuU-fohaged and robust life, but on the other will not let it alone to grow into wild and utterly unrestrained exuberance. It is essential that the orator should be able to feel deeply, that he at least should seem to be in earnest. It is also equally essential that earnest- ness arid feeling should be shown in all the details and shades of sentence and words which form and complete speech. It is necessary for the student of public speaking to develope within him both a strong and healthy feeling, and a delicacy and sensitiveness of expression which, while they may unite in bold and grand effect that carry us away, and over which ring out applause and cheers, will equally unite in adding those simple touches that give grace and beauty to speech. In an age of civilization and effeminacy, no advice can be given of more value, than that which would warn the PUBLIC SPEAKING. 21 young student that lie can never become a great speaker, nor even a successful one, if lie thinks that force and originality, earnestness, or even passionate and hurning' language, are indelicate and ungentlemanly. It was a happy sign with all our great orators, that earnestness and deep feeling carried all before them. So with regard to Acting. The Hamlets, Othellos, Bomeos, Juliets, and Ophelias of the future, if they wish to become great in the profession they have adopted, must remember to drink deeply from the well of human senti- ment. The more fervent and earnest, the truer and more realistic will be the impersonation, and the greater the impression made upon the audience. The world may laugh at sentiment and say it is ridiculous, but we are only men and women in proportion as we appreciate it. " The ox in its rich pastures never lifts its eyes in gratitude towards heaven," but man can think of the Eternal and the Beautiful, and this one thought makes him sublime. CHAPTEK VII. PUBLIC SPEAKING. The art of impromptu speaking requires considerable cultivation; It cannot be learnt except by study and practice. The reason why we have so many indifferent speakers at the present day is because they trust too much to the inspiration of the moment, forgetting that to do so successfully requires long and varied experience. The musician, in order to gain eminence, will practise several hours daily ; why not the speaker ? Some of our greatest orators have done this, and they never would have become 22 ELOCUTION. celebrated but from this very fact. The first time Sheridan spoke in the House of Commons he made a complete./iasco. His friends strongly urged upon him not to repeat the ex- periment, but he exclaimed, " By Heaven ! it is in me, and it shall come out.'' And this prediction was fulfilled, for by perseverance aad practice, in Lord Byron's opinion, Sheridan became one of the best orators of his time. G-rattan, also, used to devote considerable preparation to the composition and delivery of his speeches. In his lodgings, it was his custom to address an imaginary " Mr. Speaker," much to the alarm of his landlady. But, if we go so far back as the period when Demosthenes lived, we find still greater examples of what may be achieved by courage, perseverance, and determination. In order to outstrip all rivalry, Demosthenes adopted the remarkable and unusual course of shaving one side of his head, and remaining three months together in a cave, so as not to be interrupted in his studies. '" Never, O all ye Grods," said he, " shall anyone surpass me." The mind must be in advance of the lips. This is a most important fact. A young man, especially, should never attempt to speak in public without having first well thought out the gist of his subject. There are three questions which should engage the attention of the student of public speaking, — 1. What shalll say? 2. How must I say it ? 3. When shall I conclude ? Some people bore you with the length of their address ; others, again, have not confidence to say enough. Adopt the happy medium, and know when to sit down. At first it will be necessary for you to have extended notes, or what may be termed the thread of your speech before you, and confidence and experience will help to clothe the ideas in suitable language. Make use of a pause to collect your PUBLIC SPEAKING. 23 thoughts, and to breathe rightly. At the commencement of public speaking, it may be found useful to write out a speech and commit it to memory ; but as this appears to be rather an artificial and laborious method, the student may prefer to have simply notes of the subject before him. In a very interesting letter which I received from our great orator the Right Hon. John Bright, he observes : — " I never write my speeches. Sometimes I make a few notes, when accuracy is demanded. Other writing is un- necessary." Demosthenes laid great stress upon delivery, " For," says Cicero, " if eloquence without this is nothing, then it must be allowed to^bear the principal sway in the practice of speaking." By this may be understood the embodiment of all the rules of Elocution, previously men- tioned, in one grand harmonious whole. The speeches of our public men from time to time give matter, and direction, and force, to the life and progress of the nation. The direct individual responsibility which a speech throws upon its author has a very great advantage over the Press, where all kinds of opinions are sheltered and hidden under some nam de plwme. There can be no more profound philosophy than that which teaches that the progress of opinion is in direct relation to the respon- sibility which can be concentrated upon each individual. The foundation of all good is in its utility, and public speaking must follow in the wake of all other great things, as it makes itself useful, and has in view some high and uplifting purpose. Whether it be in conversation, on the platform, or in the Parliament, the ability to speak and describe our aims and purposes, and our subject, with clearness, ease, and grace, wiU at all times be found a most valuable gift. 24 ELOCUTION. Preaching. The preacher appeals at once to the conscience and to the emotions. His mission is to instruct, to edify, to elevate. Not to preach at, but to preach to, the people. To exalt the truth, not only in'his teaching, but in his life. For the most eloquent sermon is that which is lived, not spoken. Let me ask the question, how do you preach ? Are you plain, earnest, exhorting, in your address ? Or is it merely, a conventional, philosophical essay, which may neither bd understood nor appreciated ? Many clergymen might be far more useful in their work did they rightly consider this point and act upon it. Preaching ought not to be a matter of form, but an intelligent exposition of the gnod and the true. This should be the end in view : " Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. " The preaching of the present day is too hum-drum and sentimental in style. More force, originality, and ideality are needed ; and a delivery which shall impress with its fervour, and yet its grace, and carry the matter home and lodge it in men's hearts. Frequently sermons are mpst indifferently read; whereas they may be preached, even from the written page: but unless this is well done, extempore preaching is far more likely to interest and please a congregation than written discourses. It is desir- able at first for the young clergyman to write his sermon, say for a period of three years ; but after that time he may safely endeavour, gradually, to dispense -with the manu- script. If this course be adopted, he will find that con- fidence and experience will ultimately insure success. As all true oratory springs from the emotions, and is the PREACHING AND READING. 25 language of the heart, so the work of the preacher can be increased in^ its usefulness, and magnified in its results, when the resources of the orator are called to lend their aid. " affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guUty man," It is not my province to speak of the composition of sermons, but I will say this, Do not make them too long. If your hearers say they could have listened for another half hour, it is a good sign. They were interested, and you probably finished at the right time. It is, of course, im- possible to please everybody, and the preacher who con- scientiously tries to do his duty, and does it well, and is true to himself, will be the one most successful. The Heading of the Lessons. The Lessons form a very important part of the Church service, and are therefore deserving of careful and skilful reading. This, however, is generally very indifEerently done. Too frequently I have perceived a want of reverence, feeling, and dignity. The Bible furnishes us with some beautiful chapters, which, when read with taste and care, cannot fail to impress us. The reading in all cases, should be :qfiarked by that light and shade of modulation of which I have spoken. The student will observe that fowr distinct styles may be adopted as follows : 1. The Early Books — descriptive. 2. Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the minor Prophets — de- clamatory. 3. The Four Gospels — -pathetic and descriptive. 4. The Epistles — argvmentative and addressive. 6. The Apocalypse — descriptive and pathetic. The reader should feel what he reads. Attention must 26 ELOCUTION. be given to time, emphasis, and tone. Never appear to be in a hurry ; this is irreverent. Pause when necessary, and keep the voice well up. CHAPTEE Vin. EECITATION. The reciter is the poet's executant. Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, and other great masters of the lyre have long since departed ; but they have left behind works of grand and lofty imagination, and in the cloistered stillness of the library they speak to us again.. It may be truly said of those great men of genius, that they wrote not for an age but for all time : and succeeding generations, as " they pass, and disappear, and are no more," will each appreciate these gems of living beauty at a higher rate. If, then, the reciter is the poet's executant, he must be deeply impressed not only with his work, but also with its results. He must on all occasions strive to interpret men of genius aright. No fickle fancy or vain conceit must tarnish his conception of the poet, but with all humility and in reverent admira- tion must he approach the shrine of the Beautiful. In reciting, it should be the aim of the student first, to make himself thoroughly acquainted with the subject of the piece, so as to give, as far as possible, a faithful de- lineation of the author's ideas. As the artist in the picture reproduces Nature to us in the light and shade of colour, so the speaker should follow . his example by being natural, thoughtful, and graceful in the delivery of his speech or poem. Avoiding all excess of declamatory power and all affectation ; he must endeavour RECITATION — SONG. 27 to impart an originality, based upon sound judgment, and a harmonious conception of the subject he has in hand. Take, for instance. Lord Byron's lines from "Childe Harold," on the " Field of Waterloo." Here we have all the emotions of the human heart portrayed. Love, joy, courage, hope, sorrow, despair, and gloom follow in' rapid succession. At the same time, care must be taken to avoid everything approaching exaggeration. I confess that the popular idea of the Elocutionist is of an individual bound to stereotyped phrases and mechanical action. But this is only the seeming, not the real truth. An Elocutionist is neither a machine nor a mere " spouter " of words. Having, as an artist, pursued his studies with diligence and thought, and mastered the technicalities of the system, he makes them part and parcel of his own nature. Let your eloquence have no ajopeoramce of me- chanical contrivance. Kemember you need the art which conceals art, and, being natural, you will naturally please. The reciter should keep before him the following rules : 1. A clear and harmonious conception of his subject. 2. A distinct and a/udible articulation. 3. A well-defined modulation. 4. Suitable action and gesture. 6. No man's double, but himself. 6. Stand stiU, breathe correctly, and speak out. The Elocution of Song. A good sonorous voice with vocal powers is Nature's own gift, and the only ground to form an accompUshed singer. In the cultivation of the voice, it should ever be borne in mind that the natural gift is only the raw material. Time and patience can alone render this fine and flexible. After a few lessons, when the germs of refinement are only just visible, some amateurs, in the spring time of their experi- 28 ELOCUTION. ence, make a false step by wisliing too soon for the fruits of success which the necessary labour in the field of patience can alone produce. M. Cousin has said that " Expression is the masterpiece of Art." A singer may try in vain to affect his hearers, if he does not evince himself the emotion he wished to impart to them. Sympathy is the chief medium by which the singer can communicate to others his emotions and feelings. The voice that does not reflect touching appeals to the afEections, whilst uttering musical tones, however brilliant the mechanism, must indeed seem cold, and fail to interest an audience. The principal feature of the Vocal art is a faithful pro- duction of the sentiment suggested in the poetry that accompanies the melody, which requires a certain amount of spontaneity, natural to the gifted artist. In the begin- ning of this century the Italians encouraged a new style of operatic vocalization, the attractions of which caused Italy to be the training school of most of our great vocalists. The Dramatic and Vocal arts have never been so hand-in- hand as at the present day. Eecitative, or vocal declamation as it may be termed, forms an important part of Oratorio and Opera. It is used both to give expression to the emotions, and to narrate the story. In the opening scene of Gounod's " Paust," there is a long recitative which brings to our knowledge the early incidents of the hero's life. In such places the singer must be careful to enunciate clearly, and to impart that true feeling which is the soul of song. Oratorio depends largely on Recitative. It is the narrative which describes and connects the thread of the story. Many will remember that most impressive recitative from Handel's " Jephtha," which our great tenor, Mr. Sims Beeves, has made his own : " Deeper — and deeper still, Thy goodness, child, pierceth a father's bleeding heart. And checks the cruel sentence THE DRAMATIC ART. 29 on his faltering tongue. For the ears of men it is too shock- ing. Tet have I not vow'd ; and can I think the great Jehovah sleeps, like Chemosh, and such/aftieci! deities ? Ah, no ! Heaven heard my prayers — and wrote them down. 'Tis this that racks my brain, and pours into my soul a thousand pangs, which are worse than madness. My only daughter — so dear a child — doomed by a father's hand to perish. I can no more ! " It will be seen that in Recitative attention must be given to delivery. Every word must be declaimed with its proper emphasis. Time and tone are, of course, also indispensable. Another important branch of Song is ballad singing. It may appear an easy task to sing a simple ballad, but how few, save the artist, can delight the soul with this plaintive ditty. The expression, charm and melody of song fill us with exquisite delight, when interpreted according to the rules of Art. CHAPTEE IX. THE DBAMATIC AET. Tfee Power of Imagination. The dramatist who is dead lives again in the actor who represents him. Centuries have come and gone, but the stage remains — a power to instruct, to elevate, and to amuse, as in days of old. Since the Greeks, ia their primitive efforts, sought to establish the Drama, time and progress alone have developed its vast resources. Much has been written and said against the stage ; for supersti- tion, bigotry and intolerance are always ready to assert their baneful authority. 30 ELOCUTION. True it is, that the eondition of the Drama at present is far from satisfactory. It has been said that " a theatre is a commercial speculation," and until the public manifest a desire to support plays of a higher class, this undesirable state of things must continue. In this case, the reformation must come from without, and. not from within. Why should we not have, as on the Continent, a state-aided theatre ? If people would only consider that the stage is the most powerful of all preachers, and when directed aright, a means calculated to promote the best interests of mankind, we might hope to see such an institution estab- lished. But so long as it is left to private capitalists alone to direct our theatres, this desired improvement cannot be effected. Men should go to see a play not merely for amusement, but also for instruction ; and then they would know that all the great lessons which can be held up to the mirror of nature, are the means to that end by which crime, and poverty, and misery, may eventually disappear behind the curtain of time. Many different views have been held by writers of dis- tinction on the Actor's Art. Indeed, it would take a long treatise or volume itself, to do anything like justice to so deep and important a subject. But the aim I have in view is to point out to the dramatic student, that acting, in its highest sense, is intuitive ; but that, like all art, it is cap- able of being improved and perfected by intense application and study. " To form a great actor," says Talma, " the union of sensibility and intelligence is required. The actor who possesses this double gift, adopts a course of study peculiar to himself. In the first place, by repeated exer- cises, he enters deeply into the emotion, and his speech acquires the accent proper to the situation of the personage he has to represent. This done, he goes to the theatre, not only to give theatrical effect to his studies, but also to yield himself to the spontaneous flashes of his sensibility, THE DRAMATIC ART. 31 and all the • emotions which it involuntarily produces in him." The education of the emotions is, therefore, a prominent part of the actor's preparatory training. He must feel deeply, but yet must control and limit that feel- ing to its right proportion. Take, for instance, the cha- racter of Shylbck. When he hears of Tubal's unsuccessful efforts to find Jessica, he is, deeply moved. It is a mani- festation of paternal love. He is overwhelmed at the flight of his only child with a Christian. It is but a moment that he weeps, for, when hearing of Antonio's downfall, almost in the same breath, his grief is turned into joy, and he clamours for revenge. Again, Macbeth, when informed of his wife's death, in piteous tones wails the brevity of life; but on hearing of Macduff's approach, cries out in furious anger — " Liar and slave ; if thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive. Till famine cling thee." These sudden changes from one emotion to another, are like flashes of lightning ; they come and go in a moment, but yet are carefully considered beforehand, and form the ligM and shade of expression. An actor must think deeply. Thought must always pre- cede speech. He must be careful that the portrait he represents is a true copy of the original, and harmonious throughout. An actor to be great, must be an impersonator. He must adapt himself to the requirements of his part. This implies change of voice, suitable facial expression, correctness of action and gesture, and perfect " make-up." I ^he fault with many actors of the past and the present was, and is, inattention to this most important point. While they had, and have, a correct conception of the character, they failed to impart to it a distinct indi/viduality. 32 ELOCUTION. The tones of the voice must be so varied, that they will correspond with the age and temperament of the person represented. I have tried the experiment of speaking in six different voices, and have found that it worked success- fully. For example, take the play of " Hamlet." Here you have Hamlet, Ghost, Claudius, Laertes, Polonius, and the First G-ravedigger, all totally distinct from each other. Would it do, for a moment, to have the same voice for all ? Certainly not ! The voice adopted must be suitable to the age and position of the character. It would never be con- sidered right to give the refined tones of Polonius to the Gravedigger, nor the youthful impetuous declamation of Laertes to the Ghost. The reason why this vocal flexibility is not exhibited, is because modulation as an art, is neither properly understood nor practised. The impassioned tones of Othello are not suited to the subtle sarcastic sneers of Shylock, nor does the gruff and burly laugh of Falstaff bear any resemblance to the thoughtful and melancholy sigh of Hamlet. Imagination is the basis upon which all acting is founded. Without it, there can be no true realization of any character. It directs and controls the emotions. It brings to life the ideal. It reveals the conception of art. It paints in the brightest tints the subtle and hidden features of genius. Whether it be Tragedy or Comedy, the character is created by the actor's imagination, and not through any other source. For example, let us take the part of Hamlet. No actor ever saw the original; and his conception of the character is just what his imagination suggests. It is not enough to believe there ever was a Hamlet ; the actor must produce a portrait at once life-like, noble, thoughtful, melancholy, revengeful, and heroic. He must be careful thafr his conception of the poet is based upon a true and subtil development of the imagination. The philosophy of acting brings to us the embodiment THE DRAMATIC ART. 33 of the ideal. The conception of the Beautiful is just what each one pictures to himself; and nothing can he true and realistic in its highest sense, without deep and continuous thought. The student must dwell upon this point. He can never hope to soar above mediocrity, unless he grasps with firm hands the subtil points of each character he represents. Edmund Kean must have been great in his imaginative faculty. His acting was transcendently grand, and though of small stature, he is said to have been majestic as " Othello." Genius glistened in his eye, and passion filled his soul with grandeur. Comedy and Tragedy. The question has been often asked, what is Comedy? I believe it to be the probable, while Farce or Extravaganza is the improbable. When you deal with probabilities, it is necessary to limit and confine your description to what is really a correct definition of them. Sheridan wrote some of the best comedies, and all his characters are so truth- , fully drawn, that they exist as much in society now as they did in his day. The cross old Sir Peter Teazle, the gay and hght-hearted Charles Surface, and the hypocritical Joseph are types of character that will always appear on the stage of life. When the actor impersonates these, he must be careful not to exaggerate, but to be natural in all he does. He is personifying probable characters, and must therefore " hold the mirror up to nature." While Farce and Bur- lesque admit of buffoonery, Comedy disdains any attempt that would ridicule or demean its position. Compton was an excellent type of a true comedian. His " Touchstone " was brimful of humour without any apparent effort. Phelpe was mirth-provoking as the " Bailie " in " Eob 34 ELOCUTION. Eoy," without introducing any ruigarity ; while Buckstone was delightfully funny as " Tony Lumpkin," and yet thoroughly natural throughout. Many other comedians hare not been so happy in their representations of comedy, and this because they did not draw the line which divides the probable from the improbable. Tragedy is the ancient form in which the Drama first appeared. With the early actors it was a kind of sacrifice, which entailed the performers being dressed ia goat skins. Since these primitive times, the Tragic drama has made very considerable progress. Shakespeare, by his transcendent genius, has done more than any other author to establish its success, and his plays are now, and ever will be, the masterpieces of Dramatic Art. ' The tragedian has a difficult role to play. His imagina- tion and sensibility are apt to carry him away into the dangerous path of extremes. He is tempted " to tear a passion to tatters — to very rags." In such predicament he often fails. As intelligence is the guiding star of the actor's career, he must let this direct his course on every occasion. Patience, steadfastness, and perseverance he must ever, keep before him as the sure foundations on which he can build a true and permanent celebrity. In the eloquent language of the great French actor, Coquelin, I close this chapter. — " Every artist in speaking of his art seems, in some degree, a special pleader. Of course, he only wishes to preach what he believes to be true, and that which he believes to be true is what he tries to do himself. I have said what the comedian shoidd be, but I am far from flattering myselE that I realize my ideal, and if I have alluded to myselE, it is only for the sake of illustrating more clearly my arguments. My wish is to enter into nothing but the characters I play. For, after all, that is the essential point, and it is with that I must end. Is not the greatest poet he who has managed to REMINISCENCES OF DISTINGUISHED ACTORS. 35 efface himself the most entirely, in -whose pages you find every kind of man, but never himself. ' It was thus with the father of poetry. Homer; it was thus with Shake- speare and with Moli^re : all are absent from their works, where humanity in its thousand and varied aspects lives eternally. " Herein standeth our honour, the honour of all us players, namely, in this, that these two men, its chief creators after Grod, were players like ourselves. Therefore should we study their works religiously and without ceasing, nor ever turn from them, save it be to pursue that eternal Comedy of Human nature." CHAPTEE X. EEMINISCENCES OF DISTINGUISHED ACTORS. Macebadt had retired from the stage before I saw the in- side of a theatre. The first great performance I witnessed was that of Charles Kean as " Hamlet." I must confess that I was somewhat disappointed. An over-preciseness of delivery, coupled with a conventional and stagey gait, scarcely realized to my mind the ideal Priuce of Denmark. The representation, however, was not without considerable merit. The house received him with much favour and respect, but one could not help thinking that it was because he was the son of the greatest actor the stage had ever known. I next saw Walter Montgomery as "Macbeth." He was a splendid elocutionist, and I must always feel in- debted to him for my first lessons in the Dramatic Art. 36 ELOCUTION. The " noble Thane " had a manly representative in Mont- gomexj. The first scene with the " weird sisters " was full of power. " Stay ye, imperfect speakers, tell me more " was given in such commanding tones, that it electrified the audience. But, although a most efficient actor, Montgomery could hardly be called an impersonator. This appears to have been a fault with many actors of the old school. I cannot easily forget Grustavus Vaughan Brooke. The play was "A New Way to Pay Old Debts." Sir Griles Overreach was a character exactly suited to the powers of this once famous actor. On that occasion Brooke was in good form, for, through a most unfortunate failing, he frequently was unable to remember his lines. The subtle villainy and fiendish purpose of the despicable " Over-- reach " seemed to expire in the terrible words — " Though ye were legions of accursed fiends, thus — would I fly among you. " Brooke soon afterwards sailed for Australia in the ill-fated " London," and it is well known how nobly he met his untimely death in the troubled waters of the Bay of Biscay. When I went up to London in 1865, Pechter was then drawing large audiences to the Lyceum. He was a capital melo-dramatic actor. In such plays as " The Duke's Motto," "Euy Bias," "Belphegor," "Eobert Macaire," and the " Corsican Brothers," he has never been surpassed. But from an intellectual point of view, his " Hamlet " was a failure. It was picturesque, but lacked thought. He failed to grasp the subtil points of Shakespeare's master- piece, and yet his noble and graceful bearing made him look every inch a prince. Just about this time Samuel Phelps was appearing at Drury Lane, then under the management of Palconer and DISTINGUISHED ACTORS. 3? Chatterton. I saw him in nearly every character he per- formed, and in some of these he was decidedly great. Phelps did much in his day and generation to uphold the Legitimate Drama. Few men, if any, have done more. For eighteen years he managed the Sadler's Wells Theatre with distinction, and during that period produced some of the finest plays in the English language. When I saw him at Drury Lane, he was then in the " sere and yellow leaf ; " yet in such parts as " King Lear " and " Shylock " he exhibited some of the old fire which distinguished his earlier performances. Among those who supported the eminent tragedian at this time, were James Anderson, Walter Montgomery, and Henry Marston. James Ander- son was great in " OtheUo." His fine voice, manly style, and dignified presence, were exactly suited to the Moor of Venice. In the third act he rose far above mediocrity,, and his final scene with Desdemona was indeed truly pathetic. In Mark Antony he was equally successful, and a nobler Eoman the stage has not seen since the days of John Philip Kemble. It was about this period I made the acquaintance of Mr. Edward Stirling, the veteran author and actor, then stage manager at Drury Lane, from whom I received most valuable instruction in Elocution and the Dramatic Art. I had the advantage of having my lessons on the stage, at " Old Drury," and was better able to reaUze the import- ance of speaking out, and modulating my voice to the requirements of a large theatre. The course of instruction embraced some of the leading characters of Shakespeare, including Othello, Macbeth, Cardinal Wolsey, and Hamlet. A year later, at the age of seventeen, I was playing sm.all parts at the " Olympic," then under the management of Mr. Horace Wigan. It was during this engagement I saw Charles Dickens superintend a rehearsal of the " Frozen Deep," a play written by his brother-ia-law, Mr. Wilkie 38 /'. ELOClTTIOir, Collins, the great novelist. The company was a very strong one, including Henry Neville, H. J. Montague, John Clayton, Addison, Dominick Murray, G-eorge Vincent, Miss Millie Palmer (Mrs. Bandmann), Miss Nellie Farren, Miss Lydia Poote, and Mrs. Stephens. It was also under this management that Mr. and Mrs. Charles Matthews appeared at the "Olympic," in some of their favourite pieces. Matthews was so easy and unaffected in his style, so very natural, that one could scarcely believe he was acting. One of his best characters was that of " Dazzle" in "London Assurance." As " Sir Charles Coldstream," too, in " Used Up," he was very popular, and I believe this was one of the last parts he played, a few days before his fatal illness at Manchester. Many diverse opinions have been expressed regarding the merits of this distinguished comedian. He was never so great as his father ; but there was a charm about his acting which made all his impersonations agreeable. As "Charles Surface" he was extremely happy, and I can even now recall the felicitous manner in which he delivered those memorable lines to " fiowley " — "While I have, by Heaven I'll give, so hang your economy, and away to old Stanley with the money." Barry Sullivan I have often seen in some of his best characters. His fine flexible voice and clear elocution were admirably suited to all the plays of Shakespeare. In " Richard HI." he was great, and as " Beverley," in " The Cramester,'' none has excelled him. I have given, very briefly, my reminiscences of the few distinguished actors it has been my privilege to have seen. The Stage has passed into another decade, and most prominent among those who have delighted modern theatre-goers is Henry Irving, who, by his transcendent ability and artistic taste, has done so much to uphold the interests of the higher Drama. Many of those I have DISTINGUISHED RECITERS. 39 mentioned, have now left tlie stage of this mortal life for that " bourne, from whence no traveller returns — " " Life's but a walking shadow, A poor player that struts and frets His hour upon the stage, and then — Is heard no more." Note. — The mention of the last distinguished name can hardly he allowed to pass without reference to the universal satisfaction caused by the honour of knighthood conferred upon Sir Henry Irving on the occasion of the Queen's Birthday, 1895 ; and the , gracious compliment thus paid to the profession he adorns. Other names also might occur to the playgoer as he reads the foregoing chapter. But the purpose of this book is Elocution, and it must be remembered that even distinguished actors are not always good reciters. An actor ought to be a good elocutionist, though that, unfortunately, is not invariably the case ; but it by no means follows that a good elocutionist is necessarily an actor. It would be invidious to name any of those now living in our midst, although several could be mentioned whose elocution is really good — artistic, clear, and natural. We wiU only refer to two great reciters who have passed away. The writer of this note well remembers hearing the late J. C. M. Bellew recite Tennyson's " May Queen," with other pieces, and also read the service and the lessons in church, in which last he was unsurpassable. He had a beautiful and well managed voice, and was deservedly popular. But as a reciter, the honoured name of Samuel Brandram, M.A., stands supreme above the many we have heard ; he was especially distinguished in Shakespeare. To a marvellous memory, which enabled him to retain many whole plays, he added a great power of distinguishing the different characters ; and, with all the art and refinements of perfect elocution and a pleasing voice, he pro- duced such a scholarly and efiective rendering of the works of our immortal poet-dramatist, as only a careful student and finished elocutionist could give. We have heard the same play recited by Brandram in the afternoon and performed by the Lyceum Company in the evening of the same day, and yet felt the comparison to be in favour of the former, C. R. T. SELECTIONS FOR PRACTICE IN READING AND RECITING. PROSE SELECTIONS. PEOSPEEITY AND ADYEESITY. FRANCIS, LOED BACON. The virtue of prosperity is temperance ; the virtue of adversity is fortitude, which in morals is the more heroical virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament ; . adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction and the clearer revelation of God's favour. Yet even in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as many hearselike airs as carols ; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more in de- scribing the afiSictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon. Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes ; and adversity is not without comforts and hopes. We see in needleworks and embroideries, it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground ; judge, therefore, of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly, virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant 44 PROSE SELECTIONS. where they are incensed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best dis- cover virtue. — {Essays, v.) VULGAEITY. PHILIP, EABL OF CHESTERFIELD. A VULGAR, ordinary way of thinking, acting, or speak- ing, implies a low education and a habit of low company. Young people contract it at school, or among servants, with whom they are too often used to converse ; but, after they frequent good company, they must want attention and observation very much, if they do not lay it quite aside ; and, indeed, if they do not, good company will be very apt to lay them aside. ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ Vulgarism in language is the next and distinguishing characteristic of bad company and a bad education. A man of fashion avoids nothing with more care than this. Proverbial expressions and trite sayings are the flowers of the rhetoric of a vulgar man. Would he say that men differ in their tastes ; he both supports and adorns that opinion by the good old saying, as he respectfully calls it, that " what is one man's meat is another man's poison ! " If anybody attempts being sma/rt, as he calls it, upon him, he gives them tit-for- tat, ay, that he does. He has always some favourite SHAW. 45 word for the time being ; which, for the sake of using often, he commonly abuses. Such as vastly angry, vastly kind, vastly handsome, and vastly ugly. Even his pronunciation of proper words carries the mark of the beast along with it. He calls the earth, yearth : he is oblieged, not obliged to you. He goes to wa/rds, and not towards such a place. He sometimes affects hard words, by way of ornament, which he always mangles. A man of fashion never has recourse to proverbs and vulgar aphorisms ; uses neither favourite words nor hard words ; but takes great care to speak very correctly and grammatically, and to pronounce properly ; that is, according to the usage of the best companies. THE OXFOED EEFOEMEES. TJNIVEESITY EXTENSION LECTURES BY W. H. SHAW. Emphatically, whatever may have been their faults, Colet and Erasmus and More were, for their genera- tion, the very salt of the earth. It has been claimed for John Colet, who died before the Eeformation had fully come to the birth,' that he was the founder of that rational Christianity which the Teutonic races have in the main accepted. He was also our English Savonarola, scarcely inferior to the great Dominican in courage and boldness, a preacher of righteousness 46 PROSE SELECTIONS. who did not flinch from denouncing the mad war- schemes of an ambitious king or from exposing the worldliness and corruption of the order to which he belonged, in his own manner of life pure and blame- less amid almost universal degradation. Erasmus was not only the most brilliant man of letters of his age, the recognized leader of the scholars of Europe, the Catholic who helped to make possible the success of Luther by his merciless denunciations of monks and clergy ; but he was also a man who, in spite of some lamentable failings, wins our admiration by his large-mindedness, by his single-hearted devotion' to learning, his scorn of low ambitions, his hatred of war and tyranny and cruelty, his genuine piety and love of goodness. As for Sir Thomas More, it is dif&cult to speak of him in words which will not seem to you strained and exaggerated. Against him History has one charge to bring, and only one. For the rest, it seems to many of us that his is absolutely the most perfect and lovable character in English annals, King Alfred's not excepted. A man of vast intellect and powers, yet of exquisite simplicity ; a despiser of pomp and luxury, yet devoted to culture and refine- ment ; courted by kings and princes, yet happy only in his home with his children ; the first thinker of modern times who yearned with passionate longing to ameliorate the lot of the toilers of the world ; More laid down his life at last cheerfully, and in the spirit of a hero and a martyr, for a cause which he judged to SHAW. 47 be just and right, and which was in truth the cause of English liberty. He was recognized then, and he is recognized now by all historians who are not blinded by religious passion, as the noblest Englishman of the sixteenth century. . . . There is not much difficulty in indicating the charac- teristics of this trio of Eeformers, and their relations to each other. Colet is primarily a preacher and theologian. Erasmus, once a monk, is essentially a scholar and man of letters. More, by profession a llbwyer and a statesman, is the original thinker and daring speculator, with gifts of genius far exceeding those of his two friends. We know least about Colet ; but it seems probable that Erasmus derived much of his theology frow him, and More many of his ideas on politics and society. Colet, though born in the same year as Erasmus (1466), is acknowledged by him as his master and teacher ; but the genius and intellectual power of More seem to have altogether neutralized his twelve years of inferiority in age. To mark the epoch it may be well to bear in mind that when Colet was born, the Wars of tlje Eoses were still distracting England, and that when he died, Luther was just about to break with Eome. . . . That part of Dean Colet's work for England which met with most immediate success, and was distinctively his own, as compared with results which were due to his disciples Erasmus and More, was his reform of education and the foundation of St. Paul's School in 48 PROSE SELECTIONS. London. ''In an age when schools in England were for the most part barbarous and cruel, antiquated ia method, devoted to barren and useless studies, he founded a great institution which became soon a veritable' home of the New Learning, supplied a model for the succeeding foundations of the Tudor epoch, produced John Milton in the seventeenth century, and at the present date sends out probably a greater num- ber of famous classical scholars than any other school in England. Colet was drawn to this work partly by his hatred of Scholasticism and his zeal for the Eevival of Letters, partly by his love of children. He lavished on St. Paul's property equivalent to £40,000 of our money, and watched over its welfare with unremitting care. He was, perhaps, even more anxious that his students should be good men than great scholars, and would cordially have accepted the saying of Euskin in our own time: "Education does not mean teaching people to know what they do noi know. It means teaching them to behave as they do not behave." " My intent by this school," he says in the statutes, " is specially to increase the knowledge and worship- ping of God and our Lord Christ Jesus, and good Christian life and manners in the children." The New Learning, however, held a predominant place in Colet's new scheme. Greek was taught at St. Paul's, greatly to the indignation of Bishop Pitzjames and other advocates of the studies that were passing away, who denounced Colet's school as a dangerous and SHAW. 49 heretical institution. ' -f he best men of the Eevival, on the other hand, aided him in his work. The first high-master of the school was William Lilly, a brilliant scholar, the companion of More, who had travelled in Greece, and had shared with Grocyn and Linacre the honour of being first to bring back to England knowledge of the Greek language. Erasmus himself wrote grammars and text-books for Colet's students. Both he and More were quick ,, to see the importance of the new departure, and it was indeed a movement of far-reaching consequences. " The gram- mar-schools of Edward the Sixth and of Eliz^b^th," says J. E. Green, " in a word, the system of middle- class educp,tion which by the close of the century had changed the very face of England, were the direct results of Colet's foundation of St. Paul's." As for the spirit in which he entered upon his work, the best illustration of it is to be found in the preface to the Accidence which he wrote for his scholars, which re- mains as a testimony to the gentle, tender nature of one who has been called "the first of Puritans," who, with all his severity, "took a delight," as Erasmus says, " in the purity and simplicity of nature that is in children." Thus he wrote : " I pray God all may be to His honour, and to the erudition and profit of children, my countrymen Lon- doners specially, whom digesting this little work I had alway before mine eyes, considering more what was for them, than to show any great cunning, willing so PKOSE SELECTIONS. to Bpeak the things often before spoken, in such manner as gladly young beginners and tender wits might take and conceive. Wherefore I pray you, all little babes, all little children, learn gladly this little treatise, and commend it diligently unto your memories, trusting of this beginning that ye shall proceed and grow to per- fect literature, and come at the last to be great clerks. And lift up your little white hands for me, which prayeth for you to God ; to Whom be all honour, and imperial majesty and glory. Amen." {By kind permission of the author.) EELIGIOUS TOLEEATION IN UTOPIA. SIB THOMAS MOBE. This is one of the ancientest laws among them : that no man shall be blamed for reasoning in the main- tenance of his own religion. For King Utopus, even at the first beginning, hearing that the inhabitants of the land were, before his coming thither, at continual dissension and strife among themselves for their religions, first of all made a decree that it should be lawful for every man to favour and follow what religion he would, and that he might do the best he could to bring others to his opinion, so that he did it peaceably, gently, quietly, and soberly, without hasty and con- tentious rebuking and inveighing against other. If he could not by fair and gentle speech induce them into. MILTON. 51 his opinion, yet he should use no kind of violence, and refrain from displeasant and seditious words. . . . Therefore he gave to every man free liherty and choice to believe what he would, saving that he earnestly charged them that no man should conceive so vile and base an opinion of the dignity of man's nature, as to think that the souls do die and perish with the bodies. AET AND NATURE IN ELOQUENCE. MILTON. Fob doubtless and indeed according to Art is most eloquent which returns and approaches nearest to Nature from whence it came ; and they express Nature best who in their lives least wander from her safe lead- ing, which may be called regenerate reason. So that how he should be truly eloquent who is not withal a good man, I see not. True eloquence I find to be none but the serious and hearty love of truth. And whose mind soever is fully possessed with a fervent desire to know good things, and with the dearest charity to infuse the knowledge of them into others, when such a man would speak, his words (by what I can express), like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command, and in well-ordered files, as he would wish, fall aptly into their own places. — Apology for Smectymnims. 52 PROSE SELECTIONS. IMPORTANCE OF THE CLERICAL OFFICE. MILTON. There is no employment more honourable, more worthy to take up a great spirit, more requiring a generous and free nurture, than to be the messenger and herald of heavenly truth from God to man ; and by the faithful work of holy doctrine to procreate a number of faithful men, making a kind of creation like to God's, by infusing his spirit and likeness into them, to their salvation, as Go4 did into him ; arising to what climate soever he turn him, like that Sun of righteousness that sent him, with healing in his wings and new light to break in upon the chill and gloomy hearts of his hearers, raising out of darksome barren- ness a delicious and fragrant spring of saving know- ledge and good works. ***** Let us all go and render thanks to God, the Father of light and Fountain of heavenly grace, and to His Son, Christ our Lord ; and let us recount even here, without delay, the patience and long-suffering that God hath used towards our blindness and hardness, time after time. For He, being equally near to His whole creation of mankind, and of free power to turn MILTON. 63 His benefick and fatherly regard to what region or kingdom He pleases, hath yet ever had, this Island under the special indulgent eye of His Providence; and pitying us the first of all other nations, after He had decreed to purify and renew His Church that lay wal- lowing in idolatrous pollutions, sent first to us a Heal- ing Messenger, to touch softly our sores and carry a gentle hand over our wounds. He knocked once and twice, and came again, opening our drowsy eyelids leisurely by that glimmering light which Wickliffe and his followers dispersed ; and still taking off by degrees the inveterate scales from our nigh-perished sight, purged also our deaf ears, and prepared them to attend His second warning trumpet in our grandsires' days. if we freeze at noon, after their early thaw, let us fear lest the Sun for ever hide' Himself, and turn His orient steps from our grateful Horizon justly con- demned to be eternally benighted. Which dreadful judgment, Thou the Ever-begotten Light and Perfect Image of the Father, intercede may never come upon - us, as we trust Thou hast. Who is there that cannot trace Thee now in Thy beamy walks through the midst of Thy sanctuary, amidst those golden candlesticks, which have long suffered a dimness amongst us through the violence of those that had seized them, and were more taken with the mention of their gold than of their starry light? Come therefore, Thou that hast the seven 54 PROSE SELECTIONS. stars in Thy right hand, appoint Thy chosen Priests, according to their orders and courses of old, to minister before Thee, and duly to dress and pour out the consecrated oil into Thy holy and ever-burning lamps. Thou hast sent out the Spirit of prayer upon Thy servants, over all the land, to this effect, and stirred up their vows, as the sound of many ■waters, about Thy throne. Every one can say that now cer- tainly Thou hast visited this land, and hast not for- gotten the utmost corners of the earth, in a time when men had thought that Thou wast gone up from us to the farthest end of the Heavens, and hadst left to do marvellously among the sons of these last ages. perfect and accomplish Thy glorious acts : for men may leave their works unfinished, but Thou art a God, Thy nature is perfection ! Shouldst Thou bring us thus far onward from Egypt to destroy us in this wilder- ness, though we deserve, yet Thy great Name would suffer in the rejoicing of Thine enemies and the deluded hope of all Thy servants. When Thou hast settled peace in the Church, and righteous judgment in the kingdom, then shall all Thy saints address their voices of joy and triumph to Thee, standing on the shore of that Eed Sea into which our enemies had , almost driven us. And he that now for haste snatches up a plain ungarnished present as a thank-offering, to . Thee, which could not be deferred in regard of Thy so many late deliverances wrought for us one upon another, may then perhaps take up a harp and sing STERNE. 55 Thee an elaborate song to generations- In that day it shall no more be said in scorn, this or that was never held so till this present age, when men have better learned that the times and seasons pass along under Thy feet, to go and come at Thy bidding : and as Thou didst dignify our fathers' days with many revelations above all the foregoing ages since Thou tookest this flesh, so Thou canst vouchsafe to us (though unworthy) as large a portion of Thy Spirit as Thou pleasest : for who shall prejudice Thy all-governing will? — seeing the power of Thy grace is not past away with the primitive times, as fond and faithless men imagine ; but Thy kingdom is now at hand, and Thou standing ' at Thy door. Come forth out of Thy royal chambers, Prince of all the kings of the earth, put on the visible robes of Thy imperial majesty, take up that unlimited sceptre which Thy Almighty Father hath bequeathed Thee — for now the voice of Thy Bride calls Thee, and all creatures sigh to be renewed ! — Animad- versions wpon the Remonstrant's Defence. THE PUESUIT OF HAPPINESS. LAVBENOE STEBNE. The great pursuit of man is Happiness: it is the first and strongest desire of his nature; in every stage of life he searches for it as for hidden treasure ; 56 PROSK SELECTIONS. courts it under a thousand different shapes, and, though perpetually disappointed, still persists ,■ runs after and inquires for it afresh ; asks every passenger that comes in his way, " Who will show me any good ? who will assist me in the attainment of it ? or direct me to the discovery of this great end of all my wishes?" He is told by one to search for it among the more gay and youthful pleasures of life, in scenes of mirth and sprightliness, where Happiness ever presides, and is ever to be known by the joy and laughter painted in her looks. A second, with graver aspect, points to the costly dwellings which Pride and Extravagance have erected ; tells the inquirer that the object he is in search of inhabits there ; that Happiness lives only in company with the great, in the midst of much pomp and out- ward state; that he will easily find her out by the coat of many colours she has on, and the great luxury and expense of equipage and furniture with which she always sits surrounded. The Miser blesses God ! — wonders how anyone would mislead, and wilfully put him upon so wrong a scent — convinces him that Happiness and Extrava- gance never inhabited under the same roof; that, if he would not be disappointed in his search, he must look into the plain and thrifty dwellings of the prudent man, who knows and understands the worth of money, and cautiously lays it up against an evil hour ; that STERNE. 67 it is not the prostitution of wealth upon the passions, or the parting with it at all, that constituted happiness ; —but that it is the keeping it together, and the having and holding it fast to him and his heirs for ever, which are the chief attributes that form this great idol of human worship, to which so much incense is offered up every day. The Epicure, though he easily rectifies so gross a mistake, yet, at the same time, plunges him, if possible, into a greater : for, hearing the object of his pursuit to be Happiness, and knowing of no other happiness than what is seated immediately in the senses — he sends the inquirer there ; tells him 'tis vain to search else- where for it, than where Nature herself has placed it — in the indulgence and gratification of the appetites which are given us for that end ; and, in a word — if he will not take his opinion on the matter — he may trust the word of a much wiser man, who has assured us, that there is nothing better in this world than that a man should eat, and drink, and rejoice in his works, and make his soul enjoy good in his labour ; for that is his portion. To rescue him from this brutal experiment. Ambition takes him by the hand, and carries him into the world — shows him all the kingdoms of the earth, and the glory of them-^points out the many ways of advancing his fortune, and raising himself to honour — lays before his eyes all the charms and bewitching temptations of power — and asks, if there can be any happiness in 58 PROSE SELECTIONS. this world like that of being caressed, courted, flattered, and followed ? To close all, the Philosopher meets him bustling in the full career of his pursuit — stops him, — tells him, if he is in search of Happiness, he is gone far out of his way ; that this deity has long been banished from noise and tumults, where there was no rest found for her, and was fled into solitude, far from all commerce of the world; and, in a word, if he would find her, he must leave this busy and intriguing scene, and go back to the peaceful scene of retirement and of books. In this circle too often does a man run, — tries all experiments, and, generally, sits down wearied and dissatisfied with them all, in utter despair of ever accomplishing what he wants: not knowing what to trust after so many disappointments, nor where to lay the fault — whether in the incapacity of his own nature, or the insufficiency of the enjoyments them-^ selves. JOHN HOWARD, THE PHHiANTHROPIST. ESSAYS FEOM " THE TIMES." Conceive a Puritan of the sternest days of Cromwell, dressed in the simple and austere garb of his order, armed resolutely for battle, resolved upon victory, and fighting less for personal triumph than for the glory "THE TIMES." 59 of God. You have then a picture of John Howard. But remember that the weapons are not of steel, and that the glory by no means consists in the shedding of blood. Howard assailed inhumanity as the Eoundhead battled against Eoyalty ; in either case it was war to the last extremity, and the prosecution of work in the spirit of a divinely appointed missionary. The name of John Howard stands in England for perfect benevolence. When the public instructor, speaking either from the pulpit or through the press, desires to personify the purest sympathy for human suffering, that name at once occurs to him ; but it would be a great mistake to attach the idea of feminine soft-heartedness to efforts as vigorous, as deliberate, and as masculine as ever characterized the movements of intellectual man. The life of Howard is sublime, simply because it presents physical weakness over- coming mountains in the pursuit of an end recom- mended by duty. It is difficult to gather from all that remains to us of Howard's unparalleled career that he was either susceptible by nature or romantic from education and early habit. Poetry had never beguiled him, and fancy slumbered in his mind. Measure him by the vulgar standard, and all the elements of heroism are missing in his composition. Judge him in his own peculiar light, and you may search the annals of heroism in vain for one more illustrious than he. {By kind permission of Mr. John Murray.) 60 PROSE SELECTIONS. THE FATE OF BUENS. THOMAS CAELYIiE. We do not think that the blame of Burns' s failure lies chiefly with the world. The world, it seems to us, treated him with more, rather than with less kindness than it usually shows to such men. It has ever, we fear, shown but small favour to its teachers : hunger and nakedness, perils and reviling, the prison, the poison chalice, the Cross, have, in most times and countries, been the market-price it has offered for wisdom — the welcome with which it has treated those who have come to enlighten and purify it. Homer and Socrates, and the Christian Apostles, belong to old days ; but the world's martyrology was not completed with these. So neglected, so "persecuted they the prophets," not in Judea only, but in all places where men have been. We reckon that every poet of Burns's order is, or should be', a prophet and teacher to his age ; that he has no right to expect kindness, but rather is bound to do it ; that Burns, in particular, experienced fully the usual proportion of goodness ; and that the blame of his failure, as we have said, lies not chiefly with the world. Where then does it lie ? We are forced to answer, WITH HIMSELF : it is his inward, not his outward mis- fortunes, that bring him to the dust. Seldom, indeed, is it otherwise : seldom is a life morally wrecked, but SIR HENRY IRVING. 61 the grand cause lies in some internal mal-arrangement — some want, less of good fortune than of good guidance. Nature fashions no creature without im- planting in it the strength needful for its action and duration ; least of all does she neglect her master- piece and darling — the poetic soul ! Neither can we believe that it is in the power of any external circum- stances utterly to ruin the mind of a man ; nay — if proper wisdom be given him — even so much as to affect its essential health and beauty. The sternest sum-total of all worldly misfortunes is Death ; nothing more can lie in the cup of human woe : yet many men, in all ages, have triumphed over death, and led it captive ; converting its physical victory into a moral victory for themselves — into a seal and immortal con- secration for all that their past life had achieved. What has been done may be done again ; nay, it is but the degree, and not the kind, of heroism, that differs in different seasons : for, without some portion of this spirit, not of boisterous daring, but of silent fearless- ness — of SELF-DENIAL in all its forms, no great man, in any scene or time, has ever attained to be good. DAVID GAEEICK. SIR HENRY IRVING. Consternation reigned in the home at Lichfield when the news arrived that brother David had become a play- 62 PROSE SELECTIONS. actor, but ultimately the family were reconciled to such degradation by the substantial results of the experiment. Such reconcilements are not uncommon. Some young man of good birth and position has taken to the stage. His family, who could not afford to keep him, have been shocked, and in pious horror have cast him out of their respectable circle ; but at last success has come, and they have managed to overcome their scruples and prejudices, and to profit by the harvest which the actot has reaped. Garrick seems to have continued playing under the name of Lydall for two months, though the secret must have been an open one. It was not till December 2, the night of his benefit, that he was at last announced under his own name ; and henceforward his career was 6ne long triumph, chequered, indeed, by disagreements} quarrels, and heart-burnings (for Garrick was ex- tremely sensitive) caused, for the most part, by the envy and jealousy which invariably dog the heels of success. Second-rate actors, like Theophilus Gibber, or gnats such as Murphy and others, easily stung him. He was lampooned as " The Sick Monkey " on his return to the stage after having taken a much-needed rest. But discretion and audacity seldom go hand-in-hand, and the self-satisfied satiriser generally overshoots the mark. Garrick was ever ready with a reply to his assailants: when Dr. Hill attacked his pronunciation,' saying that he pronounced his " i's " as if they were " u's," Garrick answered — SIR HENRY IRVING. 63 " If 'tis true, as you say, that I've injured a letter, I'll change my note soon, and I hope for tl^e better. May the just right of letters as well as of men. Hereafter be fixed by the tongue and the pen.^ Most devoutly I wish that they both have their due, And that I may be never mistaken for U." Comparing Garrick with Betterton, it must be re- membered that the former was more exposed to the attacks of envy from the very universality of his success. Never was a man in any profession, perhaps, that combined so many various qualities. A fair poet, a most fluent correspondent, an admirable conversa- tionalist, possessing a person of' singular grace, a voice of marvellous expressiveness, and a disposition so mercurial and-vivacious as is rarely found in any Englishman, he was destined to be a great social as well as a great artistic success. He loved the society of men of birth and fashion ; he seems to have had a more passionate desire to please in private even than in public, and almost to have justified the often quoted couplet in Goldsmith's " Eetaliation " : " On the stage he was natural, simple, affectiag, 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting." 64 PROSE SELECTIONS. ENGLAND IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTUEY. LORD MACAULAY. The sources of the noblest rivers, which spread fertility over continents, and bear richly laden fleets to the sea, are to be sought in wild and barren mountain tracts, incorrectly laid down in maps, and rarely explored by travellers. To such a tract the history of our country during the thirteenth century may not unaptly be compared. Sterile and obscure as is that portion of our annals, it is there that we must seek for the origin of our freedom, our prosperity and our glory. Then it was that the great English people Were formed, that the national character began to exhibit those peculiarities which it has ever since retained, and that our fathers became emphatically islanders — islanders not merely in geographical posi- tion, but in their politics, their feelings, and their manners. Then first appeared with distinctness that constitution which has ever since, through all changes, preserved its identity ; that constitution of which all other constitutions in the world are copies, and which, in spite of some defects, deserves to be regarded as the best under which any great society has ever yet existed during many ages. Then it was that the House of Commons, the archetype of all the repre- sentative assemblies which now meet, either in the MACAUIAT. 65 old or in the new world, held its first sittings. Then it was that the common law rose to the dignity of a science, and rapidly became a not unworthy rival of the imperial jurisprudence. Then it was that the courage of those sailors who manned the rude barks of the Cinque Ports first made the flag of England terrible on the seas. Then it was that the most ancient colleges which still exist at both the great national seats of learning were founded. Then was formed that language, less musical indeed than the languages of the south, but in force, in richness, in aptitude for all the highest purposes of the poet, the philosopher, and the orator, inferior to the tongue of Greece alone. Then, too, appeared the first faint dawn of that noble literature, the most splendid and the most durable of the many glories of England. ME. GLADSTONE. LOED MACAXILAT. We are much pleased, without any reference to the soundness or unsoundness of Mr. Gladstone's theories, to see a grave and elaborate treatise on an important part of the Philosophy of Government proceed from the pen of a young man who is rising to eminence in the House of Commons. There is little danger that people engaged in the conflicts of active life will be too 66 PEOSE SELECTIONS. much addicted to general speculation. The opposite vice is that which most easily besets them. The times and tides of business and debate tarry for no man. A politician must often talk and act before he has thought and read. He may be very ill-informed respecting a question ; all his notions about it may be vague and inaccurate ; but speak he must ; and if he is a man of ability, of tact, and of intrepidity, he soon finds that, even under such circumstances, it is pos- sible to speak successfully. He finds that there is a great difference between the effect of written words, which are perused and re-perused in the stillness of the closet, and the effect of spoken words whiehj set off by the graces of utterance and gesture, vibrate for a single moment on the ear. He finds that he may blunder without much chance of being detected, that he may reason sophistically and escape unrefuted. He finds that, even on knotty questions of trade and legislation, he can, without reading ten pages or think- ing ten minutes, draw forth loud plaudits, and sit down with the credit of having made an excellent speech. Lysias, says Plutarch, wrote a defence for a man who was to be tried before one of the Athenian tribunals. Long before the defendant had learned the speech by heart he became so much dissatisfied with it that he went in great distress to the author. " I was delighted with your speech the first time I read it, but I liked it less the second time, and still less the third time, and now it seems to me to be no defence at MACAT7LAT. 67 all." " My good friend," said Lysias, " you quite for- get that the judges are to hear it only once." The case is the same in the English Parliament. It would be as idle in an orator to waste deep meditation and long research on his speeches as it would be in the manager of a theatre to adorn all the crowd of courtiers and ladies who cross over the stage in a pro- cession with real pearls and diamonds. It is not by accuracy or profundity that men become the masters of great assemblies. And why be at the charge of pro- viding logic of the best quality when a very inferior article will be equally acceptable ? Why go as deep into a question as Burke, only in order to be, like Burke, coughed down, or left speaking to green benches and red hexes ? This has long appeared to us to be the most serious of the evils which are to be set off against the many blessings of popular government. It is a fine and true saying of Bacon, that reading makes a full man, talking a ready man, and writing an exact man. The tendency of institutions like those of England is to encourage readiness in public men, at the expense both of fulness and of exactness. The keenest and most vigorous minds of every generation, minds often admirably fitted for the investigation of truth, are habitually employed in producing arguments such as no man of sense would ever put into a treatise intended for publication, arguments which are just good enough to be used once, when aided by fluent delivery and pointed language. The habit of discuss- 68 PKOSE SELECTIONS. ing questions in this way necessarily reacts on the intellects of our ablest men, particularly of those who are introduced into Parliament at a very early age before their minds have expanded to full maturity.', The talent for debate is developed in such men to a degree which, to the multitude, seems as marvellous as the performance of an Italian improvisatore. But they are fortunate indeed if they retain unimpaired the faculties which are required for close reasoning or for enlarged speculation. Indeed we should sooner expect a great original work on political science, such a work, for example, as " The Wealth of Nations," from an apothecary in a country town, or from a minister in the Hebrides, than from a statesman who, ever since he was one-and-twenty, had been a distin- guished debater in the House of Commons. * * * Mr. Gladstone seems to us to be, in many respects, exceedingly well qualified for philosophical investiga- tion. His mind is of large grasp ; nor is he deficient in dialectical skill. But he does not give his intellect fair play. There is no want of light, but a great want of what Bacon would have called dry light. What- ever Mr. Gladstone sees is refracted and distorted by a false medium of passions and prejudices. His stylS' bears a remarkable analogy to his mode of thinking, and indeed exercises great influence on his mode of thinking. His rhetoric, though often good of its kind, darkens and perplexes the logic which it should illils- trate. Half his acuteness and diligence, with a barren MACATJLAY. 69 imagination and a scanty vocabulary, would have saved him from almost all his mistakes. He has one gift most dangerous to a speculator, a vast command of a kind of language, grave and majestic, but of vague and uncertain import When propositions have been established, and nothing remains but to amplify and decorate them, this dim magnificence may be in place. But if it is admitted into a demonstration it is very much worse than absolute nonsense; just as that transparent haze, through which the sailor sees capes and mountains of false sizes and in false bearings, is more dangerous than utter darkness. Now, Mr. Glad- stone is fond of employing the phraseology of which we speak in those parts of his work which require the utmost perspicuity and precision of' which human lan- guage is capable; and in this way he deludes first him- self, and then his readers. The foundations of his theory, which ought to be buttresses of adamant, are made out of the flimsy materials which are fit only for perorations. This fault is one which no subsequent care or industry can correct. The more strictly Mr. Gladstone reasons on his premises, the more absurd are the conclusions which he brings out ; and, when at last his good sense and good nature recoil from the horrible practical inferences to which his theory leads, he is reduced sometimes to take refuge in arguments inconsistent with his fundamental doctrines, and some- times to escape from the legitimate consequences of his false principles under cover of equally false history. 70 PROSE SELECTIONS, THE SLAVEEY OP MODERN WOEKMEN. JOHN ETJSKIN. It is verily this degradation of the operative into a machine, which, more than any other evil of the times, is leading the mass of the nations everywhere into vain, incoherent, destructive struggling for a freedom of which they cannot explain the nature to them- selves. Their universal outcry against wealth, and against nobility, is not forced from them either by the pressure of famine, or the sting of mortified pride. These do much, and have done much in all ages ; but the foundations of society were never yet shaken as they are at this day. It is not that men are ill-fed, but that they have no pleasure in the work by which they make their bread, and therefore look to wealth as the only means of pleasure. It is not that men are pained by the scorn of the upper classes, but they cannot endure their own ; for they feel that the kind of labour to which they are condemned is verily a degrading one, and makes them less than men. Never had the upper classes so much sympathy with the lower, or charity for them, as they have at this day, and yet never were they so much hated by them : for, of old, the separation between the noble and the poor was merely a wall built by law ; now it is a veritable BtJSKIN. 71 difference in level of standing, a precipice between upper and lower grounds in the field of humanity, and there is pestilential air at the bottom of it. I know not if a day is ever to come when the nature of right freedom wUl be understood, and when men will see that to obey another man, to labour for him, yield rever- ence to him or to his place, is not slavery. It is often the best kind of liberty — liberty from care. The man who says to one. Go, and he goeth, and to another, Gome, and he cometh, has, in most cases, more sense of restraint and difficulty than the man who obeys him. The movements of one are hindered by the burden on his shoulder ; of the other, by the bridle on his lips : there is no way by which the burden may be lightened ; but we need not suffer from the bridle if we do not champ at it. To yield reverence to another, to hold ourselves and our lives at his disposal, is not slavery ; often it is the noblest state in which a man can live in this world. There is, indeed, a reverence which is servile, that is to say, irrational or selfish : but there is also noble reverence, that is to say, reasonable and loving ; and a man is never so noble as when he is reverent in this kind ; nay, even if the feeling pass the bounds of mere reason, so that it be loving, a man is raised by it. Which had, in reality, most of the serf nature in him, the Irish peasant who was lying in wait yesterday for his land- lord, with his musket-muzzle thrust through the ragged hedge ; or that old mountain servant, who. 72 PROSE SELECTIONS. two hundred years ago, at Inverkeithing, gave up his own life and the lives of his seven sons for his chief ? — as each fell calling forth his brother to the death, "Another for Hector ! " And therefore, in all ages and all countries, reverence has been paid and sacri- fice made by men to each other, not only without complaint, but rejoicingly; and famine, and peril, and sword, and all evil, and all shame, have been borne willingly in the causes of masters and kings ; for all these gifts of the heart ennobled the men who gave, not less than the men who received them,- and nature prompted, and God rewarded the sacrifice. But to feel their souls withering within them, un- thanked ; to find their whole being sunk into an unrecognised abyss ;^ to be counted off into a heap of mechanism, numbered with its wheels, and weighed with its hammer-strokes ; this nature bade not,— this God blesses not, — this humanity for no long time is able to endure. We have much studied and much perfected, of late^ the great civilised invention of the division of labour; only we give it a false name. It is not, truly speak- ing, the labour that is divided ; but the men : — Divided^ into mere segments of men — broken into small frag- ments and crumbs of life; so that all the little piece of intelligence that is left in a man is not enough to make a pin, or a nail, but exhausts itself in making the point of a pin, or the head of a nail. Now it is a good and desirable thing, truly, to make many pins in a day ; but if we could only see with what crystal sand their points were polished, — sand of a human soul, much to be magnified before it can be discerned for what it is, — we should think there might be some loss in it also. And the great cry that rises from all our manufacturing cities, louder than their furnace blast, is all in very < deed for this, — that we manufacture everything there except men ; we blanch cotton, and strengthen steel, and refine sugar, and shape pottery ; but to brighten, to strengthen, to refine, or to form a 74 PHOSE SELECTIONS. ENGLAND AND THE COLONIES. J. A. PBOUDB. The Colonists were part of ourselves. They settled in their new homes under the English flag, and were occupied in enlarging the area of English soil. They were British subjects, and between subject and govern- ment there are reciprocal obligations, which only violence or injustice on one side or the other can abrogate. They had emigrated in confidence that they were parting with no rights which attached to them at home, and those rights ought not to be taken from them without their own consent. But there is a graver question: whether the con- dition to which it was proposed to reduce our own country was really so happy a one as the modern school of statesmen conceived. An England of brick lanes and chimneys ; an England sounding with the roar of engines and the tinkle of the factory-bell, with artificial recreation-grounds, and a rare holiday in what remained of wood and meadow, for those who without it would never see a wild flower blowing, or look on an unpolluted river ; where children could not learn to play save in alley or asphalted court ; where the whole of the life of the immense majority of its in- habitants from infancy to the grave would be a dreary -^ routine of soulless, mechanical labour — such an FROUDE. 75 England as this would not be described by any future poet as " A precious gem set in the silver sea." Still less would the race hereafter to grow there maintain either the strength of limb or the energy of heart which raised their fathers to the lofty eminence which they achieved and bequeathed. Horace described the Eomans of his day as " inferior to sires who were in turn inferior to theirs," and as " likely to leave an off- spring more degraded than themselves." And it was true that the citizens of the Eoman Empire were thus degenerate, and that the progress which we speak of as continuous may be, and sometimes is, a progress downhill. It is simply impossible that the English men and women of the future generations can equal or approach the famous race that has overspread the globe, if they are to be bred in towns such as Bir- mingham and Glasgow now are, and to rear their families under the conditions which now prevail in those places. Morally and physically they must and will decline. Even the work so much boasted of is degrading on the terms on which it is carried on. What kind of nation will that be which has constituted its entire people into the mechanical drudges of the happier part of mankind, forced by the whip of hunger to be eternally manufacturing shirts and coats which others are to wear, and tools and engines which others are to use ? This is no life for beings with human souls in them. You may call such a nation free. It would be a nation of voluntary bondsmen in a service from which ?6 PROSE SELECTIONS. hope is shut out. Neither the toilers who Submit to such a destiny while a better prospect is open, nor the employers who grow rich upon their labour, can ever rise to greatness, or preserve a greatness which they have inherited. The American colonies were lost by the ill-handling of the patricians. The representatives of the middle-classes would have shaken off, if they had been allowed, Australia and New Zealand and the Canadas. The power is now with the democracy, and it remains to be seen whether the democracy is wiser than those whom it has supplanted, and whether it will exert itself to save, for the millions of whom it consists, those splendid territories where there is soil fertile as in the old home, and air and sunshine and the possibilities of human homes for ten times our present numbers. If the opportunity is allowed to pass from us unused, England may renounce for ever her ancient aspirations. The oak tree in park or forest whose branches are left to it will stand for a thousand years ; let the branches be lopped away or torn from it by the wind, it rots at the heart and becomes a pollard in- teresting only from the comparison of what it once was with what fate or violence has made it. So it is with nations. The life of a nation, like the life of a tree, is in its extremities. The leaves are the lungs through which the tree breathes, and the feeders which gather its nutriment out of the atmosphere. A mere manu- facturing England, standing stripped and bare in the world's market-place, and caring only to make wares FROUDE. *1^ for the world to buy, is already in the pollard stage ; the glory of it is gone for ever. The anti-colonial policy was probably but a passing dream from which facts are awakening us. Other nations are supplying their own necessities, and are treading fast upon our heels. There is already a doubt whether we can hold for any long time our ignoble supremacy, and happily the colonies are not yet lost to us. But the holding the Empire together is of a moment to us w}iich can- not be measured. Our material interests, rightly judged, are as deeply concerned as our moral interests, and there lies before us, if the union be once placed beyond uncertainty, a career which may eclipse even our past lustre. * * * * ' All of us are united at present by the in- visible bonds of relationship and of affection for our common country, for our common sovereign, and for our joint spiritual inheritance. These links are growing, and if let alone will continue to grow, and the free fibres will of themselves become a rope of steel. A federation contrived by politicians would snap at the first strain. We must wait while the colonies are contented to wait. They are supposed to be the sufferers by the present loose relations. They are exposed to attack, should war break out, while they have no voice in the policy which may have led to the war. It would seem from the example of New South Wales that, whether they have a voice or not, they are eager to stand by us in our trials. So long 78 PROSE SELECTIONS. as they do not complain, we may spare our anxieties on their account and need not anticipate an alienation of which no signs have appeared. If they feel aggrieved they wUl suggest a remedy. They know, or will know, their own wishes ; and when they let us understand what those wishes are, we can consider them on their own merits. Meanwhile, and within the limits of the existing constitution, we can accept their overtures, if they make such overtures, for a single undivided fleet. We can give them back the old and glorious flag ; we can bestow our public honours (not restricting ourselves to the colonial St. Michael and St. George) on all who deserve them, without respect of birthplace ; we can admit their statesmen to the Privy Council, and even invite them in some form to be the direct advisers of their sovereign. We can open the road for their young men who are ambitious of distinguishing themselves, into the public service, the army, or the navy ; we can make special doors for them to enter, by examina- tion boards in their own cities ; we can abstain from irritating interference, and when they want our help we can give it freely and without grudging. Above all, we can insist that the word " separation " shall be no more heard among us. * * * We are passing through a crisis in our national existence, and the wisest cannot say what lies before us. If the English character comes out of the trial true to its old traditions — bold in heart and clear in eye, seeking nothing which JEFFERIES. 79 is not its own, but resolved to maintain its own with its hand upon its sword — the far-off English dependencies will cling to their old home, and will look up to her and be still proud to belong to her, and will seek their own greatness in promoting hers. If, on the contrary (for among the possibilities there is a contrary), the erratic policy is to be continued which for the last few years has been the world's wonder; if we show that we have no longer any settled principles of action, that we let ourselves drift into idle wars and un- provoked bloodshed ; if we are incapable of keeping order even in our own Ireland, and let it fall away from us or sink into anarchy ; if, in short, we let it be seen that we have changed our nature, and are not the same men with those who once made our country feared and honoured, then, in ceasing to deserve respect, we shall cease to be respected. The colonies will not purposely desert us, but they will look each to itself, knowing that from us, and from their con- nection with US, there is nothing more to be hoped for. The cord will wear into a thread, and any accident wiU break it. — Ocecma. {By kind permission of Messrs. Longmans.) THE PAGEANT OE SUMMEE. EICHABD JEFFERIES. Besides the singing and calling, there is a peculiar sound which is only heard in summer. Waiting 80 , PBOSE SELECTIONS. quietly to discover what birds are about, I become aware of a sound in the very air. It is not the mid- summer hum which will soon be heard over the heated hay in the valley and over the cooler hills alike. It is not enough to be called a hum, and does but just tremble at the extreme edge of hearing. If the branches wave and rustle they overbear it ; the buzz of a passing bee is so much louder it overcomes all of it that is in the whole field. I cannot define it, except by calling the hours of winter to mind — they^are silent; you hear a branch crack or creak as it rubs another in the wood, you hear the hoar frost crunch on the grass beneath your feet, but the air is without sound in itself. The sound of summer is everywhere — in the passing breeze, in the hedge, in the broad- branching trees, in the grass as it swings ; all the myriad particles that together make the summer are in motion. The sap moves in the trees, the pollen is pushed out from grass and flower, and yet again these acres and acres of leaves and square miles of grass blades — for they would cover acres and square miles if reckoned edge to edge — are drawing their strength from the atmosphere. Exceedingly minute as these vibrations must be, their numbers perhaps may give them a volume almost reaching in the aggregate to the power of the ear. Besides the quivering leaf, the swinging grass, the fluttering bird's wing, and the; thousand oval membranes which innumerable insects whirl about, a faint resonance seems to come from the JEFFERIES. 81 very earth itself. The fervour of the sunbeams de- scending in a tidal flood rings on the strung harp of earth. It is this exquisite undertone, heard and yet unheard, which brings the mind into sweet accordance with the wonderful instrument of nature. By the apple tree there is a low bank, where the grass is less tall and admits the heat direct to the ground ; here there are blue flowers — bluer than the wings of my favourite butterflies — with white centres — the lovely birds'-eyes, or veronica. . . . Brightly blue and surrounded by greenest grass, imbedded in and all the more blue for the shadow of the grass, these growing butterflies' wings draw to themselves the sun. I look down into the depth of the grasses. Eed sorrel spires — deep drinkers of reddest sun wine — stand the boldest, and in their numbers threaten the buttercups. To these in the distance they give the gipsy-gold tint — the reflection of fire on plates of the precious metal. It will show even on a ring by firelight; blood in the gold, they say. Gather the open marguerite daisies, and they seem large — so wide a disc, such fingers of rays ; but in the grass their size is toned by so much green. Clover heads of honey lurk in the bunches and by the hidden footpath. Like clubs from Polynesia the tips of the grasses are varied in shape : some tend to a point — the foxtails — some are hard and cylindrical ; others, avoiding the club shape, put forth the slenderest branches with fruit of seed at the ends, which tremble as the air 82 PKOSE SELECTIONS. goes by. Their stalks are ripening and becoming of the colour of hay while yet the long blades remain green. Each kind is repeated a hundred times, the foxtails are succeeded by foxtails, the narrow blades by narrow blades, but never become monotonous ; sorrel stands by sorrel, daisy flowers by daisy. This bed of veronica at the foot of the ancient apple has a whole handful of flowers, and yet they do not weary the eye. Oak follows oak and elm ranks with elm, but the wood- lands are pleasant ; however many times reduplicatei| their beauty only increases. So, too, the summer days ; the sun rises on the same grasses and green hedges, there is the same blue sky, but did we ever have enough of them ? No, not in a hundred years ! There seems always a depth, somewhere, unexplored, a thicket that has not been seen through, a corner full of ferns, a quaint old hollow tree, which may give us something. I cannot leave it; I must stay under the old tree in the midst of the long grass, the luxury of the leaves, and the song in the very air, I seem as if I could feel all the glowing life the sunshine gives and the south wind calls to being. The endless grass, the endless leaves, the immense strength of the oak ex- panding, the unalloyed joy of finch and blackbird; from all of them I receive a little. Each gives me JEFFERIES. 83 something of the pure joy they gather for themselves. In the blackbird's melody one note is mine ; in the dance of the leaf shadows the formed maze is for me, though the motion is theirs ; the flowers with a thou- sand faces have collected the kisses of the morning. Feeling with them, I receive some, at least, of their fulness of life. Never could I have enough; never stay long enough — whether here or whether lying on the shorter sward under the sweeping and graceful birches, or on the thyme-scented hills. Hour after hour, and still not enough. Or walking the footpath was never long enough, or my strength sufficient to endure till the mind was weary. The exceeding beauty of the earth, in her splendour of life, yields a new thought with every petal. The hours when the mind is absorbed by beauty are the only hours when we really live, so that the longer we can stay among these things so much the more is snatched from inevitable Time. Let the shadow advance upon the dial — I can watch it with equanimity, while it is there to be watched. It is only when the shadow is not there, when the clouds of winter cover it, that the dial is terrible. The invisible shadow goes on and steals from us. But now, while I can see the shadow of the tree and watch it slowly gliding along the surface of the grass, it is mine. These are the only hours that are not wasted — these hours that absorb the soul and fill it with beauty. This is real life, and all else is illusion, or mere endurance. Does this reverie of 84 ' PKOSE SELECTIONS. flowers and waterfall and song form an ideal, a human ideal, in the mind ? It does; much the same ideal that Phidias sculptured, of man and woman, filled with a godlike sense of the violet fields of Greece, beautiful beyond thought, calm as my turtle-dove before the lurid lightning of the unknown. To be beautiful and to be calm, without mental fear, is the ideal of nature. If I cannot achieve it, at least I can think it. (By kind permission of Messrs. Chatto and Windus.) VEESE SELECTIONS. PAEADISE LOST. MILTON. Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe, with loss of Eden, till onje greater Man restore us, and regain the blissful seat, sing, heavenly Muse ! that on the secret top of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire that shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed in the beginning, how the heavens and earth rose out of Chaos : or if Sion hill delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flow'd fast by the oraele of God ; I thence invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, that with no middle flight intends to soar above the Aonian mount, while it pursues things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. And chiefly Thou, Spirit ! that dost prefer before all temples the upright heart and pure, instruct me, for Thou know'st ; Thou from the first 86 VERSE SELECTIONS. wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread, dove-like, sat'st brooding on the vast abyss, and mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark illumine, what is low raise and support ; that to the highth of this great argument I may assert eternal Providence, and justify the ways of God to men. Book i. 1. ADAM AND EVE. MILTON. Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, Godlike erect, with native honour clad in naked majesty, seem'd lords of all : and worthy seem'd ; for in their looks divine the image of their glorious Maker shone, truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure, (severe, but in true filial freedom plac'd,) whence true authority in men ; though both not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd ; for contemplation he and valour form'd, for softness she and sweet attractive grace ; he for God only, she for God in him. His fair large front and eye sublime declar'd absolute rule ; and hyacinthine locks round from his parted forelock manly hung clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad : she as a veil down to the slender waist MILTON. 87 her unadorned golden tresses wore dishevel'd, but in wanton ringlets wav'd as the vine curls her tendrils, which implied subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, and by her yielded, by him best receiv'd, yielded with coy submission, modest pride, and sweet reluctant amorous delay. Pa/radise Lost, Book iv. 288. EVENING IN PAKADISE. MriiTON. Now came still evening on, and twilight grey had in her sober livery all things clad ; silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, they to their grassy couch, these to their nests, were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ; she all night long her amorous descant sung ; silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament with living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led the starry host, rode brightest, till the moon rising in clouded majesty, at length apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light, and o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair Consort, the hour of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, mind us of like repose ; since God hath set labour and rest, as day and night, to men 88 VERSE SELECTIONS. successive ; and the timely dew of sleep now falling with soft slumberous weight inclines our eyelids. Other creatures all day long rove idle, unemploy'd, and less need rest ; man hath his daily work of body or mind appointed, which declares his dignity, and the regard of Heaven on all his ways ; while other animals unactive range, ' and of their doings God takes no account. To-morrow ere fresh morning streak the east with first approach of light, we must be risen, and at our pleasant labour, to reform yon flowery arbours, yonder allies green, our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, that mock our scant manuring, and require more hands than ours to lop their wanton growth : those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, that lie bestrown unsightly and unsmooth, ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd : " My author and disposer, what thou bidst unargued I obey ; so God ordains ; God is thy law, thou mine : to know no more is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. With thee conversing I forget all time, all seasons and their change ; all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, with charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, MILTON. 89 when first on this dehghtful land he spreads his orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth after soft showers ; and sweet the coming on of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, with this her solemn bird, ahd this fair moon, and these the gems of Heaven, her starry train : but neither breath of morn when she ascends with charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun on this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, glistering with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ; nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night with this her solemn bird, nor wait by moon, or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet." Paradise Lost, Book iv. 598. SATAN'S SOLILOQUY. MILTON. " THOU ! that, with surpassing glory crowned, look'st from thy sole dominion like the god of this new world ! — at whose sight all the stars hide their diminished heads ! — to thee I call, but with no friendly voice, and add thy name, Sun ! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, that bring to my remembrance from what state 90 VERSE SELECTIONS. I fell ; how glorious once — above thy sphere — till pride, and worse ambition threw me down, warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King ! Ah ! wherefore ? He deserved no such return from me whom He created what I was in that bright eminence ; and with His good upbraided none ; nor was His service hard. What could be less than to afford Him praise, the easiest recompense, and pay Him thanks ? How due ! Yet, all His good proved ill in me, and wrought but malice ! Lifted up so high, I 'sdained subjection, and thought one step higher would set me highest, and in a moment quit the debt immense of endless gratitude, so burdensome — still paying, still to owe ; forgetful what from Him I still received ; and understood not that a grateful mind by owing owes not, but still pays, at once indebted and discharged ; — what burden then ? Oh ! had His powerful destiny ordained me some inferior angel, I had stood then happy ; no unbounded hope had raised ambition ! Yet, why not ? Some other Power as great might have aspired, and me, though mean, drawn to his part : but other Powers as great fell not, but stand unshaken, from within or from without to all temptations armed. Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand ? Thou hadst. Whom hast thou then, or what, to accuse, MILTON. 91 but Heaven's free love, dealt eq^ually to all ? Be then His love accursed ! since, love or hate, to me alike it deals eternal woe. Nay, curs'd be thou ! since, against His, thy will chose freely what it now so justly rues. Me miserable ! which way shall I fly infinite wrath and infinite despair ? Which way I fly is Hell ! myself am Hell ! and, in the lowest deep, a lower deep, still threatening to devour me, opens wide, — to which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven ! Oh, then, at last relent ! Is there no place left for repentance ? none for pardon left ? None left — but by submission ! and that word disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced with other promises and other vaunts than to submit, boasting I could subdue the Omnipotent ! Ah me, they little know how dearly I abide that boast so vain ; under what torments inwardly I groan ; while they adore me on the throne of Hell, with diadem and sceptre high advanced, the lower still I fall — only supreme in misery ! Such joy ambition finds ! But say I could repent, and could obtain, by act of grace, my former state ; how soon would highth recall high thoughts ! how soon unsay what feigned submission swore ! Ease would recant 92 VERSE SELECTIONS. VOWS made in pain, as violent and void ; — for never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep ; — which would but lead me to a worse relapse and heavier fall : so should I purchase dear short intermission — bought with double smart ! This knows my Punisher, therefore as far from granting, He — as I from begging peace. All hope excluded thus, behold, — instead of us, outcast, exiled, — His new delight, Mankind, created, and for him this world ! So, farewell hope ! and with hope, farewell fear, farewell remorse ! all good to me is lost ; Evil be thou my Good ! By thee, at least divided empire with Heaven's King I hold, by thee, and more than half perhaps, will ireign ; as man ere long, and this new world, shall know." Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face thrice changed with pale, — ire, envy, and despair ; which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed him counterfeilj, if any eye beheld : for heavenly minds from such distempers foul are ever clear. Paradise Lost, Book iv. 32. SHAKESPEARE. 93 SONNETS. SHAKESPEARE. Full many a glorious morning have I seen flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, kissing with golden face the meadows green, gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; anon permit the basest clouds to ride with ugly rack on his celestial face, and from the forlorn world his visage hide ; stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. Even so my sun one early morn did shine with all-triumphant splendour on my brow ; but out ! alack ! he was but one hour mine, the region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; suns of the world may stain, when Heaven's sun staineth. Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, and make me travel forth without my cloak, to let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, to dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, for no man well of such a salve can speak, that heals the wound and cures not the disgrace ; 94 VERSE SELECTIONS. nor can thy shame give physic to my grief ; though thou repent, yet I have still the loss : The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief to him that bears the strong offence's cross. Ah ! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, and they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds. xxxiii. and xxxrv. SONNET LIV. SHAEESFEABE. 0, HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem, by that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem for that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye as the perfumed tincture of the roses, hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly when summer's breath their masked buds discloses ; but, for their virtue only is their show, they live unwoo'd and unrespected fade ; die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made : and BO of you, beauteous and lovely youth, when that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. ADDISON. 96 CATO ON IMMOETALITY. ADDISON. It must be so ! — Plato, thou reasonest well : else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, this longing after immortality ? Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror, \){ falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us ; 'tis Heaven itself that points out an Hereafter, and intimates — Eternity to man. Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! Through what variety of untried being, through what new scenes and changes must we pass ! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ; but shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us — and that there is, ail Nature cries aloud through 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 Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. [Laying his hand on his sword. Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life. 96 VERSE SELECTIONS. 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, secured in her existence, smiles at the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years : but thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, unhurt amid the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds ! THE DESEETBD VILLAGE. GOLDSMITH. Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain ; where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, and parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ; dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, seats of my youth, when every sport could please ; how often have I loitered o'er thy green, where humble happiness endeared each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm ;^ — the sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, the never-failing brook, the busy mill, the decent church that topped the neighbouring hill, GOLDSMITH. 97 the hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, for talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blessed the coming day, when toil remitting lent its turn, to play, and all the village train, from labour free, led up their sports beneath the spreading tree : while many a pastime circled in the shade, the young contending as the old surveyed ; and many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, and sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; and still, as each repeated pleasure tir^d, succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired :■ — the dancing pair, that simply sought renown, by holding out to tire each other down ; the swain mistrustless of his smutted face, while secret laughter tittered round the place ; the bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, the matron's glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these with sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please. ******* Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; there, as I passed with careless step and slow, the mingling notes came softened from below : — the swain responsive as the milk-maid sung ; the sober herd that lowed to meet their young ; H 98 VEKSE SELECTIONS. the noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ; the playful children just let loose from school ; the watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind; and the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. These all, in sweet confusion, sought the shade and filled each pause the nightingale had made. TO MABY IN HEAVEN. BUBNS. Thotj lingering star, with lessening ray, that lov'st to greet the early morn ! Again thou usher 'st in the day my Mary from my soul was torn. Mary ! dear, departed shade I Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I forget ? Can I forget the hallowed grove, where by the winding Ayr we met, to live one day of parting love ? Eternity will not efface those records dear of transports past ; thy image at our last embrace ; — ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! BURNS. 99 Ayr gurgling kissed bis pebbled shore, o'er-hung with wild woods thickening green j the fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed ; the birds sang love on every spray ; till too, too soon, the glowing west proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, and fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression stronger makes, as streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! Where is thy blissful place of rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? I LOVE MY JEAN. BUENS. Op a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, for there the bonnie lassie lives, the lassie I lo'e best : there wild woods grow, and rivers row, and monie a hill between ; 100 VERSE SELECTIONS. but day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair ; I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air ; there's not a bonnie flower that springs, by fountain, shaw, or green, there's not a bonnie bird that sings, but minds me o' my Jean. LOVE (A tale). S. T. COLEEIDGE. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, whatever stirs this mortal frame, are all but ministers of Love, and feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I live o'er again that happy hour, when midway on the mount I lay, beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene had blended with the light of eve ; and she was there, my hope, my joy, my own dear Genevieve ! COLERIDGE. 101 She leaned against the armed man, the statue of the armed knight ; she stood and listened to my lay, amid the lingering light. Pew sorrows hath she of her own, my hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! she loves me best whene'er I sing the songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air ; I sang an old and moving story — an old rude song, that suited well that ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, , with downcast eyes and modest grace ; for well she knew, I could not choose but gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight, that wore upon his shield a burning brand ; and that for ten long years he wooed the Lady of the land. I told her how he pined : and ah ! the deep, the low, the pleading tone with which I sang another's love, interpreted my own. 102 VERSE SEIiECTIONS. She listened with a flitting blush, with downcast eyes and modest grace ; and she forgave me that I gazed too fondly on her face. But when I told the cruel scorn that crazed that bold and lovely Knight, and that he crossed the mountain-woods, nor rested day nor night ; — that sometimes from the savage den, and sometimes from the darksome shade, and sometimes starting up at once, in green and sunny glade, there came and looked him in the face, an Angel beautiful and bright ; and that he knew it was a Fiend, this miserable Knight ! — and that, unknowing what he did, he leapt amid a murderous band, and saved from outrage worse than death the Lady of the land ; — and how she wept, and clasped his knees ; and how she tended him in vain, and ever strove to expiate the scorn that crazed his brain ; COLERIDGE. 103 and that she nursed him in a cave ; and how his madness went away, when on the yellow forest-leaves a dying man he lay ;t— ^ his dying words. . . . But when I reached that tenderest strain of all the ditty, my faltering voice and pausing harp disturbed her soul with pity. All impulses of soul and sense had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; the music, and the doleful tale, the rich and balmy eve ; and hopes, and fears that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng, and gentle wishes long subdued — subdued and cherished long. She wept with pity and delight, she blushed with love and virgin shame ; and, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved — she stept aside, as conscious of my look she stept ; — then suddenly, with timorous eye she fled to me and wept. 104 VERSE SELECTIONS. She half enclosed me with her arms ; she pressed me with a meek embrace ; and, bending back her head, looked up, and gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love — and partly fear — and partly 'twas a bashful art, that I might rather feel than see the swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears ; and she was calm, and told her love with virgin pride ; — and so I won my Genevieve, my bright and beauteous bride. LOCIHNVAE. {Lady Heron's Song.) SIE WALTEB SOOTT. 0, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west ! through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; and, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none ; he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! He stay'd not for brake, 3>nd he stopped not for stone, he swam the Esk river where ford there was none ; SCOTT. 105 but, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, the bride had consented : — the gallant came late ! — for a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword — for the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word — " 0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war ? — or to dance at our bridal ? — young Lord Lochinvar ! " " I long, wooed your daughter, my suit you denied : — Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide — and now am I come, with this lost love of mine, to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ! There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, that would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar ! " The bride kissed the goblet : the knight took it up, he quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup ! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — "Now tread we a measure," said young Lochiuvar. 106 VERSE SELECTIONS. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace ; while her mother did fret, and her father did fum and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet plume ; and the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere bette far to have matched our fair cousin with y Lochinvar." One touch to her hand.and one word to her ear, "when they reached the hall door and the chi stood near — so light to the croup the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung ! " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, scaur ! They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth y Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netl clan : Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and ran; there was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee— but the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinv Marmion, Canto v. SCOTT. 107 THE DEATH OF MAEMION. SCOTT. WOMAN ! in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy, and hard to please, and variable as the shade by the light' quivering aspen made ; when pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou ! — Scarce were the piteous accents said, when, with the Baron's tsaBqne, the nmid to the nigh streamlet ran : forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; the plaintive voice alone she hears, sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side, but, in abhorrence, backward drew ; for, oozing from the mountain wide, where raged the war, a dark red tide was curdling in the streamlet blue ! Where shall she turn ? Behold her mark a little fountain-cell, where water, clear as diamond spark, in a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, " Drink, weary pilgrim, d/rink and pray for the kind soul of Sybil Grey who built this cross and well." 108 VERSE SELECTIONS. She filled the helm, and back she hied, — and, with surprise and joy, espied a monk supporting Marmion's head ; a pious man, whom duty brought to dubious verge of battle fought, to shrive the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, and as she stooped his brow to lave — " Is it the hand of Clare ?" he said, " or injured Constance, bathes my head ?" Then, as remembrance rose, — " Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; forgive ! — and listen, gentle Clare ! " " Alas ! " she said the while, " think of your immortal weal ! In vain for Constance is your zeal ; she died at Holy Isle !" — Lord Marmion started from the ground, as light as though he felt no wound ; though in the action burst the tide in torrents from his wounded side. " Then it was truth ! "—he said—" I knew that the dark presage must be true ! — I would the Fiend, to whom belongs the vengeance due to all her wrongs, would spare me but a day ! SCOTT. 109 For wasting fire, and dying groan, and priests slain on the altar-stone, might bribe him for delay. It may not be ! — this dizzy trance ! — Curse^n yon base marauder's lance ! and doubly curs'd my failing brand ! — a sinful heart makes feeble hand ! " Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, supported by the trembling monk. With fruitless labour Clara bound, and strove to staunch, the gushing wound : the monk, with unavailing cares, exhausted all the Church's pray'rs ; ever, he said, that .close and near, a lady's voice was in his ear, and that the priest he could not hear, for that she ever sung, — " In the lost battle, home down by the flying, where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying / " So the notes rung : " Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand shake not the dying sinner's sand ! ! look, my son, upon yon sign of the Eedeemer's grace divine ! ! think on faith and bliss! — By many a death-bed I have been, and many a sinner's parting seen, but never aught like this ! " 110 VERSE SELECTIONS. The war, that for a space did fail, now, trebly thundering, swelled the gale,. and " Stanley ! " was the cry : — a light on Marmion's visage spread, and fired his glazing eye ; with dying hand above his head he shook the fragment of his blade, and shouted, " Victory! — Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, On!"... were the last words of Marmion. Marmion. Canto vi. 30-32. THE ISLES OP GEEECE. LOED BYEON. The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! where burning Sappho loved and sung, where grew the arts of war and peace, where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, but all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, the hero's harp, the lover's lute, have found the fame your shores refuse : their place of birth alone is mute to sounds which echo further west than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." BYRON. Ill The mountains look on Marathon — and Marathon looks on the sea ; and musing there an hour, alone, I dreamed — that Greece might still be free ; for, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; and ships, by thousands, lay below, and men in nations ; all were his ! he counted them at break of day — and when the sun set where were they ? And where are they ? and where art thou, my country? On thy voiceless shore the heroic lay is tuneless now — the heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, degenerate into hands like mine ? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, though linked among a fettered race, to feel at least a patriot's shame, even as I sing, suffuse my face ; for, what is left the poet here ? For Greeks, a blush — for Greece, a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 112 VERSE SELECTIONS. Earth ! render back from out thy breast a remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the Three Hundred, grant but three, to make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead sound like a distant torrent's fall, and answer, " Let one living head, but one arise, — we come, we come ! " 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain ! in vain ! — strike other chords ; fill high the cup with Samian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, and shed the blood of Seio's vine ! Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, — how answers each bold bacchanal ! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ; where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget the nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave — think ye he meant them for a slave ? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! we will not think of themes like these ! It made Anacreon's song divine : he served— but served Polycrates — BYRON. 113 a tyrant ;— but our masters then were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese was freedom's best and bravest friend ; that tyrant was Miltiades ! 0, that the present hour would lend another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, exists the remnant of a line such as the Doric mothers bore ; and there, perhaps, some seed is sown, the Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks — they have a king who buys and sells ; in native swords, and native ranks, the only hope of courage dwells : but Turkish force, and Latin fraud, would break your shield, however broad. Pill high the bowl with Samian wine ! our virgins dance beneath the shade— I see their glorious black eyes shine ; but, gazing on each glowing maid, my own the burning tfear-drop laves, to think such breasts must suckle slaves ! I 114 VERSE SELECTIONS. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, where nothing, save the waves and I, may hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; there, swan-like, let me sing and die : a land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! Don Juan. Canto iii. 86. WATEELOO. BVEOK. Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's dust ! An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ? nor column trophied for triumphal show ? None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so ; as the ground was before, thus let it be ; — how that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! And is this all the world has gained by thee, thou first and last of fields ! king-making victory ? There was a sound of revelry by night, and Belgium's capital had gathered then her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; a thousand hearts beat happily ; and when music arose with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. BTRON. 115 and all went merry as a marriage bell ; but hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; on with the dance ! let joy be uneonfined ; no sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet to chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — but hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat ; and nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! Within a windowed niche of that high hall sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear that sound the first amidst the festival, and caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; and when they smiled because he deemed it near, his heart more truly kaeyr that peal too well, which stretched his father on a bloody bier and roused the vengeance blood alone could quell ; he rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, and gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, and cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; and there were sudden partings, such as press the life from out young hearts, and choking sighs which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 116 TERSE SELECTIONS. if ever more should meet those mutual eyes, since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, the mustering squadron, and the clattering car, went pouring forward with impetuous speed, and swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; and the deep thunder — ^peal on peal afar, — and near, the beat of the alarming drum roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; while thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, or whispering with white lips — " The foe ! They come ! they come ! " And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " rose, the war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills . have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes :— how in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers with the fierce native daring which instills the stirring memory of a thousand years, and Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, over the unreturning brave, — alas ! ere evening to be trodden like the grass BTRON. 117 which now beneath them, but above shall grow in its next, verdure, when this fiery mass of living valour, rolling on the foe andburningwithhigh hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, the midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, the morn the marshalling in arms, — the day battle's magnificently stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent the earth is covered thick with other clay, which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii., 17, 21, etc. ADDEESS TO THE OCEAN. BYRON. Thebe is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there is society, where none intrudes, by the deep Sea, and music in its roar : I love not Man the less, but Nature more, from these our interviews, in which I steal from all I may be, or have been before, to mingle with the Universe, and feel what I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 118 ' TERSE SELECTIONS. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain the wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain a shadow of man's ravage, save his own, when, for a moment, like a drop of rain, he sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, without a grave, unknelled, uncofi&ned, and unknown. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, and monarchs tremble in their capitals, — the oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make their clay creator the vain title take of lord of thee, and arbiter of war — these are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, they melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in aU save thee— Assyria, Greece, Eome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free, and many a tyrant since ; their shores obey the stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou ; — unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play. Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow : such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. WORDSWORTH. 119 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, — calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm, icing the pole, or in the torrid clime dark-heaving — ^boundless, endless, and sublime, the image of eternity, the throne of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime the monsters of the deep are made ; each zone obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy of youthful sports was on thy breast to be borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me were a delight ; and if the freshening sea made them a terfor — 'twas a pleasing fear, for I was as it were a child of thee, and trusted to thy billows far and near, and laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. Childe Hwrold's Pilgrvmage. Canto iv., 178 etc., COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTEB BEIDGE, SEPTEMBEE 3rd, 1802. W. WORDSWORTH. Earth has not any thing to show more fair : dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty : 120 TERSE SELECTIONS. this City now doth, like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie open unto the fields, and to the sky ; all bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep in his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will : dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; and all that mighty heart is lying still I Miscellaneous Sonnets, II., xxxvi. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. JOHN KEATS. My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thy happiness, that thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, in some melodious plot of beechen green and shadows numberless, singest of summer in full-throated ease. KEATS. 121 0, for a draught of vintage, that hath been cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, tasting of Flora and the country green, dance, and Proven9al song, and sunburnt mirth ! 0, for a beaker full of the warm South, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, . with beaded bubbles winking at the brim, and purple-stained mouth ; that I might drink, and leave the world unseen, and with thee fade away into the forest dim : fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget — what thou among the leaves hast never known — the weariness, the fever, and the fret here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; where Palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs ; where Youth grows pale and spectre-thin, and dies ; where but to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden-eyed despairs ; where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, but on the viewless wings of Poesy, though the dull brain perplexes and retards. Already with thee ! tender is the night, and haply the Queen Moon is on her throne, clustered around by all her starry Fays ; 122 TERSE SELECTIONS. but here there is no light, save what from heaven is with the breezes blown through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, bat, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet wherewith the seasonable month endows the grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; white hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine ; fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; and mid-May's eldest child, the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling, I listen ; and, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death, called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, to take into the air my quiet breath. Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain, while thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad in such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — to thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! no hungry generations tread thee down ; AYTOTJN. 123 the voice I hear this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown : perhaps the self-same song that found a path through the sad heart of Euth, when, sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn ; the same that oft-times hath charmed magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. '* Forlorn ! " — The very word is like a bell to toll me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! — the fancy cannot cheat so well as she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades — past the near meadows, — over the still stream, — up the hill side ;— and now, 'tis buried deep in the next valley-glades : — was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Eled is that music !^Do I wake or sleep ? THE EXECUTION OP MONTEOSE. PEOF. W. E. AYTOUN. Gome hither, Evan Cameron, come, stand beside my knee — I hear the river roaring down towards the wintry sea. There's shouting on the mountain-side, there's war within the blast ; — 124 VERSE SELECTIONS. old faces look upon me, old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing amidst the din of fight, and my dim spirit wakes again upon the verge of night. 'Twas I that led the Highland host through wild Lochaber's snows, what time the plaided clans came down to battle, with Montrose : I've told thee how the southrons fell beneath the broad claymore, and how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy's shore : I've told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lindsay's pride : but never have I told thee yet how the great Marquis died. A traitor sold him to his foes : 0, deed of deathless shame ! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet with one of Assynt's name — be it upon the mountain's side, or yet within the glen, stand he in martial gear alone, or backed by armed men — face him, as thou would'st face the man who wrong'd thy sire's renown ; remember of what blood thou art, and strike the caitiff down ! ATTOUN. 125 They brought him to the Watergate, hard bound with hempen span, as though they held a lion there, and not a fenceleBS man. They set him high upon a cart — the hangman rode below — they drew his hands behind his back, and bared his noble brow. Then, as a hound is slip'd from leash, they cheer'd — the common throng ! — and blew the note with yell and shout, and bade him pass along. It would have made a brave man's heart grow sad and sick that day, to watch the keen malignant eyes bent down on that array. — ***** But when he came, though pale and wan, he looked so great and high, so noble was his manly front, so calm his steadfast eye ;— the rabble rout forbore to shout, and each man held his breath, for well they knew the hero's soul was face to face with death. But onwards — always onwards, in silence and in gloom, 126 VERSE SEtECTIONS. the dreary pageant laboured, till it reached the house of doom : ***** then as the Graeme looked upwards, he met the ugly smile of him who sold his King for gold — ^the master-fiend, Argyle ! And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, " Back, coward, from thy place ! for seven long years thou hast not dared to look him in the face." Had I been there, with sword in hand, and fifty Camerons by, that day through high Dunedin's streets had peal'd the slogan-cry ; not all their troops of trampling horse, nor might of mailed men, — not all the rebels in the south had borne us backwards then ! Once more his foot on Highland heath had trod as free as air, or I, and all who bore my name, been laid around him there ! It might not be. They placed him next within the solemn hall, where once the Scottish kings were throned amidst their nobles all. ATTOUN. 127 But there was dust of vulgar feet on that polluted floor, and perjured traitors filled the place where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warristoun to read the mur- derous doom, and then uprose the great Montrose in the middle of the room. " Now, by my faith as belted knight, and by the name I bear, and by the bright Saint Andrew's cross that waves above us there — yea, by a greater, mightier oath — and oh, that such should be !— by that dark stream of royal blood that lies 'twixt you and me — Ihavenot sought in battle-field a wreath of such renown, nor dared I hope on my dying day to win the martyr's crown ! There is a chamber far away where sleep the good and brave, but a better place ye have named for me than by my father's grave : for truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, this hand hath always striven, and ye raise it up for a witness still in the eye of earth and heaven. 128 VERSE SELECTIONS. Then nail my head on yonder tower — ^give every town a limb — and God, Who made, shall gather them : I go from you to Him ! " Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! how dismal 'tis to see the great, tall, spectral skeleton, the ladder, and the tree ! Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms — the bells begin to toll— "He is coming! he is coming! God's mercy on his soul ! " ***** There was glory on his forehead, there was lustre in his eye, and he never walked to battle more proudly than to die : there was colour in his visage, though the~ cheeks of all were wan, and they marvell'd as they saw him pass, that great and goodly man ! He mounted up the scaffold, and he turned him to the crowd ; but they dared not trust the people, so he might not speak aloud : but he looked upon the heavens, and they were clear and blue, and in the liquid ether the eye of God shone through I ATTOUN. ■ 129 Yet a black and murky battlement lay resting on the hill, as though the thunder slept within — all else was calm and still. The grim Geneva ministers with anxious scowl drew near, as you have seen the ravens flock around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, but alone he bent the knee ; and veil'd his face for Christ's dear grace, beneath the gallows-tree. Then radiant and serene he rose, and cast his cloak away ; for he had ta'en his latest look of earth, and sun, and day. A beam of light fell o'er him, like a glory round the shriven, and he climb'd the lofty ladder as it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, and a stunning thunder-roll, and no man dared to look aloft, for fear was on every soul: there was another heavy sound, a hush and then a groan; and darkness swept across the sky — the work of death was done ! 130 VERSE SELECTIONS. TBJE BEIDGE OF SIGHS. THOMAS HOOD. One more Unfortunate, weary of breath, rashly importunate, gone to her death ! Take her up tenderly, lift her with care : fashioned so slenderly, young, and so fair ! Look at her garments clinging like cerements ; whilst the wave constantly drips from her clothing. Take her up instantly, loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully ; think of her mournfully, gently and humanly ; not of the stains of her : — all that remains of her now is pure womanly. HOOD. 1^1 Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny, rash and undutiful ; past all dishonour, Death has left on her only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, one of Eve's family, — wipe those poor lips of hers oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses escaped from the comb — her fair auburn tresses ! — whilst wonderment guesses. Where was her home ? Who was her father ? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one still, and a nearer one yet, than all other ? Alas ! for the rarity of Christian charity under the sun ! VERSE SELECTIONS. Oh ! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, fatherly, motherly feelings had changed : love, by harsh evidence, thrown from its eminence ; even God's providence seeming estranged ! Where the lamps quiver so far in the river, with many a light from window and casement, from garret to basement, she stood, with amazement, houseless by night. The bleak wind of March made her tremble and shiver but not the dark arch, or the black-flowing river. Mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery swift to be hurled — HOOD. 133 anywhere, anywhere out of the world ! — in she plunged boldly, no matter how coldly the rough river ran. Over the brink of it, picture it, — think of it, dissolute Man ! lave in it — drink of it, then, if you can ! Take her up tenderly, lift her with care, — fashioned so slenderly, young, and so fair ! Ere her limbs frigidly stiffen too rigidly, — decently, kindly smooth and compose them ; and her eyes, — close them staring so blindly ! dreadfully staring through muddy impurity, as when with the daring last look of despairing, fixed on futurity. 134p verse selections. Perishing gloomily, spurned by contumely, cold inhumanity, burning insanity, into her rest. — Cross her hands humbly, as if praying dumbly, over her breast ; owning her weakness, her evil behaviour, and leaving, ^ith meekness, her sins to her Saviour ! THE DEEAM OP EUGENE AEAM. HOOD. 'TwAS in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school : there were some that ran, and some that leapt, like troutlets in a pool. Away they sped with gamesome minds, and souls untouched by sin ; to a level mead they came, and there they drave the wickets in : pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of Lynn. MOOD. )35 Like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran, — turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can ; but the Usher sat remote from all, a melancholy man ! His hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessed breeze ; for a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease : so he leaned his head on his hands, and read the book upon his knees ! Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, nor ever glanced aside, for the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide : much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the pond'rous tome ; with a fast and fervent grasp he strained the dusky covers close and fixed the brazen hasp : " Oh, God ! could I so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp ! " Then leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took, — 136 TEKSE SELECTIONS. now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook, — and lo ! he saw a little boy that pored upon a book. " My gentle lad, what is 't you read — romance or fairy fable ? Or is it some historic page, of kings and crowns unstable ? " The young boy gave an upward glance,- " It is ' The death of Abel.' " The Usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain, six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again ; and down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him of Cain ; and, long since then, of bloody men, whose deeds tradition saves ; of lonely folk cut off unseen, and hid in sudden graves ; of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, and murders done in caves ; and how the sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod, — ay, how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial clod ; HOOD. 137 and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from God ! He told how murderers walk the earth beneath the curse of Cain, — with crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain : for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain ! " And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, their pangs must be extreme — woe, woe, unutterable woe — who spill life's sacred stream ! For why ? Methought, last night, I wrought' a murder in a dream ! " One that had never done me wrong — a feeble man, and old ; I led him to a lonely field, — the moon shone clear and cold : ' Now here,' said I, * this man shall die, and I will have his gold ! ' " Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, and one with a heavy stone, one hurried gash with a hasty knife, — and then the deed was done : there was nothing lying at my feet but lifeless flesh and bone ! 138 VEKSE SELECTIONS. " Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, that could not do me ill ; and yet I feared him all the more, for lying there so still : . there was a manhood in his look, that murder could not kiU ! " And lo ! the universal air seemed lit with ghastly flame ; ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame : I took the dead man by the hand, and called upon his name ! " Oh God ! it made me quake to see such sense within the slain ! But when I touched the lifeless clay, the blood gushed out amain ; for every clot, a burning spot was scorching in my brain ! " My head was like an ardent coal, my heart as solid ice ; my wretched, wretched soul, I knew, was at the Devil's price : a dozen times I groaned ; the dead had never groaned but twice ! " And now, from forth the frownirig sky, from the Heaven's topmost height. HOOD. \39 I heard a voice — the awful voice of the blood-avenging sprite : ' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead and hide it from my sight ! ' " I took the dreary body up, and cast it in a stream — a sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme. My gentle boy, remember, this is nothing but a dream ! " Down went the corse with a hollow plunge^ and vanished in the pool ; anon I cleansed my bloody hands, and washed my forehead cool, and sat among the urchins young that evening in the school. " Oh, Heaven ! to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim ! I could not share in childish prayer, nor join in evening hymn : like a devil of the pit I seemed, 'mid holy cherubim ! " And Peace went with them, one and all, and each calm pillow spreaid ; but Guilt was my grim chamberlain, that lighted me to bed 140 VERSE SELECTIONS. and drew my midnight curtains round, with fingers bloody red ! " All night I lay in agony, in anguish dark and deep, my fevered eyes I dared not close, but stared aghast at Sleep : for Sin had rendered unto her the keys of Hell to keep ! " All night I lay in agony, from weary chime to chime, with one besetting horrid hint, that racked me all the time ; a mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime ! " one stern tyrannic thought that made all other thoughts its slave ; stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave, — still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave ! " Heavily I rose up, as soon as light was in the sky, and sought the black accursed pool with a wild misgiving eye ; and I saw the dead in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry. HOOD. 141 " Merrily rose the lark and shook the dewdrop from its wing ; but I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing : for I was stooping once again under the horrid thing. " With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran ; there was no thne to dig a grave before the day began : in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man ! " And all that day I read in school, but my thought was otherwhere ; as soon as the midday task was done, in secret I was there : and a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare ! " Then down I cast mo on my face and first began to weep, for I knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep : or land or sea, though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep. " So wills the fi!erce avenging Sprite, till blood for blood atones ! 142 VERSE SELECTIONS. ay, though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stories, and years have rotted off his flesh,' — the world shall see his bones ! " Oh God ! that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake ! again — again, with dizzy brain, the human life I take ; and my red right hand grows raging hot, like Cranmer's at the stake. " And still no peace for the restless clay, will wave or mould allow ; the horrid thing pursues my soul, — it stands before me now ! " — The fearful boy looked up, and saw huge drops upon his brow. That very night, while gentle Sleep the urchin eyelids kissed, two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, through the cold and heavy mist ; and Eugene Aram walked between, with gyves upon his wrist. POE. 143 THE BELLS. B. A. POE. Heab the sledges with the bells — silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night ! while the stars that oversprinkle all the heavens, seem to twinkle with a crystalline delight ; keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Eunic rhyme, to the tintinnabulation that so musically wells from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight ! Prom the molten-golden notes, and all in tune, what a liquid ditty floats to the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats on the moon ! 144 VERSE SELECTIONS. Oh, from out the sounding cells what a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells on the future ! How it tells of the rapture that impels to the swinging and the ringing^ of the bells, feel bells, — of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! Hear the loud alarum bells — brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night how they scream out their afifright! Too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek, out of tune, in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, in a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire and a resolute endeavour, now — now to sit or never, by the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! POE. 145 What a tale their terror tells of despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar I What a horror they outpour on the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear, it fully knows, by the twanging and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows ; yet the ear distinctly tells, in the jangling and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — of the bells — of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — in the clamour and the clangour of the bells I Hear the tolling of the bells — iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels 1 In the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright at the melancholy menace of their tone ! For, every sound that floats from the rust within their throats is a groan. And the people — ah, the people — 146 VERSE SELECTIONS. they that dwell up in the steeple, all alone, and who, tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone, feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone — they are neither man nor woman — they are neither brute nor human — they are Ghouls : and their King it is who tolls ; and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls a paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells with the paean of the bells ! And he dances, and he yells ; keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Eunic rhyme, to the paean of the bells — of the bells ; keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Eunic rhyme, to the throbbing of the bells — of the bells, bells, bells, — to the sobbing of the bells ; keeping time, time, time, as he knells, knells, knells, in a happy Eunic rhyme, to the rolling of the bells — of the 'bells, bells, bells, MACAULAT. 147 to the tolling of the bells — of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells — to the moaning and the groaning of the bells. THE WAE OF THE LEAGUE. LOBD MACATILAY. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, and he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; he looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Eight graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our lord the King ! "— "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may — for never saw I promise yet 6f such a bloody fray — press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, and be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 148 VERSE SELECTIONS. Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled d of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roari culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andr plain, ■with all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayr Now, hy the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen France, Charge, for the golden lilies ! Upon them with t lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spaa in rest, a thousand knights are pressing close behind the sno' white crest ; and in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like guiding star, amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayeni hath turned his rein, D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Coui is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before Biscay gale ; the field is heaped with bleeding' steeds, and flags, ai cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance; and, all along o' van. MACAULAT. 149 "Eemember St. Bartholomew ! " was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe; down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, as our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? * * * * * Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; Ho ! matrons of Lucerne ; weep, weep, and rend your hair, for those who never shall return. Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, that Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, and mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to His Holy Name, from Whom all glories are; and glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. From Ivry: a song of the Huguenots. 150 TERSE SELECTIONS. BATTLE OP THE LAKE EEGILLUS. MACAULAT. All round them paused the battle, while met in mortal fray the Eoman and the Tusculan, the horses black and grey. Herminius smote Mamilius through breastplate and through breast ; and fast flowed out the purple blood over the purple vest. Mamilius smote Herminius through head-piece and through head ; and side by side those chiefs of pride together fell down dead. Down fell they dead together in a great lake of gore ; and still stood all who saw them fall, while men might count a score. Fast, fast, with heels wild spurning, the dark-grey charger fled : he burst through ranks of fighting men ; he sprang o'er heaps of dead : MACAULAT. 151 lis bridle far out-streaming, his flanks all blood and foam, le sought the southern mountains, the mountains of his home. [?he pass was steep and rugged, the wolves they howled and whined ; lut he ran like a whirlwind up the pass, and he left the wolves behind, through many a startled hamlet thundered his flying feet ; le rushed through the gate of Tusculum, he rushed up the long white street ; le rushed by tower and temple, and paused not from his race ill he stood before his master's door in the stately market-place, ind straightway round him gathered a pale and trembling crowd, nd when they knew him, cries of rage brake forth, and wailing loud : nd women rent their tresses for their great prince's fall ; nd old men girt on their old swords, and went to man the wall. tut, like a graven image, black Auster kept his place, nd ever wistfully he looked 152 TERSE SELECTIONS. into his master's face. The raven mane that daily, with pats and fond caresses, the young Herminia washed and combed and twined in even tresses, and decked with coloured ribands from her own gay attire, hung sadly o'er her father's corpse in carnage and in mire. Forth with a shout sprang Titus, and seized black Auster's rein ; then Aulus sware a fearful oath, and ran at him amain : — " The furies of thy brother with me and mine abide, if one of your accursed house upon black Auster ride ! " As on an Alpine watch-tower from heaven comes down the flame, full on the neck of Titus the blade of Aulus came : and out the red blood spouted, in a wide arch and tall, as spouts a fountain in the court of some rich Capuan's hall. The knees of all the Latines were loosened with dismay when dead, on dead Herminius, the bravest Tarquin lay. MACADXAT. 153 And Aulus the Dictator stroked Anster's raven mane, with heed he looked unto the girths, with heed unto the rein. " Now bear me well, black Auster, into yon thick array ; and thou and I will have revenge for thy good lord this day." So spake he ; and was buckling tighter black Auster's band, when he was aware of a Princely Pair that rode at his right hand. So like they were, no mortal might one from other know : white as snow their armour was : their steeds were white as snow. Never on earthly anvil did such rare armour gleam ; and never did such gallant steeds drink of an earthly stream. And all who saw them trembled, and pale grew every cheek ; And Aulus the Dictator v scarce gathered voice to speak, " Say by what name men call you ? What city is your home ? 154 TERSE SELECTIONS. And wherefore ride ye in such guise before the ranks of Eome ? " " By many names men call us ; in many lands we dwell : well Samothracia knows us ; Gyrene knows us well : our house in gay Tarentum is hung each noon with flowers : high o'er the masts of Syracuse our marble portal towers : but by the proud Eurotas is our dear native home ; and for the right we come to fight before the ranks of Eome." So answered those strange horsemen, and each couched low his spear ; and forthwith all the ranks of Eome were bold and of good cheer : and on the thirty armies came wonder and affright, and Ardea wavered on the left, and Cora on the right. " Eome to the charge ! " cried Aulus : "The foe begins to yield ! Charge, for the hearth of Vesta ! MACAUIAT. 165 Charge, for the Golden Shield ! Let no man stop to plunder, hut slay, and slay, and slay ; the Gods who live for ever are on our side to-day." Stanzas 28-35. APPEOACH OP THE AEMADA. MACAULAY. Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Eng- land's praise ; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, when that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain the richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, there came a gallant merchant-ship full saU to Ply- mouth Bay ; Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, at earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. 156 TERSE SELECTIONS. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; and the tall Finta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall ; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgeoumbe's lofty hall ; many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast, and with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes ; behind him march the halberdiers ; before him sound the drums ; his yeomen round the market cross make clear an ample space ; for there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, as slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his anci^t crown, and underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. MACAULAT. 157 So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield. So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, arid crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep. Sir Knight : ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids : ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, draw your blades : thou sun, shine on her joyously ; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious sbmpbe badem, the banner of our pride. The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold ; the parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold : night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, that time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; 158 VERSj: SELECTIONS. for swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war- flame spread, high on St. Michael's Mount it shone, it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of £ire. From The Armada: a fragment. MAEY, OF MAGDALA. H. W. LONGFELLOW. CoMPANioNLESs, unsatisfied, forlorn, I sit here in this lonely tower, and look upon the lake below me, and the hills that swoon with heat, and see as in a vision all my past life unroll itself before me. The princes and the merchants come to me, merchants of Tyre, and Princes of Damascus, and pass, and disappear, and are no more ; but leave behind their merchandise and jewels, their perfumes, and their gold, and their disgust. I loathe them, and the very memory of them is unto me, as thought of food to one cloyed with the luscious figs of Dalmanutha ! What if hereafter, in the long hereafter of endless joy or pain, or joy in pain, LONGFELLOW. 159 it were my punishment to be with them grown hideous and decrepit in their sins, and hear them say : Thou hast brought us here, be unto us as thou hast been of old ! I look upon this raiment that I wear, these silks, and these embroideries, and they seem only as cerements wrapped about my limbs ! I look upon these rings set thick with pearls and emerald and amethyst and jasper, and they are burning coals upon my flesh ! This serpent on my wrist becomes alive ! Away, thou viper ! and away, ye garlands whose odours bring the swift remembrance back of the unhallowed revels in these chambers ! But yesterday, — and yet it seems to me something remote, like a pathetic song sung long ago by minstrels in the street, — but yesterday, as from this tower I gazed, over the olive and the walnut trees, uplon the lake and the white ships, and wondered whither and whence they steered, and who was in them, a fisher's boat drew near the landing-place under the oleanders, and the people came up from it and passed beneath the tower, close under me. In front of them, as leader, walked One of royal aspect, clothed in white, who lifted up His eyes and looked at me ; and all at once the air seemed filled and living with a mysterious power that streamed from Him 160 TERSE SELECTIONS. and overflowed me with an atmosphere of light and love. As one entranced I stood, and when I awoke again, lo ! He was gone ; so that I said, * Perhaps it is a dream.' But from that very hour the seven demons that had their habitation in this body which men call beautiful, departed from me ! This morning, when the first gleam of the dawn made Lebanon a glory in the air, and all below was darkness, I beheld an angel or a spirit glorified, with wind-tossed garments, walking on the lake. The face I could not see, but I distinguished the attitude and gesture, and I knew 'twas He that healed me. And the gusty wind brought to mine ears a Voice, which seemed to say, ' Be of good cheer ! 'Tis I ! Be not afraid ! ' — and from the darkness, scarcely heard, the answer, • If it be Thou, bid me come unto Thee upon the water.' And the Voice said, ' Come ! ' and then I heard a cry of fear, ' Lord, save me ! ' as of a drowning man. And then the Voice, • Why did'st thou doubt, thou of little faith ? ' At this all vanished, and the wind was hushed ; and the great sun came up above the hills ; and the swift-flying vapours hid themselves in caverns among the rocks. 0, I must find Him, and follow Him, and be with Him for ever ! Divine Tragedy^ LONGFELLOW. 161 KING EOBEET OP SICILY. LONGFELLOW. EoBEBT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane and Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, apparelled in magnificent attire, with retinue of many a knight and squire, on St. John's eve at vespers, proudly sat and heard the priests chant the Magnificat. And as he listened, o'er and o'er again repeated, like a burden or refrain, he caught the words, " Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles ; " and slowly lifting- up his kingly head, he to a learned clerk beside him said, " What mean these words ? " The clerk made answer meet, " He has put down the mighty from their seat, and has exalted them of low degree." Thereat King Eobert muttered scornfully, " 'Tis well that such seditious words are sung only by priests, and in the Latin tongue ; for unto priests and people be it known, there is no power can push me from my throne ! " And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. When he awoke it was already night ; M 162 TERSE SEIECTIONS. the church was empty and there was no light, save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, lighted a little space before some saint. He started from his seat and gazed around, but saw no living thing and heard no sound. He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; he cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, and uttered awful threatenings and complaints, and imprecations upon men and saints. The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls, as if dead priests were laughing in their stalls ! At length the sexton, hearing from without the tumult of the knocking, and the shout, and thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there?" Half-choked with rage, King Eobert fiercely said, " Open : 'tis I, the King ! Art thou afraid ? " The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, " This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " turned the great key and flung the portal wide ; a man rushed by him at a single stride, haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak, who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, but leaped into the blackness of the night, and vanished like a spectre from his sight. Eobert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane and Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, LONGFELLOW. 163 despoiled of his magnificent attire, bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, with sense of wrong and outrage desperate, strode on and thundered at the palace-gate ; rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage to right and left each seneschal and page, and hurried up the broad and sounding stair, his white face ghastly in the torches' glare. From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ; voices and cries he heard, but did not heed : imtil at last he reached the banquet room, blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. There, on the dais, sat another king, wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring. King Eobert's self in features, form, and height, but all transfigured with angelic light ! It was an Angel ; and his presence there with a divine effulgence filled the air ; an exaltation, piercing the disguise, though none the hidden Angel recognize. A moment, speechless, motionless, amazed, the throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, who met his looks of anger and surprise with the divine compassion of his eyes ; then said, " Who art thou? and why comst thou here?" To which King Eobert answered, with a sneer, " I am the King, and come to claim my own , 164 VERSE SELECTIONS. from an impostor, who usurps my throne ! " And suddenly, at these audacious words, up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords; the Angel answered, with unruffled brow, " Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester ! thou henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, and for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; thou shalt obey my servants when they call, and wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! " Deaf to King Eobert's threats and cries and prayers, they thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ; a group of tittering pages ran before, and as they opened wide the folding door, his heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, the boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, and all the vaulted chamber roar and ring with the mock plaudits of " Long live the King ! " Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, he said within himself, " It was a dream ! " hut the straw rustled as he turned his head, there were the cap and bells beside his bed, around him rose the bare discoloured walls ; close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls ; and in the corner, a revolting shape, shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. It was no dream : the world he loved so much had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! LONGFELLOW. 16' Days came and went ; and now returned again to Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; under the Angel's governance benign the happy island danced with corn and wine ; and deep within the mountain's burning breast, Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. Meanwhile, King Eobert yielded to his fate, sullen, and silent, and disconsolate. Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, with looks bewildered and a vacant stare, close-shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, by courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, his only friend the ape, his only food what others left, — he stUl was unsubdued. And when the Angel met him on his way, and half in earnest, half in jest, would say, sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel the velvet scabbard.held a sword of steel, " Art thou the King ? " the passion of his woe burst from him in resistless overflow, and, lifting high his forehead, he would fling the haughty answer back, " I am, I am the King! " Almost three years were ended ; when there came ambassadors of great repute and name from Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, unto King Eobert, saying that Pope Urbane by letter summoned them forthwith to come 166 TERSE SELECTIONS. on Holy Thursday to his city of Eome. The Angel with great joy received his guests, and gave them presents of emhroidered vests, and velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, and rings and jewels of the rarest kind. Then he departed with them o'er the sea into the lovely land of Italy, whose loveliness was more resplendent made by the mere passing of that cavalcade, — with plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir of jewelled bridle and ,of golden spur. And lo ! among the menials, in mock state, upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, — his cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind, the solemn ape demurely perched behind, — King Eobert rode, making huge merriment in all the country towns through which they went. The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square, giving his benediction and embrace, fervent, and full of apostolic grace. While with congratulations and with prayers he entertained the Angel unawares, Eobert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, " I am the King ! Look, and behold in me Eobert, your brother. King of Sicily ! LONGFELLOW. 167 This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, is an impostor in a king's disguise. Do you not know me ? does no voice within answer my cry, and say we are akin ? " The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; the Emperor laughing, said, "It is strange sport to keep a madman for thy fool at court ! " And the poor, baffled Jester, in disgrace, was hustled back among the populace. In solemn state the Holy Week went by, and Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; the presence of the Angel, with its light, before the sun rose, made the city bright, and with new fervour filled the hearts of men, who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, with haggard eyes the unwonted splendour saw ; he felt within a power unfelt before, and, kneeling humbly on his chamber-floor, he heard the rushing garments of the Lord sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. And now, the visit ending, and once more Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, homeward the Angel journeyed, and again the land was made resplendent with his train, flashing along the towns of Italy 168 VERSE SELECTIONS. unto Salerno, and from there by sea. And when once more within Palermo's wall, and, seated on the throne in his great hall, he heard the Angelas from convent-towers, as if the better world conversed with ours, — he beckoned to King Eobert to draw nigher, and with a gesture bade the rest retire ; and when they were alone, the Angel said, " Art thou the King ? " Then, bowing down his head. King Eobert crossed both hands upon his breast, and meekly answered him : " Thou knowest best ! My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, and in some cloister's school of penitence, across those stones that pave the way to heaven, walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven ! " The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face a holy light illumined all the place ; and through the open window loud and clear, they heard the monks chant in the chapel near, above the stir and tumult of the street : " He has put down the mighty from their seat, and has exalted them of low degree '■ " and through the chant a second melody rose like the throbbing of a single string : " I am an Angel, and thou art the King ! " King Eobert, who was standing near the throne, lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! LONGFELLOW. 169 but all apparelled as in days of old, with ermine mantle and with cloth of gold ; and when his courtiers came, they found him there, kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer ! Tales of a Wayside Inn. A DAY OF SUNSHINE. LONGFELLOW. GIFT of God ! perfect day : whereon shall no man work, but play ; whereon it is enough for me, not to be doing, but to be ! Through every fibre of my brain, through every nerve, through every vein, 1 feel the electric thrill, the touch of life, that seems almost too much. I hear the wind among the trees playing celestial symphonies ; I see the branches downward bent, like keys of some great instrument. And over me unrolls on high the splendid scenery of the sky, where through a sapphire sea the Sun sails like a golden galleon, 170 TEESE SELECTIONS. towards yonder cloud-land in the West, towards yonder Islands of the Blest, whose steep sierra far uplifts its craggy summits white with drifts. Blow, winds ! and waft through all the rooms the snowflakes of the cherry-blooms ! Blow, winds ! and bend within my reach the fiery blossoms of the peach ! Life and Love ! happy throng of thoughts, whose only speech is song ! heart of man ! canst thou not be blithe as the air is, and as free ? Birds of Passage. THE LAMENT OF THE lEISH EMIGEANT. LADY DUFFEBIN, me SHBBIDAN. I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side on a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride ; the corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, — and the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-Hght in your eye. LADT DUFFERIN. 171 The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then, the lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again; but I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath, warm on my cheek ; and I still keep listening for the words you never more will speak ! 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church. stands near, the church where we were wed, Mary, — I see the spire from here : but the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest ; for I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends ; but, oh, they love the better still the few Our Father sends ! and you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride : — there 's nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died ! Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on 172 VERSE SELECTIONS. when the trust in, God had left my Boul, and my arma' young strength was gone : there was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow ; — I bless you Mary, for that same, though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile when your heart was fit to break, when the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my sake ! I bless you for the pleasant word when your heart was sad and sore ; oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can't reach you more. I'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true, but I'll not forget you, darling, in the land I'm going to: they say there 's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there ; but I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair! And often, in those grand old woods, I'll sit and shut my eyes, and my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies ; LTTTON. 173 and I'll think I see the little stile where we sat side by side, and the springing corn, and the bright May-morn, when first you were my bride ! CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S DEFENCE. LOKD LYTTON. Melnotte. Pauline, by pride angels have fallen ere thy time : by pride — that sole alloy of thy most lovely mould — the evU spirit of a bitter love and a revengeful heart had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was filled with thee ; I saw thee 'midst the flowers the lowly boy tended, unmarked by thee — a spirit of bloom and joy and freshness, as if Spring itself were made a living thing and wore thy shape ! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man entered the breast of the wUd-dreaming boy : and from that hour I grew — what to the last I shall be — ^thine adorer ! Well ; this love, vain, frantic, — guilty, if thou wilt, — became a fountain of ambition and bright hope ; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth old gossips tell — how maidens, sprung from kings, have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, like Death, 174 VERSE SELECTIONS. levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home in the rich palace of a fairy Future ! — My father died ; and I, the peasant-born, was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise out of the prison of my mean estate ; and, with such jewels as the exploring mind brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom from those twin gaolers of the daring heart — low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, and lured me on to those inspiring toils \ by which man masters men ! For thee I grew a midnight student o'er the dreams of sages : for thee I sought to borrow from each Grace and every Muse, such attributes as lend ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee, and Passion taught me poesy ; of thee, and on the painter's canVas grew the life of beauty ! Art became the shadow of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes. Men called me vain — some, mad — I heeded not, but still toiled on — hoped on : — for it was sweet, if not to win, to feel more worthy thee ! — At last, in one mad hour, I dg,red to pour the thoughts that burst their channels into song, and sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, as beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest : LYTTOir. 175 the name — appended by the burning heart, that longed to show its idol what bright things it had created — ^yea, the enthusiast's name, that should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn ! That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath, resembled hatred most, — when thy disdain made my whole soul a chaos, — in that hour the tempters found me a revengeful tool for their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm — it turned and stung thee ! ***** I will not tell thee of the throes — ^the struggles — the anguish — the remorse : no — let it pass ! and let me come to such most poor atonement yet in my power. Pauline ! ***** Nay, do not fear me. Thou dost not know ine, madam : at the altar my vengeance ceased — my guilty oath expired ! Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more from the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. ***** The law shall do thee justice, and restore thy right to bless another with thy love ; and when thou art happy, and hast half forgot him who so loved — so wronged thee, think, at least. Heaven left some remnant of the angel still in that poor peasant's nature ! The Lady of Lyons, iii. 2. 176 VERSE SELECTIONS. ADDEESS TO A MUMMY. HORACE SMITH. And hast thou walked about (how strange a story ! ) in Thebes's streets three thousand years ago ? — when the Memnonium was in all its glory, and time had not begun to overthrow those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, of which the very ruins are tremendous ! Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune ; thou'rt standing on thy legs above-ground. Mummy ! " revisiting the glimpses of the moon ;" not like thin ghosts, or disembodied creatures, but with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — to whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ; was Cheops, or Cephrenes, architect of either pyramid that bears his name ? Is " Pompey's Pillar " really a misnomer ? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? ***** Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; SMixa. Ill or held, by Solomon's own invitation, a torch at the great Temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, has any Bomau soldier mauled and knuckled ; for thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, ere Eomulus and Bemus had been suckled : antiquity appears to have begun long after thy primeval race was run ! ***** Since first thy form was in this box extended, we have, above-ground, seen some strange muta- tions ; the Eoman empire has begun — and ended ; new worlds have risen — we have lost old nations, and countless Kings have into dust been humbled, while not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, when the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, o'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, and shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, when the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, the nature of thy private life unfold : a heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, and tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled. 178 TERSE SELECTIONS. Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? What was thy name and station, age and race 7 Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead ! Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, and standest undecayed within our presence, — thou wilt hear nothing — till the Judgment morning, when the Great Trump shall thrill thee with its warning ! "Why should this worthless tegument endure, if its undying guest be lost for ever ? Oh ! let us keep the Soul embalmed and pure in living virtue ; that, when both must sever, although corruption may our frame consume, the immortal Spirit in the skies may bloom ! MAEY QUEEN OF SCOTS. H. G. BELL. I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo ! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, BELL. 179 and gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls ; and o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping shadow passed, and all around the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister dim the tinkling of the silver bell or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, in that first budding spring of youth when all its prospects please ; and little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers, that Scotland knew no prouder names — held none more dear than theirs.: and little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine, of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line : calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, and, as they flew, they left behind a long continuing light. The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon, 180 VERSE SELECTIONS. and 'ueath a thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers throng ; and proudly kindles Henry's eye — well pleased, I ween, to see the land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry ; — T(t tIt ^ ^ t|c ^ ^ but fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide, effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride ! The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond deep love of one — the hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun, — they lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, they sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak. Ah ! , who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours, she thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers ? The scene wasc hanged. It was a barque that slowly held its way, and o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay ; and on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes BELL. 181 apon the fast receding hills, that dim and distant rise. No marvel that the lady wept, — there was no land on earth she loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth ; it was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends, — it was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends, — the land where her dead husband slept — the land where she had known the tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splen- dours of a throne : no marvel that the lady wept, — it was the land of France — the chosen home of chivalry — the garden of ro- mance ! The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her barque ; the future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark! One gaze again — one long, last gaze — "Adieu, fair France, to thee ! " The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the un- conscious sea ! The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, and in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood 182 VERSE SELECTIONS. sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds that seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. The touch of care had blanched her cheek — ^her smile was sadder now, theweight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow; and traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field; the Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes — ^the dreams of youth's brief day, — and summoned Eizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play the songs she loved in early years — the songs of gay Navarre, the songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar. They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles, they won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils. — But hark ! the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' battle-cry ! They come — they come ! — and lo ! the scowl of Euthven's hollow eye ! and swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are vain. BELL. 183 the ruffian steel is in his heart^^the faithful Rizzio's slain ! Then Mary Stuart dashed aside the tears that trickling fell: " Now for my father's arm ! " she said ; "my woman's heart farewell ! " The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle, and there, within the prison-walls of its baronial pile, stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign the traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from heir ancestral line : — " My lords ! my lords ! " the captive said, " were I but once more free, with ten good knights on yonder shore to aid my cause and me, that parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows, and once more reign a Stuart Queen o'er my re- morseless foes ! " A red spot burned upon her cheek — streamed her rich tresses down, she wrote the words — she stood erect — a Queen with- out a crown ! The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore. 184 VERSE SELECTIONS. and the faithful of the land stood ronnd their smiling Queen once more ; she stayed her steed upon a hill — ^she saw them marching by — she heard their shouts — she read success in every flashing eye. The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies away; and Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers— where are they ? Scattered and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone, — O God ! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won ! — ^Away ! away ! thy gallant steed must act no lag- gard's part ; yet vain his speed — for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart ! The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood, and gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood. With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall, and breathless silence chained the lips and touched the hearts of all ; rieb were the sable robes she wore — her white veil round her fell, — a,nd from her neck there hung a cross — the Cross she loved so well ! [ knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom, — [ saw that grief had decked it out — an offering for the tomb! I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone — I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone — I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold— I knew that bounding grace of step — that symmetry of mould ! Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile, — even now I see her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn, a new star in the firmament, to light and glory born ! Alas ! the change ! — she placed her foot upon a triple throne, and on the scaffold now she stands— beside the block — alone I The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd who sunned themselves beneath her glance and round her footsteps bowed ! 186 VERSE SELECTIONS. Her neck is bared ; — the blow is struck ; — the soul is passed away ; the bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay ! The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gurgles o'er, laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor ! The blood of beauty, wealth, and power — the heart- blood of a Queen, the noblest of the Stuart race, the fairest earth has seen — lapped by a dog ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone ; then weigh, against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne ! DAVID AND ABSALOM. N. P. WILLIS. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath was straightened for the grave : and, as the folds sank to the still proportions, they betrayed the matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls were floating round the tassels as they swayed to the admitted air, as glossy now as when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing the snowy fingers of Judaea's girls. WILLIS. 18* His helm was at his feet ; his banner, soiled with trailing through Jerusalem, was laid reversed beside him : and the jewelled hilt, whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, the mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, and gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, as if he feared the slumberer might stir. — A slow step startled him ! He grasped his blade as if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form of David entered ; and he gave command in a low tone to his few followers, and left him with his dead. The King stood still, till the last echo died : then, throwing off the sackcloth from his brow, and laying back the pall from the still features of his child, he bowed his head upon him, and broke forth in the resistless eloquence of woe : — r " Alas ! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die ! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, and leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, my proud boy, Absalom ! " Cold is thy brow, my son ; and I am chill, as to my bosom I have tried to press thee. 188 VERSE SELECTIONS. How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, — like a rich harpstring, — ^yearning to caress thee ; and hear thy sweet ' my father ' from these dumb and cold lips, Absalom ! " The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush of music, and the voices of the young ; and life will pass me in the mantling blush, and the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; but thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come to meet me, Absalom ! " And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, how will its love for thee, as I depart, yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, to see thee, Absalom ! " And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up ; with death, so like a gentle slumber, on thee r and thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, if from this woe its bitterness had won the&. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, my lost boy, Absalom ! " He covered up his face, and bowed himself a moment on his child : then giving him a look of melting tenderness, he clasped his hand convulsively, as if in prayer ; KINGSLEY. 189 and, as if strength were given him of God, he rose up calmly, and composed the pall firmly and decently, — and left him there, as if his rest had been a breathing sleep. THE DELECTABLE DAY. CHAKLES KINGSLEY. The boy on the famous gray pony, just bidding good-bye at the door, plucking up maiden heart for the fences where his brother won honour of yore. The walk to " the Meet " with fair children, and women as gentle as gay, — ah ! how do we male hogs in armour deserve such companions as they ? The afternoon's wander to windward, to meet the dear boy coming back ; and to catch, down the turns of the valley, the last weary chime of the pack. The climb homeward by park and by moorland, and through the fir forests again, whQe the south-west wind roars in the gloaming, like an ocean of seething champagne. 190 VEKSE SteLECTIONS. And at night the septette of Beethoven, and the grandmother by in her chair, and the foot of all feet on the sofa beating delicate time to the air. Ah, God ! a poor soul can but thank Thee for such a delectable day ! though the ftiry, the fool, and the swindler, to-morrow again have their way. 1872. {By kind permission of Messrs. Macmillan.) A LEGEND OP BREGENZ. ADELAIDE A. PEOGTER. GiET round with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance lies ; in her blue heart reflected shine back the starry skies; and, watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow, you think a piece of Heaven lies on our earth below ! Midnight is there : and Silence, enthroned in Heaven, looks down upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town : PKOCTEK. 191 for Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore, has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand years and more. Her battlements and towers, from off their rocky steep, have cast their trembling shadow for ages on the deep. Mountain and lake and valley a sacred legend know, of how the town was saved, one night, three hundred years ago. Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled, to serve in the Swiss valleys and toil for daily bread ; and every year that fleeted so silently and fast, seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the Past. She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change ; her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed no more strange ; and when she led her cattle to pasture every day, 192 VEKSE SELECTIONS. she ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay. She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with tears : her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years ; she heeded not the rumours of Austrian war and strife ; each day she rose contented, to the calm toils of life. Yet, when her master's children would clustering round her stand, she sang them ancient ballads of her own native land ; and when at morn and evening she knelt before God's throne, the accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone. And so she dwelt : the valley more peaceful year by year ; when suddenly strange portents, of some great deed seemed near. The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk, while farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk. PROCTER. 193 The men seemed stern and altered, with looks cast on the ground ; with anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round ; all talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away ; the very children seemed afraid to go alone to play. One day, out in the meadow with strangers from the town, some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down : yet, now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain gleam that looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the stream. At eve they all assembled, then care and doubt were fled ; with jovial laugh they feasted ; the board was nobly spread. The elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand, and cried, " We drink the downfall of an accursed land ! " The night is growing darker, ere one more day is flown, o 194 VERSE SELECTIONS. Bregenz, our foemen's.strongbold, Bregenz shall be our own ! " The women shrank in terror, (yet Pride, too, had her part,) but one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within her heart. Before her, stood fair Bregenz ; once more her towers arose ; what were the friends beside her ? only her country's foes ! The faces of her kinsfolk, the days of childhood flown, the echoes of her mountains, reclaimed her as their own ! Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts rang forth again,) gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pasture, and the plain ; before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry, that said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, and then, if need be, die ! " With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step she sped ; horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed ; PROCTER. 196 5 loosed the strong white charger, hat fed from out her hand, 3 mounted, and she turned his head towards her native land. .t — out into the darkness — Faster, and still more fast ; 3 smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is past ; B looks up ; clouds are heavy : why is her steed so slow ?— jcely the wind beside them, can pass them as they go. faster ! " she cries, " Oh faster ! " eleven the church-bells chime : )h God," she cries, " help Bregenz, and bring me there in time ! " it louder than bells' ringing, ar lowing of the kine, ows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Ehine. lall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check ? le steed draws back in terror, she leans upon his neck watch the flowing darkness ; )he bank is high and steep ; VERSE SELECTIONS. one pause — he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep. She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein ; her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam, and see — in the far distance, shine out the lights of home ! Up the steep banks he bears her, and now, they rush again towards the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain. They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the midnight rings, and out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings. Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight her battlements are manned ; defiance greets the army that marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honour the noble Tyrol maid. PROCTER. 197 Be hundred years are vanished, id yet upon the hill lid stone gateway rises, I do her honour still. . there, when Bregenz women t spinning in the shade, T see in quaint old carving le Charger and the Maid. I when, to guard old Bregenz, y gateway, street, and tower, warder paces all night long, ad calls each passing hour ; le," " ten," " eleven," he cries aloud, ad then (Oh crown of Fame !) n midnight pauses in the skies, e calls the maiden's name ! THE EEQUITAL. ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. LoTJD roared the tempest, fast fell the sleet ; a little Child Angel passed down the street, with trailing pinions, and weary feet. VERSE SELECTIONS. The moon was hidden ; no stars were bright ; so she could not shelter in heaven that night, for the Angels' ladders are rays of light. She beat her wings at each window pane, and pleaded for shelter, but all in vain : — " Listen," they said, "To the pelting rain!" She sobbed, as the laughter and mirth grew higher, " Give me rest and shelter beside your fire, and I will give you your heart's desire." The dreamer sat watching his embers gleam, while his heart was floating down hope's bright stream ;- so he wove her wailing into his dream. PROCTEK. 199 The worker toiled on, for his time was brief ; the mourner was nursing her own pale grief : They heard not the promise that brought relief. But fiercer the tempest rose than before, when the Angel paused at a humble door, and asked for shelter and help once more. A weary woman, pale, worn, and thin, with the brand upon her of want and sin, heard the Child Angel and took her in. Took her in gently, and did her best to dry her pinions ; and made her rest with tender pity upon her breast. 200 VERSE SELECTIONS. When the eastern morning , grew bright and red, up the first sunbeam the Angel fled ; having kissed the woman and left her — dead. UNEXPEESSED. ADELAIDE A. PEOOTEB. Dwells within the soul of every Artist more than all his efi'ort can express ; and he knows the best remains unuttered ; sighing at what we call his success. Vainly he may strive ; he dare not tell us all the sacred mysteries of the skies : vainly he may strive ; the deepest beauty cannot be unveiled to mortal eyes. And the more devoutly that he listens, and the holier message that is sent, still the more his soul must struggle vainly, bowed beneath a noble discontent. No great Thinker ever lived and taught you all the wonder that his soul received ; no true Painter ever set on canvas all the glorious vision he conceived. PROCTER. 201 No Musician ever held your spirit charmed and bound in his melodious chains, but be sure he heard, and strove to render, feeble echoes of celestial strains. No real Poet ever wove in numbers all his dream ; but the diviner part, hidden from all the world, spake to him only in the voiceless silence of his heart. So with Love : for Love and Art united are twin mysteries ; dififerent, yet the same : poor indeed would be the love of any who could find its full and perfect name. Love may strive, but vain is the endeavour all its boundless riches to enfold ; stUl its tenderest, truest secret lingers ever in its deepest depths untold. Things of Time have voices : speak and perish. Art and Love speak — but their words must be like sighings of illimitable forests, and waves of an unfathomable sea. 202 VERSE SELECTIONS. THE CAEVEE'S LESSON. ADELAIDE A. PEOCTEE. Trust me, no mere skill of subtle tracery, no mere practice of a dexterous hand, will suffice, without a hidden spirit, that we may, or may not, understand. And those quaint old fragments that are left us have their power in this ; — the- Carver brought earnest care, and reverent patience, only worthily to clothe some noble thought. Shut, then, in the petals of the flowers, — round the stems of all the lilies, twine, — hide, beneath each bird's or angel's pinion, — some wise meaning or some thought divine ; place in stony hands that pray for ever, tender words of peace ; and strive to wind round the leafy scrolls and fretted niches, some true, loving message to your kind. Some will praise, some blame, and, soon forgetting, •come and go, nor even pause to gaze ; only now and then a passing stranger just may loiter with a word of praise. PROCTER. 203 But, I think, when years have floated onward, — and the stone is grey, and dim, and old, — and the hand forgotten that has carved it, — and the heart that dream't it still and cold, — there may come some weary soul, o'erladen with perplexed struggle in his hrain, or, it may be, fretted with life's turmoil, or made sore with some perpetual pain : then, I think, those stony hands will open, and the gentle lilies overflow, with the blessing and the loving token that you hid there many years ago ; and the tendrils will unroll, and teach him how to solve the problem of his pain ; and the birds' and angels' wings shake downward on his heart a sweet and tender rain : while he marvels at his fancy, reading meaning in that quaint and ancient scroll ; little guessing that the loving Carver left a message for his weary soul. 204 TERSE SELECTIONS. THE HEEITAGE. J. B. LOWELL. The Eich Man's Son inherits lands, and piles of brick, and stone, and gold ; and he inherits soft white hands, and tender flesh that fears the cold — nor dares to wear a garment old : a heritage it seems to me, one scarce would wish to hold in fee. The Eich Man's Son inherits cares : the bank may break — the factory burn ; a breath may burst his bubble shares ; and soft white hands could hardly earn a living that would serve his turn. The Eich Man's Son inherits wants : his stomach craves for dainty fare ; with sated heart, he hears the pants of toiling hinds, with brown arms bare, and wearies in his easy-chair. What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit ? Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart, a hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; king of two hands, he does his part LOWELL. 205 in every useful toil and art : a heritage it seems to me, a King might wish to hold in fee. What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit ? Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things ; a rank adjudged by toil-won merit, content that from employment springs, a heart that in his labour sings. What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit ? A patience learnt of being poor ; courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, a fellow-feeling that is sure to make the outcast bless his door. Oh ! Eich Man's Son, there is a toil that with all others level stands ; large charity doth never soil, but only whiten, soft white hands — this is the best crop from thy lands ; a heritage, it seems to me, worth being rich to hold in fee. . . . Oh ! Poor Man's Son, scorn not thy state ; there is worse weariness than thine in merely being rich and great ; toil, only, gives a soul to shine and makes rest fragrant and benign ! 206 VERSE SELECTIONS. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, are equal in the earth at last ; both, children of the same great God, prove title to your heirship vast by record of a well-spent past ; a heritage, it seems to me, well worth a life to hold in fee. THE DEATH OF GOEDON. GEOBGE MACDONALD. The silence of traitorous feet ! The silence of close-pent rage ! The roar ! and the sudden heart-beat ! and the shot through the true heart going, the truest heart of the age ! And the Nile serenely flowing ! Carnage and curses and cries ; and he says never a word ! Still as a child he lies ! The wind of the desert is blowing across the dead man of the Lord ! And the Nile is softly flowing. MACDONALD. 207 But the song is stilled in heaven to welcome one more king, who for the truth hath striven, and let the world go crowing, and Mammon's church-bell go ring, and the Nile blood-red go flowing. Man ! who hated the sword, yet wielded the sword and axe — Farewell ! Arm of the Lord, the Lord's own harvest mowing, with a wind in the smoking flax, where our riVers are turgidly flowing ! In war thou, didst cherish peace ; in death wast in love with life ; from discord hail thy release ! Go home and await thy sowing, the patient flower of thy strife, thy bread on the Nile cast flowing ! Not thy earth to our earth alone — thy spirit is left to us ! Thy soul and thyself are gone, but we love thee beyond all showing. Would that we others died thus, where the Thames or the Clyde go flowing ! 208 VEESE SELECTIONS. THE LIGHT OF ASIA. SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. " I WILL depart," he spake, " the hour is come ! Thy tender lips, dear sleeper, summon me to that which saves the earth but sunders us ; and in the silence of yon sky I read my fated message flashing. Unto this came I, and unto this all nights and days have led me ; for I will not have that crown which may be mine : I lay aside those realms which wait the gleaming of my naked sword : my chariot shall not roll with bloody wheels from victory to victory till earth wears the red record of my name. I choose to tread its path with patient, stainless feet, making its dust my bed, its loneliest wastes my dwelling, and its meanest things my mates ; clad in no prouder garb than outcasts wear, fed with no meats save what the charitable give of their will, sheltered by no more pomp than the dim cave lends, or the jungle-bush. This will I do because the woful cry of life and all flesh living cometh up into my ears, and all my soul is full of pity for the sickness of this world ; ARNOLD. 209 which I -will heal, if healing may be found by uttermost renouncing and strong strife. ***** " Yea, if one might save ! and means must be ! There must be refuge ! Men perished in winter winds till one smote fire from flint-stones coldly hiding what they held, the red spark treasured from the kindling sun. They gorged on flesh like wolves, till one sowed corn, which grew a weed, yet makes the life of man ; they mowed and babbled till some tongue struck speech, and patient fingers framed the lettered sound. What good gift have my brothers, but it came from search and strife and loving sacrifice ? If one, then, being great and fortunate, rich, dowered with health and ease, from birth de- signed to rule — ^if he would rule — a King of kings ; if one, not tired with life's long day, but glad i' the freshness of its morning, one not cloyed with love's delicious feasts, but hungry still ; if one not worn and wrinkled, sadly sage, but joyous in the glory and the grace that mix with evils here, and free to choose earth's loveliest at his will : one even as I, who ache not, lack not, grieve not, save with griefs which are, not mine, except as I am man; — if such a one, having so much to give, p 210 VERSE SELECTIONS. gave all, laying it down for love of men, and thenceforth spent himself to search for truth, wringing the secret of deliverance forth, whether it lurk in hells or hide in heavens, or hover, unrevealed, nigh unto all : surely, at last, far off, sometime, somewhere, the veil would lift for his deep-searching eyes, the road would open for his painful feet, that should be won for which he lost the world, and Death might find him conqueror of death. This will I do, who have a realm to lose, because I love my realm, because my heart beats with each throb of all the hearts that ache, known and unknown, these that are mine and those which shall be mine, a thousand million more saved by this sacrifice I offer now. Oh, summoning stars ! I come ! Oh, mournful earth ! for thee and thine I lay aside my youth, my throne, my joys, my golden days, my nights, my happy palace — and thine arms, sweet Queen ! harder to put aside than all the rest ! Yet thee, too, I shall save, saving this earth ; . . . . Now am I fixed, and now I will depart, never to come again, till what I seek be found — ^if fervent search and strife avail." So, with his brow he touched her feet, and bent the farewell of fond eyes,, unutterable, upon her sleeping face, still wet with tears ; and thrice around the bed in reverence, ARNOLD. 211 as though it were an altar, softly stepped, with clasped hands laid upon his beating heart, " For never," spake he, " lie I there again ! " And thrice he made to go, but thrice came back, so strong her beauty was, so large his love : then, o'er his head drawing his cloth, he turned and raised the purdah's edge : There drooped, close-hushed, in such sealed sleep as water-lilies know, that lovely garden of his Indian girls ; the twin dark-petalled lotus-buds of all — Gunga and Gotami — on either side, and those, their silk-leaved sisterhood, beyond. " Pleasant ye are to me, sweet friends ! " he said, " and dear to leave ; yet, if I leave ye not, what else will come to all of us save eld without assuage and death without avail ? Lo ! as ye lie asleep so must ye lie a-dead ; and when the rose dies, where are gone its scent and splendour ? when the lamp is drained, whither is fled the flame ? Press heavy. Night ! upon their down-dropped lids, and seal their lips, that no tear stay me and no faithful voice. For all the brighter that these made my life, the bitterer it is that they and I, and all, should live as trees do — so much spring, such and such rains and frosts, such winter-times, and then dead leaves, with maybe spring again, or axe-stroke at the root. This will not I, 212 VERSE SELECTIONS. whose life here was a god's ! — this would not I, though all my days were godlike, while men moan under their darkness. Therefore, farewell, friends ! while life is good to give, I give, and go to seek deliverance and that unknown Light ! " Then, lightly treading where those sleepers lay, into the night Siddartha passed : its eyes, the watchful stars, looked love on him : its breath, the wandering wind, kissed his robe's fluttered fringe ; the garden-blossoms, folded for the dawn, opened their velvet hearts to waft him scents from pink and purple censers : o'er the land, from Himalay unto the Indian Sea, a tremor spread, as if earth's soul beneath stirred with an unknown hope ; and holy books — which tell the story of our Lord — say, too, that rich celestial musics thrilled the air from hosts on hosts of shining ones, who thronged eastward and westward, making bright the night — northward and southward, making glad the ground. Also those four dread Eegents of the Earth, descending at the doorway, two by two, — with theii: bright legions of Invisibles in arms of sapphire, silver, gold, and pearl — watched with joined hands thelndian Prince, who stood, his tearful eyes raised to the stars, and lips close-set with purpose of prodigious love. ARNOLD. 213 Then strode he forth into the gloom, ***** and so he passed free from the palace. Book iv. (By kind permission of the Author, and of Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, Triibner and Co.) THE LIGHT OP THE WOELD. SIR EDWIN ABNOLD. Clear silver water in a cup of gold, under the sunlit steeps of Gadara, it shines — His lake — the Sea of Chinnereth — the waves He loved, the waves that kissed His feet so many blessed days. Oh, happy waves ! Oh, little, silver, happy sea, far famed, under the sunlit steeps of Gadara ! Fair is the scene still, tlio' the grace is gone, . . . ****** Now all is changed — all save the changeless things — the mountains, and the waters, and the sky — these, as He saw them, have their glory yet at sunrise, and at sunset ; and when noon burns the blue vault into a cope of gold. And ofttimes, in the Syrian spring, steals back well-nigh the ancient beauty to those coasts where Christ's feet trod. That lily which He loved and praised for splendour passing Solomon's— the scarlet martagon — decks herself still, 214 VERSE SELECTIONS. mindful of His high words, in red and gold, to meet the step of summer. Cyclamens lift their pale heads to see if He will pass ; and amaryllis and white hyacinths pour from their pearly vases spikenard forth lest He should come unhonoured. In His paths still, as of old, the lowly crocus spreads a golden carpet for Him ; and the birds — BmpiU almoners of Heaven, as once He said, who fall not unregarded — ^trill their hymns of lively love and thanks, in every thorn. jlr ^ ^ j|^ j|^ ^It [Here Mary, in her hoiise at Magdala, speaks to a worshipper from far-off lands.'] " Mark with thine eyes what land this is in Spring ! the meadows cloth of gold, damasked and decked with silk-leaved country-blossoms, and the hUls girt with green forests, and with budding vines ; their feet set deep in barley-fields and groves of fig and olive ; where another world of sunshine-loving people live — the doves, the painted finches, and the crested larks, brook tortoises, and storks, with busy swarms of banded bees, crickets, and creeping things, nowise forgotten, taking share of earth. He led us — Lord of lovely pastorals — through these fair paths, grown to seem Paradise, Heaven being so near. Women and children drew — bright with the light of Love's new kingdom come — ARNOLD. 216 into His train : and gave Him laughing guards of little ones, who clustered round His knees — ■wiser and bolder than we others were ; of dark-eyed wistful Syrian wives and maids, glad to be poor, because He loved the poor and made them wealthy with His word. The lake, the lonely peaks, the valleys, lily-lit, were synagogues. The simplest sights we met — the sower flinging seed on loam and rock ; the darnel in the wheat ; the mustard tree that hath its seed so little, and its boughs widespreading ; and the wandering sheep ; and nets shot in the wimpled waters, — drawing forth great fish and small : — these, and a hundred such, ^ seen by us daily, never seen aright, were pictures for Him from the page of life, teaching by parable." ****** " I heard him teach — sitting in Simon's boat, moored by those sands which fringe Bethsaida — ^making plain and known that farther Kingdom, nigh unto us all, yea, * at our very gates.' And when He passed at nightfall to the mountain, communing with Heaven, which loved Him, and His own high soul, under the stars — less touched by taint than they I — it was as though another golden Sun set from our eyes : till darkness fled again and brought back dawn, and that diviner light 216 TERSE SELECTIONS. shed from Him. Ah, the Kingdom ! ****** Look ! one word ! and like the walls of Jericho which fell to music, or a sunshine-parted cloud, He burst the bars. He lightly lifted up earth's painted veil, and showed us — close beyond, infinite, clear, — eternal life, decreed not for to-morrow, or hereafter — no ! — already round, and in, and over us, already ours to enter and possess ; always existing, always nigh ; shut off some little while by sense, which having eyes, sees not ; and, hearing, hears not ; for some while by body darkened. But He said : ' Fear not those who can kill the body, and, on that, have nothing they can do ! ' So did we learn, walking in those dear footsteps,' scorn of Death which could not keep its dead, if He bade yield, but is Life's gate-porter, holding the keys to larger worlds and larger : — ' Many mansions are in My Father's House ! ' this would He say with great eyes on the stars. Thus did He bring our glad souls daily, by His glorious words, into the Kingdom of the Spirit. There the sorrowful and shamed are comforted ; the humble are exalted ; and the meek ARNOID. 217 inherit good. The pure in heart see God ; the merciful find mercy. Those that wept, dry their glad eyes ; the peacemakers have praise ; and they who hungered after righteousness with righteousness are filled. No dream ! no draught of Fancy's frenzied wine-cup ; ecstacy of musing drugged with Faith's fine mandragore ! but the words true as daylight ; plain and straight the way, as paths in meadows ; clear the voice calling to airs celestial, as of Morn bidding with breezy lips the world awake. Surer than any joy the heart can know, bliss of that sudden hour when each for each knows Heaven so nigh ! Only to let go earth, to let go, listen, love, and have: — for then the Kingdom came ! Came ! and we did not need to merit, or to seek, or strive, or wait : we needed but to know Him One with God, and we with Him, and then His peace was ours ! We heard Him utter ' Fear not, little flock ! it is your Father's joy to give to you the Kingdom.' " (By kind permission of the Author, and of Messrs, Longmans, Green and Co.) SELECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE. Next to the Book of Common Prayer and the Holy Bible, every one should study the works of WUliam Shakespeare ; moreover, there is" no better practice for the Elocutionist. We append a list of some passages that ■win be useful for Eeading and Eecitation, but as so many handy and excellent editions of Shakespeare are now pub- lished, it has not been thought necessary to print all in full. Many other selections might be added. LIST OF SELECTIONS. Julius Cjesab, Act i. Scene 1. Indeed, sir, . . . ingratitude. . i.2. Brutus. What means this shouting ? . . . one only man. iii. 1. Brutus. But here comes Antony. . . . groaning for burial. iii. 2. Citizen. The noble Brutus is ascended. . . . what course thou wilt. iv. 3. Cassias. That you have wronged me . . . leave you so. ■ V. 1. Cassius, Now, mdst noble Brutus > . . Come, ho I away I V. 5. Antony. This was the noblest Boman . . . ' This was a man.' Antony and Cleofatba, ii. 2. Enobarhus. The barge she sat in . . . what his eyes eat only. Age cannot wither her . . . where most she satisfies, [omitting the interpolations of Agr.] King John, iii. 3. K. John. Come hither, Hubert . . . Bemember. iv. i. [The whole.] iv. 2. Hubert. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night : . , . [to end]. 222 SELECTIONS FROM K. BiCHAED II., ii. 1. Qcmmt. Methinks I am a prophet new inspired. . . . This royal throne of kings . . . my ensuing death. iv. i. Bi&hop. What subject can give sentence on his king? . . . Woe! K. Henry IV., Pt. 1, i. 1. King. So shaken . . - the bitter Cross. i. 2. Prince of Wales (alone). I know you all . . . [to end]. ii. 4. Foins. Welcome, Jack : ... an thou lovest me I iii. 2. King, Lords, give us leave . . . sovereign trust herein. K. Henry IV., Pt. 2, iu. 1. King. How many thousand . . . wears a crown. iv. 6. Kimg, Let there be no noise . . . rightfully maintain. K. Henry V., iv. [The whole.] V. 2. King. Pair Katharine . . . petition of monarchs. K. Richard III., i. 4. [Begin.] . . . the outward fame. K. Henry VIII., ii. 4. Queen Kaiha/rine. Sir, I desire you ... in any of their courts iii. 2. Ohamberlain, O, my lord, press not a falling man . . . his great self. Nwfotk. So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal ... [to end]. SHAEESFEABE. 223 iv. 2. [Begin.] . . . hannony I go to. ******* Grif&th, farewell. Nay, Patience ... [to end]. Othello, i. 3. Othello. Most potent , . . witchcraft I have used. ii. 3. Oassio. Beputation [arranged] . . . ingredient is a devil. Hamlet, i. 3. [Begin.] . . . Farewell. [Exit Laertes. i. 5. [Begin.] . . . Hamlet, remember me. [Eayit Ghost. iii. 1. Samlet. To be or not to be . . . lose the name of action. iii. 2. Hamlet. Speak the speech . . . Go, make you ready. iii. 3. Folomus. My lord, he's going to his mother's closet ... [to end]. iii. 4. [Begin.] . . . Worse remains behind. Macbeth, i. 5, 7. [The whole.] ii. 1. Macbeth. Go, bid thy mistress ... [to end]. EoMEo AND Juliet, i. 4. Borneo. I dream'd a dream to-night . . . and sleeps again. ii. 2, 3, 5, 6. [The whole.] iii. 5. '. [Begin.] . . . Adieu I adieu. 224 SELECTIONS FEOM SHAKESPEARE. iv. 1. JuUei. shut the door I ... [to end]. iv. 3. [The whole.] The Merchant of Venice, iii. 1, 2. [The whole.] iv. i. [The whole.] V. i. Lorenzo. How sweet the moonlight ... let no such man be trusted. [Or to end.] As You Like It, ii. 7. puke 8. Why, how now, monsieur. . . . sans everything. iii. 2. [Enter Oblando and Jacques.] Jacques. I thank you for your company . . . [end]. .iv.l. [Begin.] ... let Time try : adieu. SELECTIONS FEOM SHAKESPEAEE. JULIUS CiESAE. Act I., Scene 1. A Citizen. Indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Cassar and to rejoice in his triumph. Marullus. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home ? What tributaries follow him to Eome, to grace in captive bonds his chariot- wheels ? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things ! you hard hearts, you cruel men of Eome, knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft have you climbed up to walls and battlements, to towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, your infants in your arms, and there have sat the live-long day, with patient expectation, to see great Pompey pass the streets of Eome ; and when you saw his chariot but appear, have you not made an universal shout, Q 226 SHAKESPEARE. that Tiber trembled underneath her banks to hear the replication of your sounds made in her concave shores ? And do you now put on your best attire ? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way that comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ? Be gone ! Eun to your houses, fall upon your knees, pray to the gods to intermit the plague that needs must light on this ingratitude ! Act L, Scene 2. Brutus. What means this shouting ? I do fear, the people choose Csesar for their king. Cassius. Ay, do you fear it ? Then must I think you would not have it so. Bru. I would not, Cassius ; yet I love him well. But wherefore do you hold nje here so long ? What is it that you would impart to me ? If it be aught toward the general good, set honour in one eye and death i' the other, and I will look on both indifferently : for let the gods so speed me, as I love the name of honour more than I fear death. Caa. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, as well as I do know your outward favour. JULIUS C^SAK. 227 Well, honour is the subject of my story. — I cannot tell what you and other men think of this life ; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be, as live to be in awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Csesar ; so were you : we both have fed as well, and we can both endure the winter's cold as well as he : for once, upon a raw and gusty day, the troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me Da/r'st thou, Gassius, now leap in with me into this angry flood, and swim to yonder ptint ? Upon the word, accoutred as I was, I plunged in, and bade him follow : so, indeed, he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it with lusty sinews, throwing it aside and stemming it with hearts of controversy : but ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried Help me. Cassias, or I sink ! I, as ^neas, our great ancestor, did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder the old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber did I the tired Caesar. And this man is now become a god ; and Cassius is a wretched creature and must bend his body, if Cassar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, and when the fit was on him, I did mark 228 SHAEESFEAKE. how he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake : his coward lips did from their colour fly, and that same eye whose bend doth awe the world did lose his lustre : I did hear him groan : ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Eomans mark him and write his speeches in their books, alas ! it cried Give me some drink, Titinius, as a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me a man of such a feeble temper should so get the start of the rnajestic world and bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish. Bru. Another general shout ! I do believe that these applauses are for some new honours that are heap'd on Caesar. Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus ; and we petty men walk under his huge legs, and peep about to find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates : the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. ' Brutus ' and ' Csesar' : What should be in that ' Csesar ' ? Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? Write them together, yours is as fair a name ; sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ; weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure with 'em, ' Brutus ' will start a spirit as soon as ' Caesar.' Now, in the names of all the gods at once, JULIUS C^SAK. 229 upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, that he is grown so great ? Age, thou art sham'd ! Eome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods ! When went there by an age, since the great flood, but it was fam'd with more than with one man ? When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Eome, that her -v^ide walls encompass'd but one man ? Now is it Eome indeed, and room enough, when there is in it but one only man. Act III., Scene 1. Brutus. But here comes Antony. — ^Welcome, Mark Antony. Antony. mighty Caesar ! dost thou lie so low ? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure ? — Fare thee well.-^ I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, who else must be let blood, who else is rank : if I myself, there is no hour s6 fit as Caesar's death hour, nor no instrument of half that worth as those your swords, made rich with the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die : no place will please me so, no mean of death. 230 SHAKESPEARE. as here by Csssar, and by you cut off, the choice and master spirits of this age. Bru. Antony, beg not your death of us. ***** Only be patient, till we have appeas'd the multitude, beside themselves with fear, and then we will deliver you the cause, why I, that did love CsBsar when I struck him, have thus proceeded. Ant. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand : first, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you : next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand ; now, Decius Brutus, yours ; — now yours, Metellus ; yours, Cinna ; — and, my valiant Casca, yours ; — though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all, — alas ! what shall I say ? My credit now stands on such slippery ground, that one of two bad ways you must conceit me, either a coward or a flatterer. — That I did love thee, Csesar, ! 'tis true : if then thy spirit look upon us now, shall it not grieve thee, dearer than thy death, to see thy Antony making his peace, shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, most noble ! in the presence of thy corse ? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, it would become me better, than to close JULIUS C^SAB. 231 in terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius ! Here wast thou bay'd, brave hart : here didst thou fall ; and here thy hunters stand, sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy lethe. world ! thou wast the forest to this hart ; and this, indeed, world, the heart of thee. How like a deer, strucken by many princes, dost thou here lie ! Cassius, Mark Antony, Ant. Pardon me, Caius Cassius : the enemies of Caesar shall say this ; then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. Cas. I blame you not for praising Caesar so ; but what compact mean you to have with us ? Will you be prick'd in number of our friends ; or shall we on, and not depend on you ? Ant. Therefore I took your hands ; but was, indeed, Bway'd from the point, by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all, and love you all ; upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons why, and wherein, Caesar was dangerous. Bru. Or else were this a savage spectacle : our reasons are so full of good regard, that were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, you should be satisfied. Ant. That's all I seek : and am moreover suitor, that I may produce his body to the market-place ; and in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, 232 SHAKESPEARE. speak in the order of his funeral. Bru. You shall, Mark Antony. Cas. Brutus, a word with you. [Aside to Bkhtus.] You know not what you do ; do not consent that Antony speak in his funeral : know you how much the people may be moved by that which he will utter ? Bru. By your pardon ; I will myself into the pulpit first, and show the reason of our Caesar's death : what Antony shall speak, I will protest he speaks by leave and by permission ; and that we are contented Gsesar shall have all true rites and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong. Cas. I know not what may fall ; I like it not. Bru. Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar's body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, but speak all good you can devise of Caesar, and say you do't by our permission ; else shall you not have any hand at all about his funeral : and you shall speak in the same pulpit whereto I am going, after my speech is ended. Ant. Be it so ; I do desire no more. Bru. Prepare the body then, and follow us. [Exeunt all but Antony. JULIUS CiESAR. 233 Ant. 0, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, that I am meek and gentle with these butchers ! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man that ever lived in the tide of times; Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood ! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, — which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, to beg the voice and utterance of my tongue — A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ; domestic fury, and fierce civil strife, shall cumber all the parts of Italy : blood and destruction shall be so in use, and dreadful objects so familiar, that mothers shall but smUe, when they behold their infants quarter'd with the hands of war ; all pity choked with custom of fell deeds : and Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, with Ate by his side come hot from hell, shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war ; that this foul deed shall smell above the earth with carrion men, groaning for burial. 234 SHAKESPEARE. Act III., Scene 2. Brutus goes into the Pulpit. Citizen. The noble Brutus is ascended : silence ! Brutus. Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! Hear me for my cause ; and be silent, that you may hear : believe me for mine honour ; and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe : censure me in your wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer ; — Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Eome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves ; than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men ? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him : but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears, for his love ; joy, for his fortune ; honour, for his valour ; and death, for his ambition. "Who is here so base, that would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. JUXIUS C^SAB. 235 All. None, Brutus, none. Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Csesar, than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol : his glory not extentiated, wherein he was worthy ; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death. [Enter Antony and others, with Ccesa/r's hody."] Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony ; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth ; as which of you shall not ? With this I depart, — that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Eome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. All. Live, Brutus, live ! live ! 1 Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his house. 2 Cit. Give him a statue with his ancestors. 3 Git. Let him be Caesar. 4 Cit. Caesar's better parts shall be crowned in Brutus. 1 Cit. We'll bring him to his house with shouts and clamours. Bru. My countrymen, — 2 Cit. Peace ; silence ! Brutus speaks. 1 Cit. Peace, ho ! Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone, and, for my sake, stay here with Antony ; do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech 236 SHAKESPEAEE. tending to Csesar's glories, — -which Mark Antony, by our permission, is allowed to make, I do entreat you, not a man depart save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [Bbu. exit. 1 at. Stay, ho ! and let us hear Mark Antony. 3 Cit. Let him go up into the public chair ; we'll hear him : — noble Antony, go up. [Ant. mounts. Antony. For Brutus' sake, I am beholding to you. 4 Cit. What does he say of Brutus ? 3 Cit. He says, for Brutus' sake, he £nds himself beholding to us all. 4 Git. 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here. 1 Cit. This Caesar was a tyrant. 3 Cit. Nay : that's certain : we are bless'd, that Eome is rid of him. 2 Cit. Peace ! let us hear what Antony can say. Ant. You gentle Eomans, — Cit. Peace, ho ! let us hear him. Ant. Friends, Eomans,' countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him : the evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones ; BO let it be with Caesar ! — The noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious : if it were so, it was a grievous fault ; and grievously hath Caesar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest — JULIUS C^SAE. 237 for Brutus is an honourable man ; so are they all, all honourable men — come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me : but Brutus says he was ambitious ; and Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Eome, whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept : ambition should be made of sterner stuff ; yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; and Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown, which he did thrice refuse : was this ambition ? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; and, sure, he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, but here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause ; , what cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him ? Judgement ! thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me : my heart is in the cof&n there with Caesar, and I must pause till it come back to me. 1 Cit. Methinks, there is much reason in his sayings. 2 Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Caesar has had great wrong. 238 SHAKESPEARE. 3 Cit. Has he, masters? I fear, there -will a worse come in his place. 4 Cit. Mark'd ye his words ? He would not take the crown ; therefore, 'tis certain, he was not ambitious. 1 Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. 2 Cit. Poor soul! hiseyesare red as fire with weeping. 3 Cit. There's not a nobler man in Eome, than Antony. 4 Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak. Ant. But yesterday the word of Caesar might have stood against the world : now lies he there, and none so poor to do him reverence. masters ! if I were disposed to stir your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, who, you all know, are honourable men : I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose to wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, than I will wrong such honourable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar, I found it in his closet, 'tis his will : let but the commons hear this testament — , which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, — and they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds and dip their napkins in his sacred blood, yea, beg a hair of him for memory, and, dying, mention it within their willSj bequeathing it as a rich legacy JULIUS C^SAK. 239 unto their issue. 4 Cit. We'll hear the will : read it, Mark Antony. Cit. The will, the will ! we will hear Caesar's will. Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it ; it is not meet you know how Csesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; and, being men, hearing the will of Csesar, it will inflame you, it will make you mad : 'tis good you know not that you are his heirs ; for, if you should, 0, what would come of it ! 4 Cit. Eead the will ; we 'ill hear it, Antony : you shall read us the will ; Caesar's will. Ant. Will you be patient ? Will you stay awhile ? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honourable men whose daggers have stabbed Caesar ; I do fear it. 4 Cit. They were traitors : honourable men ! All. The wiU ! the testament ! 2 Cit. They were villains, murderers : the will ! read the will ! Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the wiir? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, and let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend ? And will you give me leave ? Cit. Come down. 2 Git. Descend. 8 Cit. You shall have leave. [He comes down from the pulpit. 240 SHAKESPEABE. 4 Cit. A ring ; stand round. 1 Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. 2 Cit. Eoom for Antony, most noble Antony. Ant. Nay, press not so upon me ; stand far off. Several cit. Stand back ! Eoom ! Bear back ! Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle : I remember the first time ever Caesar put it on ; 'twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, that day he overcame the Nervii : — Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through : , see what a rent the envious Casca made : through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ; and, as he plucked his cursed steel away, mark how the blood of Csssar followed it, as rushing out of doors, to be resolved if Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; — for Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel. Judge, ye gods, how dearly Csesar loved him ! This was the most unkindest cut of all ; for when the noble Csesar saw him stab, ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart ; and, in his mantle muffling up his face, even at the base of Pompey's statua — which all the while ran blood — great Csesar fell. 0, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down, whilst bloody treason flourished over us. JULIUS CiESAR. 241 0, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel the dint of pity : these are gracious drops. Kind souls ! — what ! weep you when you but behold our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here, here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. 1 Cit. piteous spectacle ! 2 Cit. noble Csesar ! 3 Git. woful day ! 4 Cit. traitors, villains ! 1 Cit. most bloody sight ! 2 Cit. We will be revenged. All. Eevenge ! About ! Seek ! Burn ! Fire ! Kill l.Slay ! Let not a traitor live. Ant. Stay, countrymen ! 1 Cit. Peace there ! Hear the noble Antony. 2 Cit. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him. Ant. Good friends ! sweet friends ! let me not stir you up to such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable : what private griefs they have, alas ! I know not, that made them do it : they are wise and honourable, and will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; I am no orator, as Brutus is ; but, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, that love my friend ; — and that they know full well that gave me public leave to speak of him : — 242 SHAKESPEARE. for I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, to stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; , I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; show you sweet Csesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, and bid them speak for me : but were I Brutus, and Brutus Antony, there were an Antony would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue in every wound of Caesar, that should move the stones of Eome to rise and mutiny. All. We'll mutiny. 1 Cit. We'll burn the house of Brutus. 3 Cit. Away then, come, seek the conspirators. Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me speak. All. Peace, ho ! hear Antony. Most noble Antony ! Ant. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein hath Cassar thus deserved your loves ? Alas, you know not : I must tell you, then : you have forgot the will I told you of All. Most true ; the will ! Let's stay and hear the will. Ant. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. To every Eoman citizen he gives, to every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 2 Cit. Most noble Caesar ! we'll revenge his death. 3 Cit. royal Caesar ! Ant. Hear me with patience. JULIUS C-ESAR. 243 All. Peace, ho ! Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, his private arbours, and new planted orchards, on this side Tiber ; he hath left them you, and to your heirs for ever, common pleasures, to walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar ! when comes such another ? 1 Cit. Never, never. Come, away, away ! We'll burn his body in the holy place, and with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take up the body. 2 Cit. Go fetch fire. 3 Cit. Pluck down benches. 4 Cit. Pluck down forms, windows, anything. [Exeunt Citizens, with the body. Ant. Now let it work ! Mischief, thou art afoot, take thou what course thou wilt ! Act IV., Scene 3. Brutus's Tent. Cassius. That you have wronged me doth appear in this : — you have condemned iand noted Lucius Pella for taking bribes here of the Sardians ; wherein my letters (praying on his side, because I knew the man) were slighted off. Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. 244 SHAKESPEARE. Gas. In such a time as this, it is not meet that every nice offence should bear his comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm ; to sell and mart your of&ces for gold to undeservers. Cas. I an itching pahn ! You know that you are Brutus that speak this ; or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, and chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement! Bru. Eemember March, the ides of March remember ! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? What villain touched his body, that did stab, and not for justice ? What ! shall one of us, that struck the foremost man of all this world but for supporting robbers, — shall we now contaminate our fingers with base bribes, and sell the mighty space of our large honours, for so much trash as may be grasped thus ? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, than such a Eoman. Cas. Brutus, bay not me ! I'll not endure it; you forget yourself, to hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, older in practice, abler than yourself to make conditions. juiitrs C^SAR. 245 Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say, you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ; have mind upon your health, tempt me no further. Bru. Away, slight man ! Cas. Is 't possible ? Bru. Hear me ; for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? Cas. ye gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this ? Bru. All this? ay, more. Fret, till your proud heart break ; go, show your slaves how choleric you i are, and make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch under your testy humour ? By the gods, you shall digest the venom of your spleen, though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, when you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this ? Bru. You say you are a better soldier ; let it appear so : make your vaunting true, and it shall please me well : for mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus ; I said an elder soldier, not a better ; 246 SHAKESPEARE. did I say better ? < Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I 3wrst not ! Bru. No. Cas. What ! durst not tempt him ? Bru. For your life you durst not, Gas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; for I am armed so strong in honesty, that they pass by me as the idle wind which I respect not. I did send to you for certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; for I can raise no money by vile means : by heaven ! I had rather coin my heart, and drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring from the hard hands of peasants, their vile trash, by any indirection. I did send to you for gold ^o pay my legions, which you denied me : was that done like Cassius ? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, to lock such rascal counters from his friends, be ready, gods ! with all your thunderbolts, JULIUS C^SAR. 247 dash him to pieces ! Gas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Gas. I did not ; — he was but a fool that brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart. A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, but Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. Gas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Gas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear as huge as high Olympus. Gas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come ! revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, for Cassius is a-weary of the world ; hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, to cast into my teeth. 0, I could weep my spirit from mine eyes ! There is my dagger, and here my naked breast ; within, a heart dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : if that thou be'st a Eoman, take it forth ; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : strike, as thou didst at Csesar ; for, I know, when thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. 248 SHAKESPEARE. Bru. Sheathe your dagger. Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. Gassius, you are yoked with a lamb that carries anger as the flint bears fire ; who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, and straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassias lived to be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, when grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him ? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too. Cas. Brutus ! Bru. What's the matter ? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humour which my mother gave me makes me forgetful ? Bru. Yes, Gassius ; and, from henceforthj when you are over-earnest with your Brutus, he'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. jULitrs c^sAE. 249 Act v., Scene 1. The Plains of Philippi. Cassius. Now, most noble Brutus, the gods to-day stand friendly, that we may, lovers in peace, lead on our days to age ! But, since the affairs of men rest still incertain, let's reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is this the very last time we shall speak together. Brutus. This same day must end that work the ides of March begun ; and whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take : — For ever and for ever, farewell, Cassius ! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile ; if not, why then this parting was well made. Gas. For ever and for ever, farewell, Brutus ! If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed ; if not, 'tis true this parting was well made. Bru. Why, then, lead on. 0, that a man might know the end of this day's business ere it come ! But it sufficeth that the day will end, and then the end is known. Come, ho ! away ! 250 SHAKESPEARE. * * Scene 5. * * Antony. {Over the body of Bbutxjs.) This was the noblest Eoman of them all : all the conspirators, save only he, did that they did in envy of great Caesar ; he only, in a general honest thought and common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, -and the elements so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and say to all the world " This was a man! " ANTONY AND CIEOPATEA. 251 ANTONY AND CLBOPATEA. Act II., Scene 2. Enobarbus. The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, burn'd on the water : the poop was beaten gold ; purple the sails, and so perfumed that the winds were love-sick with them : the oars were silver, which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made the water which they beat to follow faster, as amorous of their strokes. For her own person, it beggar'd all description : she did lie in her pavilion (cloth-of-gold, of tissue), o'er-picturing that Venus, where we see the fancy outwork nature : on each side her stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, with divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did seem to glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, and what they undid, did. . . . Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, so many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, and made their bends adornings : at the helm a seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, that yarely frame the office. From the barge 262 SHAKESPEARE. a strange invisible perfume hits the sense of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast her people out upon her ; and Antony, enthron'd i' the market-place, did sit alone, whistling to the air ; which, but for vacancy, had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, and made a gap in nature. . . . Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, invited her to supper : she replied, it should be better he became her guest ; which she entreated : our courteous Antony, whom ne'er the word of No woman heard speak, being barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast ; and, for his ordinary, pays his heart for what his eyes eat only. . . . Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety : other women cloy the appetites they feed ; but she makes hungry where most she satisfies. KING JOHN. 253 KING JOHN. Act III., Scene 3. King John. Gome hither, Hubert. my gentle Hubert, we owe thee much ; within this wall of flesh there is a soul counts thee her creditor, and with advantage means to pay thy love : and, my good friend, thy voluntary oath lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, — but I will fit it with some better time. By -heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed to say what good respect I have of thee. Hubert. I am much bounden to your majesty. K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet: but thou shalt have ; and creep time ne'er so slow, yet it shall come, for me to do thee good. I had a thing to say ; — but let it go : the sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, attended with the pleasures of the world, is all too wanton, and too full of gawds, to give me audience : — If the midnight bell did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, sound on into the drowsy race of night ; 254 SHAKESPEARE. if this same were a churchyard where we stand, and thou possessed with a thousand wrongs ; or if that surly spirit, Melancholy, had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick, — which else runs tickling up and down the veins, making that idiot, Laughter, keep men's eyes and strain their cheeks to idle merriment, a passion hateful to my purposes ; — or if that thou could'st see me without eyes, hear me^without thine ears, and make reply without a tongue, using conceit alone, without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words ; then, in despite of brooded watchful day, I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts. But ah, I will not : — Yet I love thee well ; And, by my troth, I think, thou lovest me well. Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake, though that my death were adjunct to my act, by heaven, I would do it. K. John. Do not I know thou would'st Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye on yon young boy : I'll tell thee what, my friend, he is a very serpent in my way ; and wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, he lies before me : dost thou understand me ? thou art his keeper. Hub. And I '11 keep him so, that he shall not offend your majesty. K, John. Death. KING JOHN. 255 Hub. My lord ? K. John. A grave. Hub. He shall not live. K. John. Enough. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee ; well, I'll not say what I intend for thee ; remember. Act IV., Scene 1. A Room in a Castle. Hubert. Heat me these irons hot : and look thou stand within the arras : when I strike my foot upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, and bind the boy which you shall find with me fast to the chair. Be heedful ! hence, and watch. 1 Attendcmt. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! Fear not you : look to't. — [Exeunt Attendants. Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with you. Enter Abthue. Arthv/r. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince), as may be. — You are sad. 266 SHAKESPEARE, Huh. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arih. Mercy on me ! Methinks nobody should be sad but I : yet, I remember, when I was in France, young gentlemen would be as sad as night, only for wantonness. By my Christendom, BO I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long ; and so I would be here, but that I doubt my uncle practises more harm to me : he is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son ? No, indeed, is't not ; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Huh. \_Asid,e.'\ If Italk to him, with his innocent prate he will awake my mercy, which lies dead : therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day: in sooth, I would you were a little sick, that I might sit all night and watch with you : I warrant, I love you more than yon do me. Huh. [Aside.'l His words do take possession of my bosom. Eead here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper. Y lAside.] How now, foolish rheum ! Turning dispiteous torture out of door ! I must be brief, lest resolution drop out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears. Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ? KINS JOHN. 257 Arih. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect : must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? Hub. Young boy, I must. Arth. And will you ? Huh. And I will. Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkercher about your brows, the best I had, a princess wrought it me, and I did never ask it you again : and with my hand at midnight held your head ; and, like the watchful minutes to the hour, still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time, saying. What lack yon ? and Where lies your grief? or What good love may I perform for you ? Many a poor man's son would have lien still, and ne'er have spoke a loving word to you ; but you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, and caU it cunning ; do, an if you will : if heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill, why then you must. — Will you put out mine eyes ? These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, so much as frown on you ? Hub. I have sworn to do it ; and with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it ! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, s 258 SHAKESPEARE. and quench his fiery indignation even in the matter of mine innocence : nay, after that, consume away in rust, but for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ? An if an angel should have come to me and told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believ'd him, — no tongue but' Hubert's. Hub. Come forth. [Stamps. [Re-enter Attendants, with Cords, Irons, dc] Do as I bid you do. Arth. save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out, even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Hvib. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. Arth. Alas ! what need you be so boisterous-rough ? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ! Nay, hear me, Hubert ! drive these men away, and I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, nor look upon the iron angerly. Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, whatever torment you do put me to. Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 1 Attend. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed. [Exeunt Attendants. KING JOHN. 259 Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend ; he hath a stern look, but a gentle heart ; — let him come back, that his compassion may give life to yours. Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy ? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. heaven ! — that there were but a mote in yours, a grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, any annoyance in that precious sense ! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue. Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes ; let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert ! Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, so I may keep mine eyes : 0, spare mine eyes, though to no use but still to look on you ! Lo ! by my troth, the instrument is cold, and would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, being create for comfort, to be used in undeserved extremes : see else yourself ; there is no malice in this burning coal ; the breath of heaven has blown his spirit out. 260 SHAKESPEARE. and etrew'd repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. An if you do, you will but make it blush and glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert : nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes ; and, like a dog that is compell'd to fight, snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong deny their office : only you do lack that mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends,-^ creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. Huh. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eye for all the treasure that thine uncle owes : yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, with this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. ! now you look like Hubert ! all this while you were disguised. Hub. Peace ! no more. Adieu : your uncle must not know but you are dead : I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports ; and, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure, that Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, will not offend thee. Arth. heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert. Huh. Silence ! no more. Go closely in with me ; . much danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt KING JOHN. 261 Scene 2. In the Palace. Huh. My lord, they say five moons were seen to- night : four fixed ; and the fifth did whirl about the other four, in wondrous motion. K. John. Five moons ! Huh. Old men and beldams in the streets do prophesy upon it dangerously. Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths : and when they talk of him, they shake their heads and whisper one another in the ear ; and he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist, . whilst he that hears makes fearful action, with wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. — I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, the whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, with open mouth swallowing a tailor's news ; who, with his shears and measure in his hand, standing on slippers which his nimble haste had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, told of a many thousand warlike French, that were embattailed and rank'd in Kent : another lean unwash'd artificer cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death. K. John. Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears ? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death ? 262 SHAKESPEARE. Thy hand hath murder'd him: I had a mighty cause to wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. Huh. No had, my lord ! why, did you not provoke me? K. John. It is the curse of kings to be attended by slaves that take their humours for a warrant to break within the bloody house of life ; and, on the winking of authority, to understand a law ; to know the meaning of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns more upon humour than advis'd respect. Huh. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. K. John. 0, wheh the last account 'twixt heaven and earth is to be made, then shall this hand and seal witness against us to damnation ! How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, makes deeds ill done ! Hadst not thou been by, a fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, quoted, and sign'd, to do a deed of shame, this murder had not come into my mind : but taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect, finding thee fit for bloody villainy, apt, liable to be employ'd in danger, I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death ; and thou, to be endeared to a king, made it no conscience to destroy a prince. Huh. My lord, KING JOHN. ■ 263 K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause, when I spake darkly what I purposed, — or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face, as bid me tell my tale in express words, — deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, and those thy fears might have wrought fears in me : but thou didst understand me by my signs, and didst in signs again parley with sin ; yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, and consequently thy rude hand to act the deed, which both our tongues held vile to name. Out of my sight, and never see me more ! My nobles leave me ; and my state is braved, even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers ; — nay, in the body of this fleshly land, this kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, hostility and civil tumult reigns between my conscience and my cousin's death. Huh. Arm you against your other enemies, I'll make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive : this hand of mine is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never enter'd yet the dreadful motion of a murderous thought ; and you have slander'd nature in my form, which, howsoever rude exteriorly, is yet the cover of a fairer mind 264 SHAKESPEARE. than to be butcher of an innocent child. K. John. Doth Arthur live ? ! haste thee to the peers, throw this report on their incensed rage, and make them tame to their obedience. Forgive the comment that my passion made upon thy feature ; for my rage was blind, and foul imaginary eyes of blood presented thee more hideous than thou art. 0, answer not ; but to my closet bring the angry lords, with all expedient haste : I conjure thee but slowly ; run more fast. Scene 3. Prince Arthur on the Castle Walls. Arth. The wall is high ; and yet will I leap down : good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not ! There 's few, or none, do know me ; if they did, this ship-boy's semblance hath disguised me quite. I am afraid ; and yet I'll venture it. If I get down, and do not break my limbs, I'll find a thousand shifts to get away : as good to die and go, as die and stay. [Leaps down. Oh me ! my uncle's spirit is in these stones : — Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones ! [Dies. K. RICHARD II. 265 KING EICHAED H. Act II., Scene 1. Gavmt. Methinks, I am a prophet new inspired ; — * ^ m * * This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this other Eden, demi-paradise ; — this fortress, built by Nature for Herself against infection and the hand of war ; — this happy breed of men ; — this little world ; — this precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall, or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands ; — this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, this nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth, renowned for their deeds as far from home (for Christian service, and true chivalry), as is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry of the World's Eansom, blessed Mary's Son ; — this land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, dear for her reputation through the world, — is now leas'd out, I die pronouncing it, like to a tenement, or pelting farm : 266 SHAKESPEARE. England, bound in with the triumphant sea, whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, with inky blots and rotten parchment bonds : that England, that was wont to conquer others, hath made a shameful conquest of itself. Ah ! would the scandal vanish with my life, how happy then were my ensuing death ! Act III., Scene 3. K. Rich. I'll give my jewels, for a set of beads ; my gorgeous palace, for a hermitage ; my gay. apparel, for an alms-man's gown ; my figured goblets, for a dish of wood : my sceptre, for a palmer's walking-staff ; my subjects, for a pair of carved saints ; and my large kingdom, for a little grave, a little little grave, an obscure grave, or I'll be buried in the King's highway, some way of common trade, where subjects' feet may hourly trample on their sovereign's head : for on my heart they tread, now whilst' I live ; and, buried once, why not upon my head ? Act IV., Scene 1. Westminster HaU. Bishop. What subject can give sentence on his king? And who sits here, that is not Bichard's subject ? K. RICHARD II. 267 Thieves are not judged but they are by to hear, although apparent guilt be seen in them ; and shall the figure of God's majesty, His captain, steward, deputy-elect, anointed, crowned, planted many years, be judged by subject and inferior breath, and he himself not present ? 0, forfend it, God, that, in a Christian climate, souls refined should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed ! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, stirr'd up by God, thus boldly for his king. My lord of Hereford here, whom you call king, is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king : and if you crown him, let me prophesy : — the blood of English shall manure the ground, and future ages groan for this foul act ; peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels, and, in this seat of peace, tumultuous wars shall kin with kin, and kind with kind confound : disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd the field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls. ! if you raise this house against this house, it will the woefuUest division prove, that ever fell upon this cursed earth. Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so, Lest child, child's children, cry against you — woe ! 268 SHAKESPEARE. KING HENEY IV. PAET I. Act I. Scene 1. The Royal Palace. K. Henry. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, find we a time for frighted Peace to pant, and breathe short-winded accents of new broils to be commenced in strands afar remote. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil shall daub her lips with her own children's blood ; no more shall trenching War channel her fields, nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs of hostile paces :, those opposed eyes, which, — like the meteors of a troubled heaven, — all of one nature, of one substance bred, did lately meet in the intestine shock and furious close of civil butchery, shall now, in mutual well beseeming ranks, march all one way ; and be no more opposed against acquaintance, kindred, and allies : the edge of war, like an ill sheathed knife, no more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends, as far as to the Sepulchre of Christ (Whose soldier now, under Whose blessed Cross we are impressed and engaged to fight), K. HENRY IV. PT. I. 269 forthwith a power of English shall we levy, . . . to chase these pagans in those holy fields over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet, which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail'd for our advantage on the bitter Cross. Scene 2. In the Prince's Apa/rtments. Prince of Wales, left alone. I know you all, and will awhile uphold the unyoked humour of your idleness : yet herein will I imitate the sun, who doth permit the base contagious clouds to smother up his beauty from the world, that, when he please again to be himself, being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at, by breaking through the foul and ugly mists of vapours, that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work ; but when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come, and nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So, when this loose behaviour I throw off, and pay the debt I never promised, by how much better than my word I am, by so much shall I falsify men's hopes ; and, like bright metal on a sullen ground, my reformation, glittering o'er my fault, shall show more goodly, and attract more eyes, 270 SHAKESPEARE. than that which hath no foil to set it off. I'll so offend, to make offence a skill ; redeeming time when men think least I will. Act II., Scene 4. The Boar's Head Tavern. Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou been ? Falstaff. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a ven- geance too ! marry, and amen ! — Give me a cup of sack, boy. — Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether- stocks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards ! — Give me a cup of sack, rogue. — Is there no virtue extant ? [ife drmks. Prince of Wales. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter ? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun's ! if thou didst, then behold that compound. Fal. 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 : a villainous coward ! — Go thy ways, old Jack ; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England ; and one of them is fat, and grows old : God help the while ! a bad world, I say ! I wbuld, I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms or any thing. A plague of all cowards, I say still. K. HENKY lY, PT. I. 271 Prmce. How now, wool-sack ! what mutter you ? Fal. A king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of thy ^gdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales ! Prince. Why, you round man ! what's the matter ? Fal. Are not you a coward? answer me to that: and Poins there ? Poms. 'Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me cow- ard, I'll stab thee. Fal. I call thee coward ! I'll see thee damn'd ere I call thee coward : but I would give a thousand pound, I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back : call you that backing of your friends ? A plague upon such backing ! give me them that will face me. — Give me a cup of sack : — I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day. Prince. villain, thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunkest last. Fal. All's one for that. \He d/rinks.} A plague of all cowards, still say I. Prmce. What's the matter ? Fal. What's the matter ! there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morning. Prmce. Where is it, Jack ? where is it ? Fal. Where is it ! taken from us it is : a hundred upon poor four of us. Prince. What, a hundred, man ? 272 SHAKESPEARE. Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a doien of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet ; four, through the hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; my sword hack'd like a hand- saw — ecce signwm! I never dealt better since I was a man : all would not do. A plague of all cowards ! — Let them speak; if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness. Prince. Speak, sirs ; how was it ? Oadshill. We four set upon some dozen Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord. Gads. And bound them. Peto. No, no, they were not bound. > ' Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other. Prince. What, fought you with them all ? Fal. All ! I know not what you call, all ; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature. Prince. Tray God, you have not murdered some of them. Fal. Nay, that's past praying for : I have peppered two of them : two, I am sure, I have paid, two rogues K. HENRT IV. PT. I. 273 in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, — if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward ; — here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me, Prince. What, four ? thou saidst but two even now. Fal. Pour, Hal ; I told thee four. Pcdns. Ay, ay, he said four. Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. Prince. Seven ? why, there were but four even now. Fal. In buckram ? Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. Primce. Pr'ythee, let him alone ; we shall have more anon. Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? Prince. Ay, and mark thee too. Jack. Fal. Do BO, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee of Prince. So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken, Poins. Down fell their hose. Fal. Began to give me ground : but I followed me close, came in foot and hand ; and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid. Prince. monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two ! 274 SHAKESFEABE. gotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back and let drive at me ; — for it was so dark, Hal, that thou could'st not see thy hand. Prince. These lies are like their father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thouclay-brain'd,knotty-patedfool; thou greasy tallow- catch, Fal. What ! art thou mad ? art thou mad ? is not the truth the truth ? Prince. Why, how could'st thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou could'st not see thy hand ? come tell us your reason ; what say'st thou to this ? Poins. Come, your reason. Jack, your reason. Fal. What, upon compulsion ? No ; an I were at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on com- pulsion ! if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I. Prince. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin : this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back- breaker, this huge hill of flesh,^ — Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, you stock-fish, — 0, for breath to utter what is like thee ! — you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing-tuck, Prince. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again : and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons,, hear me speak but this. K. HENRY IV. PT. I. 275 Poins. Mark, Jack. Prince. We two saw you four set on four ; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. — Then did we two set on you four : and, with a word, out- faced you from your prize, and have it ; yea, and can show it you here in the house : and, Falstaff, you carried your [fat] away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull- calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done ; and then say it was in fight ! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame ? Poms, Come, let's hear. Jack ; what trick hast thou now? Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as He that made ye. Why, hear you, my masters : Was it for me to kill the heir apparent ? Should I turn upon the true prince ? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Her- cules : but beware instinct ; the lion will not touch the true prince.. Instinct is a great matter ; I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life ; I, for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. — Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellow- ship come to you ! What, shall we be merry ? shall 276 SHAKESPEARE, Prince. Content ; — and the argument shall be thy running away. Fal. Ah ! no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me. Act III., Scene 2. The Royal Palace. K. Henry. Lords, give us leave : the Prince of Wales and I must have some private conference : but be near at hand, for we shall presently have need of you. [Exeunt Lords. I know not whether God will have it so, for some displeasing service I have done, that, in His secret doom, out of my blood He'll breed revengement and a scourge for me ; but thou dost, in thy passages of life, make me believe that thou art only mark'd for the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven, to punish my mistreadings. Tell me else, could such inordinate and low desires, such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts, such barren pleasures, rude society, as thou art match'd withal and grafted to, accompany the greatness of thy blood and hold their level with thy princely heart ? Prince of Wales. So please your majesty, I would I could K. HENRY IV. PT. I. 277 quit all offences with as clear excuse, as well as, I am doubtless, I can purge myself of many I am charged withal : yet such extenuation let me beg, as, in reproof of many tales devised — which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear, — by smiling pick-thanks and base newsmongers, I may, for some things true, wherein my youth hath faulty wander'd and irregular, find pardon on my true submission . King. God pardon thee ! yet let me wonder, Harry, at thy affections, which do hold a wing quite from the flight of all thy ancestors. Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost, which by thy younger brother is supplied ; and art almost an alien to the hearts of all the court and princes of my blood : the hope and expectation of thy time is ruin'd ; and the soul of every man prophetically doth foretbink thy fall. Had I so lavish of my presence been, so common-hackney'd in the eyes of men, so stale and cheap to vulgar company. Opinion, that did help me to the crown, had still kept loyal to possession and left me in reputeless banishment, a fellow of no mark nor likelihood. By being seldom seen, I could not stir 278 SHAKESPEAKE. that men would tell their children Thig is he ; others would say — Where ? which is Bolinghroke ? And then I stole all courtesy from heaven, and dress'd myself in such humility that I did pluck allegiance from men's hearts, loud shouts and salutations from their mouths, even in the presence of the crowned king. Thus did I keep my person fresh, and new ; my presence, like a robe pontifical, ne'er seen hut wonder'd at : and so my state, seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast, and won, by rareness, such solemnity. The skipping king, he ambled up and down with shallow jesters and rash bavin wits, soon kindled and soon burnt : carded his state ; mingled his royalty with capering fools ; had his great name profaned with their scorns ; and gave his countenance, against his name, to laugh at gibing boys and stand the push of every beardless vain comparative : grew a companion to the common streets, enfeoff'd himself to popularity : that, being daily swallow'd by men's eyes, they sprfeited with honey, and began to loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little more than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, he was but as the cuckoo is in June, heard, not regarded ; seen, but with such eyes K. HENRY IV. PT. I. 279 bS, sick and blunted with community, ifford no extraordinary gaze, luch as is bent on sun-like majesty vhen it shines seldom in admiring eyes : )ut rather drowzed and hung their eyelids down, slept in his face, and render'd such aspect IS cloudy men use to their adversaries ; aeing with his presence glutted, gorged, and full. ind in that very line, Harry, standest thou : for thou hast lost thy princely privilege, with vile participation ; not an eye but is a- weary of thy common sight, save mine, which hath desired to see thee more ; which now doth that I would not have it do, make blind itself with foolish tenderness. Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord, be more myself. King. For all the world, as thou art to this hour, was Eichard then when I from France set foot at Eavenspurgh ; and even as I was then, is Percy now. Now, by my sceptre and my soul to boot, he hath more worthy interest to the state, than thou, the shadow of succession : for, of no right, nor colour like to right, he doth fill fields with harness in the realm ; turns head against the lion's armed jaws ; and being no more in debt to years than thou, 280 , SHAKESPEARE. to bloody battles and to bruising arms. What never-dying honour hath he got against renowned Douglas ! whose high deeds, whose hot incursions, and great name in arms, holds from all soldiers chief majority, and military title capital, through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ. Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes, this infant warrior, in his enterprises discomfited great Douglas ; ta'en him once, enlarged him and made a friend of him, to fill the mouth of deep defiance up and shake the peace and safety of our throne. And what say you to this ? Percy, Northumberland, the Archbishop's grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer, capitulate against us, and are up. But wherefore do I tell these news to thee ? Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, which art my near'st and dearest enemy ? Thou that art like enough, — through vassal fear, base inclination, and the start of spleen, to fight against me under Percy's pay, to dog his heels and court'sy at his frowns, to show how much thou art degenerate. Prmce. Do not think so ; you shall not find it so ; and God forgive them that so much have sway'd your majesty's good thoughts away from me ! I will redeem all this on Percy's head, and in the closing of some glorious day K. HENRY IV. PT. I. 281 be bold to tell you that I am your son ; when I will wear a garment all of blood, and stain my favours in a bloody mask, which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it : and that shall be the day, whene'er it lights, that this same child of honour and renown, this gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, and your unthought-of Harry chance to meet. For every honour sitting on his helm, 'would they were multitudes, and on my head my shames redoubled ! for the time will come, that I shall make this northern youth exchange his glorious deeds for my indignities. Percy is but my factor, good my lord, to engross up glorious deeds on my behalf ; and I will call him to so strict account, that he shall render every glory up, yea, even the slightest worship of his time, or I will tear the reckoning from his heart. This, in the name of God, I promise here : the which if He be pleased I shall perform, I do beseech your majesty may salve the long-grown wounds of my intemperance : if not, the end of life cancels all bands ; and I will die a hundred thousand deaths, ere break the smallest parcel of this vow. King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this : — thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein. 282 SHAKESPEARE. KING HENEY IV. Paet II. Act III., Scene 1. The Royal Palace. King Henry. How many thousand of my poorest subjects are at this hour asleep ! Sleep, gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, that thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down and steep my senses in forgetfulness ? Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, upon uneasy pallets stretching thee and hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, than in the perfumed chambers of the great, under the canopies of costly state, and lulled with sound of sweetest melody ? thou dull god ! why liest thou with the vile in loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch a watch-case or a common 'larum-bell ? Wnt thou upon the high and giddy mast seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains in cradle of the rude imperious surge, and in the visitation of the winds, who take the ruffian billows by the top, curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them with deafening clamour in the slippery clouds, K. HENRY IV. PT. II. 283 that, with the hurly, Death itself awakee ? Canst thou, partial Sleep, give thy repose to the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, and in the calmest and most stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, lie down ! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Act rV., Scene 5. The King lying on a Bed. K. Henry. Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends ; unless some dull and favourable hand will whisper music to my weary spirit. Warwieh. Call for the music in the other room. ' Kmg. Set me the crown upon my pillow here. Clarence. His eye is hollow, and he changes much. Enter Henry, Prince op Wales. *±k ^£ ^t .ale. T- W V flf War. Not so much noise, my lords ; — sweet prince, speak low ; the king your father is disposed to sleep. Cla. Let us withdraw into the other room. Wa/r. WUrt please your grace to go along with us ? Prince. No ; I will sit and watch here by the king. {Exeunt all hut P. of Wales. Whv doth the crown lie there unon his willow. 284 SHAKESPEARE. being so troublesome a bedfellow ? polish'd perturbation ! golden care ! that keep'st the ports of slumber open wide to many a watchful night ! — sleep with it now ! yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet, as he, whose brow with homely biggen bound, snores out the watch of night. majesty ! when thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit like a rich armour worn in heat of day, that scalds with safety. — By his gates of breath there lies a downy feather, which stirs not : did he suspire, that light and weightless down perforcemustmove. — My gracious lord ! — my father !— : This sleep is sound indeed ; this is a sleep that from this golden rigol hath divorced so many English kings. Thy due, from me, is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood, which nature, love, and filial tenderness, shall, dear father, pay thee plenteously : my due, from thee, is this imperial crown, which, as immediate from thy place and blood, derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits, — [Putting it on his head, which God shall guard: and put the world's whole strength into one giant arm, it shall not force this lineal honour from me. This from thee will I to mine leave, as 'tis left to me. [Exit, King. Warwick ! Gloucester ! Clarence ! K. HENRY IV. PT. II. 285 Re-enter Wabwick, and others. Cla. Doth the king call ? War. What would your majesty ? How fares your grace ? Kimg. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords ? Cla. We left the prince my brother here, my liege, who undertook to sit and watch by you. King. The prince of Wales ! Where is he ? let me see him : he is not here Where is the crown ? who took it from my piUow ? War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here. King. The prince hath ta'en it hence : — go, seek him out. Is he so hasty, that he doth suppose my sleep my death ? — Find him, my lord of Warwick ; chide him hither. [Exit Warwick. This part of his conjoins with my disease, and helps to end me. — See, sons, what things you are! How quickly nature falls into revolt, when gold becomes her object ! For this the foolish over-careful fathers have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, their bones with industry ; for this they have engrossed and piled up 286 SHAKESPEARE. the canker'd heaps of Btrange-achieved gold ; for this they have been thoughtful to invest their sons with arts and martial exercises : when, like the bee, culling from every flower the virtuous sweets, our thighs pack'd with wax, our mouths with honey, we bring it to the hive ; and, like the bees, are murdered for our pains. This bitter taste yields his engrossments to the ending father.— Re-enter Warwick. Now, where is he that will not stay so long till his friend sickness hath determin'd me ? Wa/r. My lord, I found the prince in the next room, washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks ; with such a deep demeanour in great sorrow, that tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood, would, by beholding him, have wash'd his knife with gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither. King. But wherefore did he take away the crown ? Re-enter Prince Henry. Lo, where he comes. — Come hither to me, Harry. Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. [Exewnt Warwick amd the rest Prince. I never thought to hear you speak again. , King. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. Dost thou BO hunger for mine empty chair, K. HENRY IV. PT. II, 5287 that thou wilt needs invest thee -with my honours before thy hour be ripe 7 foolish youth ! thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. Stay but a little ; for my cloud of dignity is held from falling with so weak a wind, that it will quickly drop : my day is dim. Thou hast stolen that, which, after some few hours, were thine without offence ; and, at my death, thou hast seal'd up my expectation : thy life did manifest thou lovedst me not, and thou wilt have me die assured of it. Thou hidest a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, to stab at half an hour of my life. What ! canst thou not forbear me half an hour ? Then get thee gone and dig my grave thyself, and bid the merry bells ring to thine ear that thou art crowned, not that I am dead. Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse be drops of balm, to sanctify thy head : only compound me with forgotten dust ; give that which gave thee life, unto the worms. Pluck down my officers, break my decrees ; for now a time is come to mock at form : Harry the fifth is crown'd ! — Up, vanity ! Down, royal state ! all you sage counsellors, hence !, and to the English court assemble now, from every region, apes of idleness ! Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum : 288 , SHAKESPEARE. have you a ruffian, that will swear, drink, dance, revel the night, rob, murder, and commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? Be happy, he will trouble you no more : England shall double gild his treble guilt ; England shall give him office, honour, might ; for the fifth Harry from curb'd license plucks the muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog shall flesh his tooth on every innocent. my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! when that my care could not withhold thy riots, what wilt thou do when riot is thy care. 0, thou wilt be a wilderness again, peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. Prince 0, pardon me, my liege ! but for my tears, [Kneeling,^ the moist impediments unto my speech, 1 had forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard the course of it so far. There is your crown ; and He that wears the crown immortally long guard it yours ! If I affect it more than as your honour and as your renown, let me no more from this obedience rise, which my most inward true and duteous spirit teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending. God witness with me, when I here came in, and found no course of breath within your majesty, how cold it struck my heart ! If I do feign, K. HENKT IV. PT. II. 289 ! let me in my present wildness die and never live to show the incredulous world the noble change that I have purposed ! Coming to look on you, thinking you dead (and dead almost, my liege, to think you were), I spake unto this crown as having sense, and thus upbraided it : The cwre on thee depending hath fed upon the body of my father ; therefore, thou best of gold art worst of gold : other, less fine in carat, is more precious, preserving life in medicine potable : but thou, most fine, most honowr'd, most renown' d, hast eat thy bearer up. Thus, my most royal liege, accusing it, I put it on my head, to try with it, — as with an enemy that had before my face murder'd my father, — the quarrel of a true inheritor. But if it did infect my blood with joy, or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride ; if any rebel or vain spirit of mine did, with the least affection of a welcome, give entertainment to the might of it, let God for ever keep it from my head and make me as the poorest vassal is that doth with awe and terror kneel to it ! King. my son ! God put it in thy mind, to take it hence, that thou might' st win the more thy father's love, pleading so wisely in excuse of it. 290 SHAKESPEAKE. Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ; and hear, I think, the very latest counsel that ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son, by what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways I met this crown ; and I myself know well how troublesome it sat upon my head : to thee it shall descend with better quiet, better opinion, better confirmation ; for all the soil of the achievement goes with me into the earth. It seem'd in me but as an honour snatch'd with boisterous hand, and I had many living to upbraid my gain of it by their assistances ; which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed, wounding supposed peace : all these bold fears, thou see'st with peril I have answered : for all my reign hath been but as a scene acting that argument ; and now my death changes the mode : for what in me was purchased, falls upon thee in a more fairer sort ; so thou the garland wear'st successively. Yet, though thou stand'st more sure than I could do, thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green : and all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out ; by whose fell working I was first advanced, and by whose power I weU might lodge a fear to be again displaced : which to avoid, I cut them off ; and had a purpose now K. HENKT IV. PT. II. 291 to lead out many to the Holy Land, lest rest, and lying still, might make them look too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, be it thy course to busy giddy minds with foreign quarrels ; that action, hence borne out, may waste the memory of the former days. More would I, but my lungs are wasted so that strength of speech is utterly denied me. How I came by the crown, God, forgive ; and grant it may with thee in true peace live ! ■Prince. My gracious liege, you won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ; then plain and right must my possession be : which I, with more than with a common pain, 'gainst all the world will rightfully maintain. ****** Enter Warwick and' others. K. Hen. Doth any name particular belong unto the lodging where I first did swoon ? War. 'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my noble lord. K. Hen. Laud be to God ! even there my life must end. It hath been prophesied to me many years, I should not die but in Jerusalem ; which vainly I supposed the Holy Land : — but bear me to that chamber ; there I'll lie ; in that Jerusalem shall Harry die. [Exeunt. 292 SHAKESPEARE. KING HENEY V. Act IV. Prologue. Chorus. Now entertain conjecture of a time when creeping murmur and the poring dark fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,, • the hum of either army stilly sounds, that the fix'd sentinels almost receive the secret whispers of each other's watch : fire answers fire, and through their paly flames each battle sees the other's umber'd face : steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs piercing the night's dull ear ; and from the tents, the armourers, accomplishing the knights, with busy hammers closing rivets up, give dreadful note of preparation. The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, and the third hour of drowsy morning name. Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul, the confident and over-lusty French do the low-rated English play at dice ; and chide the cripple tardy-gaited night who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp so tediously away. The poor condemned English like sacrifices, by their watchful fires sit patiently, and inly ruminate KING HENRY V. 293 the morning's danger ; and their gesture sad investing lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats, presenteth them unto the gazing moon so many horrid ghosts. Oh, now, who will behold the royal captain of this ruined band walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, let him cry Praise and glory on his head ! For forth he goes and visits all his host, bids them good morrow with a modest smile, and calls them — brothers, friends, and countrymen. Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him ; nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour unto the weary and all-watched night ; but freshly looks, and over-bears attaint with cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ; that every wretch, pining and pale before, beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks ; a largess universal, like the sun, his liberal eye doth give to every one, thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all behold, as may unworthiness define, a little touch of Harry in the night. And so our scene must to the battle fly ; where (Oh, for pity !) we shall much disgrace — with four or five most vile and ragged foils, right ill disposed in brawl ridiculous, — the name of Agincourt. Yet, sit and see ; minding true things by what their mockeries be. 294 SHAKESPEARE. Act IV., Scene 1, 3. The English Camp. King Henky left alone. Upon the king ! Let us our lives, our souls, our debts, our careful wives, our children, and our sins, lay on the king ! We must bear all. hard condition, twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath of every fool, whose sense no mor-e can feel but his own wringing ! What infinite heart's-ease must kings neglect, that private men enjoy ! And what have kings that privates have not too, save ceremony, save general ceremony ? And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony ? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers ? What are thy rents ? What are thy comings in ? Ceremony, show me but thy worth ! What is thy soul of adoration ? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, creating awe and fear in other men ? Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, but poison'd flattfery ? 0, be sick, great greatness, and bid thy ceremony give thee cure ! Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out KING HENRY V. 295 with titles blown from adulation ? WUl it give place to flexure and low bending ? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, command the health of it ? No, thou proud dream that play'st so subtly with a king's repose ; I am a king that find thee ; and I know 'tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball, the sword, the mace, the crown imperial, the inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl, the farced title running 'fore the king, the throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp that beats upon the high shore of this world, — no, not all these, thrice-gorgeous Ceremony, not all these laid in bed majestical, can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, who, with a body fiU'd and vacant mind, gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread ; never sees horrid night, the child of hell, but, like a lackey, from the rise to set sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night sleeps in Elysium ; next day, after dawn, doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, and follows so the ever-running year, with profitable labour, to his grave ; and, but for ceremony, such a wretch, winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The slave, a member of the country's peace, enjoys it ; but in gross brain little wots 296 SHAKESPEARE. what watch the king keeps to maintain the peace, whose hours the peasant best advantages. ***** God of battles ! steel my soldiers' hearts ! possess them not with fear ; take from them now the sense of reckonings if the opposed numbers pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, Lord, 0, not to-day, think not upon the fault my father made in compassing the crown ! 1 Eichard's body have interred new ; and on it have bestow'd more contrite tears than from it issued forced drops of blood : five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, who twice a day their wither'd hands hold up toward heaven, to pardon blood ; and I have built two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests sing still for Eichard's soul. More will I do ; though all that I can do is nothing worth, since that my penitence comes after all, imploring pardon. (Scene 3.) Westmoreland. that we now had here but one ten thousand of those men in England that do no work to-day ! K. Henry. What's he that wishes so ? My cousin Westmoreland ! No, my fair cousin ! if we are marked to die, we are enow to do our country loss ; and if to live. KING HENRY V. 297 the fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ; it yearns me not if men my garments wear ; such outward things dwell not in my desires : but if it be a sin to covet honour^ I am the most offending soul alive. No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England : God's peace ! I would not lose so great an honour as one man more, methinks, would share from me, for the best hope I have. 0, do not wish one more ! Eather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart; his passport shall be made, and crowns, for convoy, put into his purse : we would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd — the feast of Crispian : he that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, and rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, and say — To-morrow is Saint Crispian : then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say These wownds I had on Crispin's day. Old men forget ; yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember, with advantages, 298 SHAKESPEARE. what feats he did that day : then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words, — Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, — be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. This story shall the good man teach his son ; and Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered : we few, we happy few, we band of brothers ; for he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother ; be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition : and gentlemen in England, now a-bed, shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. Enter Salisbtjet. Sal. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed ; the French are bravely in their battles set, and will with all expedience charge on us. K. Hen. All things are ready if our minds be so. West. Perish the man whose mind is backward now ! K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz? West. God's will, my liege, 'would you and I alone, without more help, might fight this royal battle ! KING HENRY V. 299 K. Hen. Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men; which likes me better, than to wish us one. You know your places ; God be with you all ! Enter Yoek. York. My lord most humbly on my knee I beg the leading of the vaward. K. Henry. Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away ; and how Thou pleasest, God, dispose the day ! Scene 7, 8. After the battle ; Enter Montjoy. Exeter. Here comes the herald of the French, my liege. Gh'ster. His eyes are humbler than they used to be. K. Hen. How now ! what means this, herald ? know'st thou not that I have fined these bones of mine for ransom? Comest thou again for ransom ? Monday. No, great king : I come to thee for charitable licence, that we may wander o'er this bloody field to look our dead, and then to bury them. * * * 0, give us leave, great king, to view the field in safety, and dispose of their dead bodies ! 300 SHAKESPEARE. K. Hen. I tell thee truly, herald, I know not if the day be ours, or no ; for yet a many of your horsemen peer and gallop o'er the field. Mont. The day is yours. K. Hen. Praised be God, and not our strength, for it!— What is this castle call'd, that stands hard by ? Mont. They call it — Agincourt. K. Hen. Then call we this — the field of Agincourt, fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus. (Scene 8.) K. Henry. God, Thy Arm was here ; and not to us, but to Thy Arm alone, ascribe we all ! When, without stratagem, but in plain shock and even play of battle, was ever known so great and little loss on one part and on the other ? Take it, God, for it is none but Thine ! . . , God fought for us. . . . Do we all holy rites ; let there be sung Non Nobis and Te Deum ; the dead with charity enclosed in clay ; and then to Calais ; and to England then ; where ne'er from France arrived more happy men. KING RICHARD III. 301 KING KICHAED III. Act I., Scene 4. In the Tower of London. Brakenbwry. Why looks your grace so heavily to- day ? Clarence. 0, I have pass'd a miserable night, 80 full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams, that, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night, though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ; so full of dismal terror was the time ! Brdk. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me. Ch/r. Methought that I had broken from the Tower, and was embark'd to cross to Burgundy ; and, in my company, my brother Gloucester : who from my cabin tempted me to walk upon the hatches ; thence we look'd toward England, and cited up a thousand fearful times, during the wars of York and Lancaster that had befall'n us. As we paced along upon the giddy footing of the hatches, methought that Gloucester stumbled ; and, in falling, struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, into the tumbling billows of the main. 302 SHAKESPEAKE. Lord, Lord ! methought, what pain it was to drown ! what dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! what ugly sights of death within mine eyes ! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ; ten thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon ; wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, all scatter'd in the bottom of the sea : some lay in dead men's skulls ; and, in those holes where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept, as 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, which woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, and mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death to gaze upon the secrets of the deep ? Cla/r. Methought I had ; and often did I strive to yield the ghost : but still the envious flood kept in my soul, and would not let it forth to find the empty, vast, and wandering air ; but smother'd it within my panting bulk, which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ? Ch/r. 0, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life ; 0, then began the tempest to my soul, who pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, with that grim ferryman which poets write of, unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul, was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, KIKG RICHARD III, 303 who cried aloud, What scourge for per jwy can this da/rk mona/rchy afford false Clarence f and so he vanish'd. Then came wandering by a shadow like an angel, with bright hair dabbled in blood, and he squeak'd out aloud, Clarence is come ; — false, fleeting, perjwred Clarence, that stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbwry ; seize on him, Fv/ries, take him to your torments ! With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends environ'd me about, and howled in mine ears such hideous cries, that with the very noise I trembling waked, and for a season after could not believe but that I was in Hell ; such terrible impression made the dream. Brak. No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted you ; I promise you, I am afraid to hear you tell it. Clar. 0, Brakenbury, I have done those things, which now bear evidence against my soul, for Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me! God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease Thee, but Thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds, yet execute Thy wrath in me alone, 0, spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children ! — 1 pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me ; my soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. Brak. I will, my lord ; God give your grace good rest ! — [CiiARBNOB sleeps. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, makes the night morning, and the noontide night. 304 SHAKESPEARE. Princes have but their titles for their glories, an outward honour for an inward toil ; and, for unfelt imagination, they often feel a world of restless cares : so that, betwixt their titles and low names, there's nothing differs but the outward fame. Act IV., Scene 3. Tyrrel. The tyrannous and bloody deed is done, the most arch act of piteous massacre that ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn to do this ruthless piece of butchery, . , . melting with tenderness and kind compassion, wept like two children in their deaths' sad stories. ho, thus, quoth Dighton, lay those tender babes : Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another within their innocent alabaster arms : their lips werefov/r red roses on a stalk, which in their summer beauty kissed each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay ,- which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind; . . . whilst Dighton thus told on : We smothered the most replenished sweet work of Natu/re, that from the prime creation e'er she framed. Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse ; they could not speak ; and so I left them both. HAMLET. 305 HAMLET. Act I., Scene 3. Laertes. My necessaries are embark'd ; farewell ! and, sister, as the winds give benefit, and convoy is assistant, do not sleep, but let me hear from you. Ophelia. Do you doubt that ? Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, hold it a fashion and a toy in blood, a violet in the youth of primy nature, forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, the perfume and suppliance of a minute : no more. Oph. No more but so ? Laer. Think it no more ; for nature, crescent, does not grow alone in thews and bulk ; but, as this temple waxes, the inward service of the mind and soul grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, and now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch the virtue of his will : but you must fear, his greatness weighed, his will is not his own ; for he himself is subject to his birth : he may not, as unvalued persons do, carve for himself ; for on his choice depends X 806 . SHAKESPEARE. the safety and the health of the whole state ; and therefore must his choice be circumscribed unto the voice and yielding of that body whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves i it fits your wisdom so far to believe it, as he in his particular act and place may give his saying deed ; whio is no further than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then Weigh what loss your honour may sustain, if with too credent ear you list his songs, or lose your heart. . . . Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister ; and keep you in the rear of your affection, out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough, if she unmask her beauty to the moon : virtue itself 'scapes not calumnious strokes : the canker galls the infants of the spring, too oft before their buttons be disclosed, and in the morn and liquid dew of youth contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then : best safety lies in fear ; youth to itself rebels, though none else near. Oph. I shall the effect of this good lesson keep, as watchman to my heart. But, good my brother do not, as some ungracious pastors do, show me the steep and thorny way to heaven ; whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, himself the primrose path of dalliance treads. HAMLET. 307 and recks not his own rede. , Laer. fear me not. I stay too long ; — But here my father comes. Enter Polonius. A double blessing is a double grace; occasion smUes upon a second leave. I Polonius. Yet here, Laertes ! aboard, aboard, for shame ! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, and you are stay'd for. There, my blessing with thee ! {Laying his hand on Laertes' head. And these few precepts in thy memory look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel ; but do not dull thy palm with entertainment of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware of entrance to a quarrel ; but being in, bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice : take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgement. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, but not express'd in fancy ; rich, not gaudy : for the apparel oft proclaims the man ; and they in France of the best rank and station are most select and generous chief in that. 308 SHAKESPEARE. Neither a borrower nor a lender be : for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This, above all, — To thine ownself be true ; and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell ; my blessing season this in thee ! Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. Pol. The time invites you ; go, your servants tend Laer. Farewell, Ophelia ; and remember well what I have said to you. Oph. 'Tis in my memory lock'd, and you yourself shall keep the key of it. Laer. Farewell I \Exit Labetbs. Act I., Scene 5. Before the Castle. Hamlet. Where wilt thou lead me ? Speak ; I'll go no further. Ghost. Mark me. Ham. I will. Ghost. My hour is almost come, when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render up myself. Ham. Alas, poor ghost ! Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing to what I shall unfold. Ham. Speak, I am bound to hear. HAMLET. 309 Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. Ham. What? Ghost. I am thy father's spirit ; doom'd for a certain term to walk the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires, till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular hair to stand an end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine : but this eternal blazon must not be to ears of flesh and blood. — List, list, list ! — if thou didst ever thy dear father love, Ham. God ! Ghost. Eevenge his foul and most unnatural murder. Ham. Murder ! Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is ; but this most foul, strange, and unnatural. Ham. Haste me to know't ; that I, with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love, may sweep to my revenge. Ghost. I find thee apt ; and duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed that roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf. 310 SHAKESPEARE. wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear: 'Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, a serpent stung me ; so the whole ear of Denmark is by a forged process of my death rankly abused : but know, thou noble youth, the serpent that did sting thy father's life now wears his crown. Ham. 0, my prophetic soul ! My uncle ! Ghost. Ay, .... But soft ! methinks, I scent the morning air ; brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, — my custom always in the afternoon, — upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, with juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, and in the porches of my ears did pour the leperous distilment ; whose effect holds such an enmity with blood of man, that, swift as quicksilver, it courses through the natural gates and alleys of the body ; and with a sudden vigour it doth posset and curd, like eager droppings into milk, the thin and wholesome blood : so did it mine; and a most instant tetter bark'd about, most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust, all my smooth body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand, , of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd ; HAMLET. 311 cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, nnhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd ; no reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head. Ham. 0, horrible [ 0, horrible ! most horrible ! Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not .... But, howsoever thou pursuest this act, taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother aught ; leave her to heaven, and to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, to prick and sting her. Pare thee well at once ! The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, and 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire : Adieu, adieu ! Hamlet, remember me. Act III, Scene 1. Within the Castle. Enter Hamlet. To be, or not to be : that is the question : whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them. To die : to sleep : no more ; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to ; — 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd ! To die, to sleep ; — to sleep ! perchance to dream : ay, there's the rub ; 312 SHAKESPEARE. for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuf&ed off this mortal coil, must give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life : for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, to grimt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, — the undiscovered country from whose bourn no 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 resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. Scene 2. Hamlet. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pi nounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue : but you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as 1 the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw \ HAMLET. 313 air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. 0, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig- pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb- shows and noise : I would have such a fellow whipped for o'er-doing Termagant ; it out-herods Herod : 'pray you, avoid it. 1 Player. I warrant your honour. Ham. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor : suit the action to the word, the word to the action ; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature : for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your al- lowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. 0, there be players that I have seen play, — and heard others praise, and that highly, — not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted 314 SHAKESPEARE. and bellowed, that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. 1 Play. I hope we have reform'd that indifferently with us. Sir. Ham. 0, reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them: for there be of them that will themselve? laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too ; though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered : that's villainous ; and shows a most pitiful ambition ji; the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready, Scene 3. King. ! my offence is rank, it smells to heaveo ; it hath the primal eldest curse upon't, a brother's murder ! Pray can I not, though inclination be as sharp as will ; my stronger guilt defeats my strong intent ; and, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, and both neglect. What if this cursed hand were thicker than itself with brother's blood, is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash it white as snow ? Whereto serves mercy, but to confront the visage of offence ? And what's in prayer, but this two-fold force, — HAMLET. 316 to be forestalled ere we come to fall, or pardon'd being down ? Then I'll look up ; my fault is past. But, 0, what form of prayer can serve my turn ? Forgive me my foul mv/rder ? — that cannot be ; since I am still possess'd of those effects for which I did the murder, my crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardoned, and retain the offence ? In the corrupted currents of this world offence's gilded hand may shove by justice, and oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself buys out the law : but 'tis not so above ; there is no shuffling, there the action lies in his true nature ; and we ourselves compell'd, even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, to give in evidence. What then ? what rests ? Try what repentance can : what can it not ? Yet what can it, when one can not repent ? wretched state ! bosom black as death ! limed soul, that, struggling to be free, art more engaged ! Help, angels ! Make assay ! Bow, stubborn knees ; and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe ! All may be well. IRetires and kneels. Enter Hamlet. Ham, Now might I do it pat, now he is praying ; and now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven ; and so am I revenged. That would be scann'd : 316 SHAKESPEARE. a villain kills my father ; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send to heaven* 0, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread ; with all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May ; and how his audit stands, who knows save heaven ? but in our circumstance and course of thought, 'tis heavy with him : and am I then revenged, to take him in the purging of his soul, when he is flt and season'd for his passage ? No! * * * * * *' My mother stays : this physic but prolongs thy sickly days. [Exit. King, [rising] My words fly up, my thoughts remain below ; words without thoughts never to heaven go. Scene 4. The Queen's Closet, enter Hamlet. Hamlet. Now, mother, what's the matter ? Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. Ham. Mother, you have my father much offended. Queen. Gome, come, you answer with an idle tongue. Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. Queen. Why, how now, Hamlet ? Ham. What's the matter, now? HAMLET. 317 Queen. Have you forgot me ? Ham. No, by the rood, not so : ou are the queen, your husband's brother's wife ; nd — would it were not so !— you are my mother. Queen. Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can peak. Ham. Come, come, and sit you down ; you shall not budge : ou go not, till I set you up a glass ?here you may see the inmost part of you. Queen. What wilt thou do ? thou wilt not murder Qe? Ham. Leave wringing of your hands : peace ! sit you down, ,nd let me wring your heart ; for so I shall, f it be made of penetrable stuff ; f wicked custom have not brassed it so, hat it is proof and bulwark against sense. Queen. What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue a noise so rude against me ? Ham. Such an act hat blurs the grace and blush of modesty ; lalls virtue, hypocrite ; takes off the rose rom the fair forehead of an innocent love, md sets a blister there ; makes marriage-vows IS false as dicer's oaths : 0, such a deed .s from the body of contraction plucks 318 SHAKESPEARE. the very soul, and sweet religion makes a rhapsody of words. Heaven's face doth glow ; yea, this solidity and compound mass, with tristful visage, as against the doom, is thought-sick at the act. Queen. Ah me, what act, that roars so loud, and thunders in the index ? Ham. Look here, upon this picture, and on this ; the counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See, what a grace was seated on this brow ! Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself ; an eye like Mars, to threaten and command ; a station like the herald Mercury new lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; a combination and a form, indeed, where every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance of a man : this was your husband. Look you now, what follows : here is your husband ; like a mildew'd ear, blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes ? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, and batten on this moor ? Ha ! have you eyes ? you cannot call it love : for at your age the hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble, and waits upon the judgement : and what judgement would step from this to this ? . . . shame ! where is thy blush ? . . . Queen. Hamlet, speak no more : thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul ; HAMLET. 319 and there I see sucli black and grained spots as will not leave their tinct. ****** 0, speak to me no more ! These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears ; no more, sweet Hamlet ! Ham. A murderer and a villain ; a slave, that is not twentieth part the tithe of your precedent lord : a vice of kings : a cutpurse of the empire and the rule, that from a shelf the precious diadem stole, and put it in his pocket ! Queen. No more ! Ham. A king of shreds and patches ! [Enter Gnostc. [To Ghost] Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings, you heavenly guards! — What would your gracious figure ? Queen. Alas ! he's mad. Ham. Do you not come your tardy son to chide, that, lapsed in time and passion, let's go-by the important acting of your dread command ? 0, say ! Ghost. Do not forget : this visitation is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But, look ! amazement on thy mother sits : 0, step between her and her fighting soul ; conceit in weakest bodies strongest works : speak to her, Hamlet. 320 SHAKESPEARE. Ham. How is it with you, lady ? Queen. Alaa, how is't with you, that you do bend your eye on vacancy, and with the incorporal air do hold discourse ? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep ; and, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, your bedded hair, like life in excrements, starts up, and stands an end. 0, gentle son, upon the heat and flame of thy distemper sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look ? Ham. On him ! on him ! — Look you, how pale he glares ! His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones, would make them capable, [to Ghost] Do not look upon me : lest, with this piteous action, you convert my stern effects : then what I have to do will want true colour; tears, perchance, for blood. Queen. To whom do you speak this ? Ham. Do you see nothing there ? Queen. Nothing at all ; yet all that is I see. Ham. Nor did you nothing hear ? Queen. No, nothing, but ourselves. Ham. Why, look you there! look how it steals away! My. father, in his habit as he lived ! Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal ! {Exit Ghost. Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain : HAMLET. 321 this bodiless creation ecstacy is very cunning in. Ham. Ecstacy ! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, and makes as healthful music : it is not madness that I have uttered : bring me to the test, and I the matter will re- word ; which madness would gambol from. Mother ! for love of grace, lay Hot that flattering unction to your soul, that not your trespass, but my madness, speaks : it will but skin and film the ulcerous place ;' whilst rank corruption, mining all within, infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven : repent what's past ; avoid what is to come. ***** Queen. Hamlet ! thou hast cleft my heart in twain. Ham. 0, throw away the worser part of it, and live the purer with the other half. Good night ! but go not to my uncle's bed ; assume a virtue, if you have it not Eefrain to-night, and that shall lend a kind of easiness to the next abstinence : the next more easy ; for use almost can change the stamp of nature. .... Once more, good night ! and when you are desirous to be bless'd, I'll blessing beg of you Again, good night ! I must be cruel, only to be kind : thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. 322 SHAKESPEARE. MACBETH. Act I., Scene 5. Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a Letter. Lady Macbeth. ' They met me in the day of success ; and I have learned by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made them- selves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me Thane of Cawdor ; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with Hail, King that shalt he ! This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightest not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.' Glamis thou art, and Cawdor ; and shalt be what thou art promised : — ^yet do I fpar thy nature ; it is too full o' the milk of humankindness to catch the nearest way : thou wouldst be great ; art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, that wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not play false, MACBETH. 323 and yet wouldst wrongly win ; thou'ldst have, great Glamis, that which cries Thus thou must do, if thou have it ; and that which rather thou dost fear to do, than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, that I may pour my spirits in thine ear ; , and chastise with the valour of my tongue all that impedes thee from the golden round, which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem to have thee crown'd withal. [Enter an Attendant.] What is your tidings ? Attendant. The king comes here to-night. Lady M. Thou'rt mad to say it : Is not thy master with him ? who, were't so, would have inform'd for preparation. Attend. So please you, it is true ; our thane is coming : one of my fellows had the speed of him, who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more than would make up his message. Lady M. Give him tending ; he brings great news. [Exit Attendant.] The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Gome, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood ; stop up the access and passage to remorse. 324 SHAXESPEAKE. that no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between the effect and it ! Gome to my woman's breasts, and take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, wherever in your sightless substances you wait on nature's mischief ! Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, that my keen knife see not the wound it makes, nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, to cry, Hold, hold ! \Enter Macbeth. Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor ! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter ! Thy letters have transported me beyond this ignorant present, and I feel now the future in the instant. Macbeth. My dearest love, Duncan comes here to-night. Lady M. And when goes hence ? Macb. To-morrow, — as he purposes. Lady M. 0, never shall sun that morrow see ! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under 't. He that's coming must be provided for : and you shall put this night's great business into my dispatch ; MACBETH. 325 which shall to all our nights and days to come give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. Macb. We will speak further. Lady M. Only look up clear ; to alter favour ever is to fear : Leave all the rest to me. [Exeunt. Act I., Scene 7. Macbeth. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly : if the assassination could trammel up the consequence, and catch with his surcease success ; that but this blow might be the be-all and the end-all here, but here, upon this bank and shoal of time, we'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases we still have judgement here ; that we but teach bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor : this even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice to our own lips. He's here in double trust : first, as I am his kinsman and his subject, strong both against the deed ; then, as his host, who should against his murderer shut the door, not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been so clear in his great office, that his virtues will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 326 SHAKESPEARE. the deep damnation of his taking-ofif : and pity, like a naked newf-born babe, striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim horsed upon the sightless couriers of the air, shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, that tears shall drown the wind. — I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself and falls on the other [Enter Lady Macbeth. How now ! what news ? Lady Macbeth. He has almost supp'd : why have you left the chamber ? Macb. Hath he ask'd for me ? Lady M. Know you not he has ? Macb. We will proceed no further in this business : he hath honour'd me of late ; and I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not cast aside so soon. Lady M. Was the hope drunk, wherein you dress'd yourself ? hath it slept since ? and wakes it now, to look so green and pale at what it did so freely ? From this time such I account thy love. Art thou afeard to be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire ? Wouldst thou have that which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, and live a coward in thine own esteem, letting I dare not wait upon I would, MACBETH. 327 like the poor cat i' the adage ? Macb. Pr'ythee, peace : I dare do all that may become a man ; who dares do more is none. Lady M. What beast was't, then, that made you break this enterprise to me ? When you durst do it, then you were a man ; and, to be more than what ybu were, you would be so much more the man. Nor time nor place did then adhere, and yet you would make both : they have made themselves, and that their fitness now does unmake you. I have given suck, and know how tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me : I would, while it was smiling in my face, have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, and dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you have done to this. Macb. If we should fail ? Lady M. We fail ! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep (whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey soundly invite him), his two chamberlains will I with wine and wassail so convince that memory, the warder of the brain, shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason a limbeck only : when in swinish sleep their drenched natures lie as in a death, what cannot you and I perform upon 328 SHAKESPEARE. the unguarded Duncan ? what not put upon his spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt of our great quell ? Mach. Bring forth men-children only ; for thy undaunted mettle should compose nothing but males. Will it not be received, when we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two of his own chamber, and used their very daggers, that they have done't ? Lady M. Who dares receive it other, as we shall make our griefs and clamour roar upon his death ? Macb. I am settled, and bend up each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show ; false face must hide what the false heart doth know. [^Exemit, Act II., Scene 1. Macbeth. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, she strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. {Exit Servant. Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee : I have thee not ; and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible MACBETH 329 to feeling as to sight ? or art thou but a dagger of the mind ; a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? I see thee yet, in form as palpable as this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going ; and such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, or else worth all the rest : — I see thee still, and on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, which was not so before ! There's no such thing : it is the bloody business which informs thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse the curtained sleep ; witchcraft celebrates pale Hecate's offerings ; and withered Murder, alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, with Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear the very stones prate of my where-about, and take the present horror from the time, which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives : words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [A hell rings. I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan ! for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit. 330 SHAKESPEARE. EOMEO AND JULIET. Act I., Scene 4. Borneo. I dream'd a dream to-night. Mercutio. And so did I. Rom. Well, what was yours ? Mer. That dreamers often lie Bom. In bed asleep, while they do dream thingi true. Mer. 0, then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate-stone on the fore-finger of an alderman, drawn with a team of little atomies athwart mens' noses as they lie asleep : her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ; the cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; the traces, of the smallest spider's web ; the collars, of the moonshine's watery beams ; her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ; her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, not half so big as a round little worm pricked from the lazy finger of a maid ; her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,, time out o' mind the fairies' coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night ROMEO AND JULIET. 331 through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ; o'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight; o'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees ; o'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, and then dreams he of smelling out a suit : and sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, then dreams he of another benefice : sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, of healths five-fathom deep ; and then anon drums in his ear, at which he starts, and wakes, and being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, and sleeps again. This is that very Mab .... ****** Bom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace ! Thou talk'st of nothing. Mer. True, I talk of dreams ; which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air, and more inconstant than the wind who wooes even now the frozen bosom of the north, and, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, turning bis face to the dew-dropping south. 332 SHAKESPEARE. Act rV., Scene 1. Frimr Lawrence's Cell. Juliet. Are you at leisure, holy father, now ; or shall I come to you at evening mass ? Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter now Jul. 0, shut the door ! and when thou hast done so come weep with me ; past hope, past cure, past help ! Fri Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief ; it strains me past the compass of my wits : I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, on Thursday next be married to this county. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, unless thou tell me how I may prevent it : if, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, do thou but call my resolution wise, and with this knife I'll help it presently. God join'd my heart and Eomeo's, thou our hands ; and ere this hand, by thee to Eomeo seal'd, shall be the label to another deed, or my true heart with treacherous revolt turn to another, this shall slay them both : therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time, give me some present counsel ; or, behold ! 'twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife shall play the umpire, arbitrating that which the commission of thy years and art ROMEO AND JUirET. 333 could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak ; I long to die, if what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Fri. Hold, daughter ! I do spy a kind of hope, which craves as desperate an execution as that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris, thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, — then is it likely thou wilt undertake a thing like death to chide away this shame, that copest with death himself to scape from it ; and, if thou darest, I'll give thee remedy. Jul. 0, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, from off the battlements of yonder tower ; or walk in thievish ways ; or bid me lurk where serpents are ; chain me with roaring bears ; or shut me nightly in a charnel-house, o'er-cover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, with reeky shanks, and yellow chapless skulls ; or bid me go into a new-made grave and hide me with a dead man in his shroud ; things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble^; and I will do it without fear or doubt, to hve an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Fri. Hold, then ; go home, be merry, give consent to marry Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow ; to-morrow night look that thou lie alone ; let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber : take thou this phial, being then in bed. 334 SHAKESPEARE. and this distilled liquor drink thou off; when presently through all thy veins shall run a cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse shall keep his native progress, but surcease : no warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest ; the roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade to paly ashes ; thy eyes' windows fall, like death, when he shuts up the day of life ; each part, deprived of supple government, shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death : and in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death thou shalt continue two and forty hours, and then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes to rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead : then (as the manner of our country is) in thy best robes uncover'd on the bier thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, shall Eomeo by my letters know our drift ; and hither shall he come ; and he and I will watch thy waking, and that very night shall Eomeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame ; if no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear, abate thy valour in the acting it. Jvl. Give me, give me ! ! tell me not of fear. Fri. Hold ; get you gone, be strong and prosperous KOMEO AND JULIET. 335 in this resolve. I'll send a friar mth speed to Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jid, Love, give me strength ! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Scene 3. Juliet's Chamber. Juliet and Nurse. Juliet. Ay, those attires are hest: — but, gentle nurse, I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night ; for I have need of many orisons to move the heavens to smile upon my state, which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sia. Enter Lady Capulet. Lady Capulet. What, are you busy, ho ? need you my help ? Jul. No, madam ; we have cuU'd such necessaries as are behoveful for our state to-morrow ; so please you, let me now be left alone, and let the nurse this night sit up with you ; for, I am sure, you have your hands full all, in this so sudden business. La. Caip. Good night ! get thee to bed, and rest ; for thou hast need. [ExevMt Lady Capulet and Nurse. 336 SHAKESPEAKE. Jvl. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, that almost freezes tip the heat of life : I'll call them back again to comfort me. — Nurse ! — ^What should she do here ? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. — Come, phial. — What if this mixture do not work at all ? Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning ? — No, no ; — this shall forbid it : — lie thou there. [Laying down her dagger. What if it be a poison, which the friar subtly hath minister'd to have me dead, lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd, because he married me before to Eomeo ? I fear it is : and yet, methinks, it should not, for he hath still been tried a holy man. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Eomeo come to redeem me ? there's a fearful point ! shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault, to whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, and there die strangled ere my Eomeo comes ? Or, if I live, is it not very like, the horrible conceit of death and night, together with the terror of the place, — as in a vault, an ancient receptacle, where, fpr these many hundred years, the bones ROMEO AND JULIET. 337 of all my buried ancestors are pack'd ; where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, lies festering in his shroud ; where, as they say, at some hours in the night spirits resort ; — alack, alack ! is it not like, that I, so early waking, — what with loathsome smells, and shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth, that living mortals, hearing them, run mad ; — ! if I wake, shall I not be distraught, environed with all these hideous fears ? and madly play with my forefathers' joints ? and pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ? and, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, as with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? 0, look ! methinks I see my cousin's ghost seeking out Eomeo, that did spit his body upon a rapier's point : — stay, Tybalt, stay ! — Eomeo, I come ! this do I drink to thee. [She falls wpon her bed. 338 SHAKESPEAKE. OTHELLO. Act I., Scene 3. Othello. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, my very noble and approved good masters, — that I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, it is most true ; true, I have married her : the very head and front of my offending hath this extent, no more. Bude am I in my speech, and little blessed with the soft phrase of peace ; for since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used their dearest action in the, tented field ; and little of this great world can I speak, more than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; and therefore little shall I grace my cause in speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round imvarnished tale deliver of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, what conjuration and what mighty magic (for such proceeding I am charged withal,) I won his daughter. ****** I do beseech you send for the lady to the Sagittary, and let her speak of me before her father : if you do find me foul in her report. OTHELLO. 339 the trust, the office I do hold of you, not only take away, but let your sentence even fall upon my life. Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither. 0th. Ancient, conduct them : you best know the place. [_Exeunt Iago and Attendants. And, till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, so justly to your grave ears I'll present how I did thrive in this fair lady's love, and she in mine. Duke. Say it, Othello. 0th. Her father loved me ; oft invited me ; still question'd me the story of my life, from year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, that I have passed. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, to the very moment that he bade me tell it : wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, of moving accidents by flood and field, of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent-deadly breach ; of being taken by the insolent foe and sold to slavery, of my redemption thence, and portance in my travels' history : wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, it was my hint to speak, — such was the process ; and of the Cannibals that each other eat, 340 SHAKESPEARE. the Anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear would Desdemona seriously incline : but still the house-affairs would draw her thence : which ever as she could with haste dispatch, she'ld come again, and with a greedy ear devour up my discourse : which I observing, took once a pliant hour, and found good means to draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, that I would all my pilgrimage dilate, whereof by parcels she had something heard, but not intentively : I did consent ; and often did beguile her of her tears, when I did speak of some distressful stroke that my youth suffered. My story being done, she gave me for my pains a world of sighs ; she swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, 'twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful ; she wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd that heaven had made her such a man : she thanked me, and bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake : . she loved me for the dangers I had passed, and I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used : here comes the lady ; let her witness it. OTHELLO. 341 Act n., Scene 3. Cassio. Eeputation, reputation, reputation ! 0, I have lost my reputation ! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. . . . Drunk ? and speak parrot ? and squabble ? swagger ? swear ? and discourse fustian with one's own shadow ? — thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee — Devil ! . . . I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly ; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. — God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains ! that we should with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, .transform ourselves into beasts ! . . . Now ... It hath pleased the devil Drunkenness to give place to the devil Wrath : one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself. ... I will ask him for my place again ; he shall tell me I am a drunkard ! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by-and-by a fool, and presently a beast ! strange ! — Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is a devil. 342 SHAKESPEARE. THE MEECHANT OP VENICE. Act IV., Scene 1. Portia. Do you confess the bond ? Antonio. I do. Par. Theb must the Jew be merciful. Shylock. On what compulsion must I ? Tell me that Por. The quality of mercy is not strain'd, it droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath : it is twice blest ; it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 'tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes the throndd monarch better than his crown : his sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; but mercy is above this sceptred sway, it is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute to God himself ; and earthly power doth then show likest God's, when mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this, — that, in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation ; we do pray for mercy ; and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 343 to mitigate the justice of thy plea ; which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. Act v., Scene 1. Lorenzo. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music creep in our ears ; soft stillness and the night become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : there's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st but in his motidn like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins : such harmony is in immortal souls ; but whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Come, ho ! and wake Diana with a hymn ; with sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, and draw her home with music. [Music. Jessica. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive : for do but note a wild and wanton herd, or race of youthful and unhandled colts, fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, which is the hot condition of their blood ; if they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 344 SHAKESPEARE. or any air of music touch their ears, you shall perceive them make a mutual stand, their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music : therefore, the poet did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, but music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; the motions of his spirit are dull as night, and his affections dark as Erebus : let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. [PoETiA and Nekissa approach. Por. That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams ! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. Nerissa. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less : a substitute shines brightly as a king until a king be by, and then his state empties itself, as doth an inland brook into the main of waters. Music ! hark ! . . . Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. . . . How many things by season season'd are to their right praise and true perfection ! Peace, ho ! the moon sleeps with Endymion and would not be awaked. [Music ceases. AS TOU LIKE IT. 345 AS YOU LIKE IT. Act II. Scene 1, 7. In the Forest of Arden ; The banished Duke, and Lords, like outlaws. Duke. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, hath not old custom made this life more sweet than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods more free from peril than the envious court ? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, the seasons' difference, as the icy fang and churlish chiding of the winter's wind,, which, when it bites and blows upon my body, even till I shrink with cold, I smUe, and say This is no flattery : these a/re coimsellors that feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; and this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing. I would not change it. Amiens. Happy is your grace, that can translate the stubbornness of fortune into so quiet and so sweet a style. . * * * * [Enter Jaques. 346 SHAKESPEARE. Duke. Why, how now, monsieur ! What a life is this, that your poor friends must woo your company ? What ! you look merrily. Jaques. A fool, a fool ! I met a fool i' the forest, a motley fool ; a miserable world ! as I do live by food, I met a fool ; who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, and rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, in good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. Good morrow, fool, quoth I : No, sir, quoth he, call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune : and then he drew a dial from his poke, and, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, says, very wisely. It is ten o'clock : thus we may see, quoth he, how the world wags : 'tis but an how ago since it was nine, amd after one hour more 'twill be eleven ; and so, from how to how, we ripe and ripe, and then, from hour to how, we rot and rot ; and thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear the motley fool thus moral on the time, my lungs began to crow like chanticleer, that fools should be so deep-contemplative ; and I did laugh, sans intermission, an hour by his dial. noble fool ! A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. Duke. What fool is this ? Jaques. worthy fool! — One that hath been a courtier ; AS TOU LIKE IT. 347 and says, if ladies be but young and fair, they have the gift to know it ; and in his brain, — •which is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage, — he hath strange places cramm'd with observation, the which he vents in mangled forms. 0, that I were a fool ! I am ambitious for a motley coat. Duke. Thou shalt have one. Jaques. It is my only suit : provided that you weed your better judgements of all opinion that grows rank in them that I am wise. I must have liberty withal, as large a charter as the wind, to blow on whom I please ; for so fools have : and they that are most galled with my folly, they most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so ? The why is plain as way to parish church : he that a fool doth very wisely hit doth very foolishly, although he smart, not to seem senseless of the bob : if not, the wise man's folly is anatomized even by the squandering glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley ; give me leave to speak my mind, and I will through and through cleanse the foul body of the infected world, if they will patiently receive my medicine. *^ lie. jk lie. •It IP iff T|s Enter Oblando, with his sword di/rawn. Orlando. Forbear, and eat no more. 348 SHAKESPEARE. Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet. Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served. Jaq^. Of what kind should this cock come of ? Duke. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy dis- tress, or else a rude despiser of good manners, that in civility thou seem'st so empty ? Orl. You touch'd my vein at first ; the thorny point of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show of smooth civility : yet am I inland bred and know some nurture. But forbear, I say ; he dies that touches any of this fruit till I and my affairs are answered. Jag. An you will not be answered with reason, I must die. Duke. What would you have ? Your gentleness shall force more than your force move us to gentleness. Orl, I almost die for food ; and let me have it. Duke. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. Orl. Speak you so gently ? Pardon me, I pray you : I thought that all things had been savage here ; and therefore put I on the countenance of stern commandment. But whate'er you are that in this desert inaccessible, under the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; if ever you have look'd on better days ; AS TOU LIKE IT. 349 if ever been where bells have knoU'd to church ; if ever sat at any good man's feast ; if ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, and know what 'tis to pity and be pitied ; let gentleness my strong enforcement be : in the which hope I blush, and hide my sword., Duke. True is it that we have seen better days ; and have with holy bell been knoU'd to church ; and sat at good men's feasts ; and wiped our eyes of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd : and therefore sit you down in gentleness, and take upon command what help we have that to your wanting may be muiister'd, Orl. Then but forbear your food a little while, whiles, like a doe,*I go to find my fawn and give it food. There is an old poor man, who after me hath many a weary step limp'd in pure love ; till he be first sufficed, oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger, I will not touch a bit. Duke. Go find him out, and we will nothing waste till you return. Orl. I thank ye : and be blessed for your good comfort ! [Exit. Duke. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy. This wide and universal theatre presents more woeful pageants than the scene wherein we play in. Jaq» All the world's a stage, 360 SHAKESPEARE. and all the men and women merely players : they have their exits and their entrances ; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier, full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, jealous in "honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, in fair round belly with good capon lined, with eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, full of wise saws and modern instances ; and so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, with spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; his youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide for his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, turning again toward childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. MODERN ORATORY. MODERN ORATORY, EXAMPLES FROM SPEECHES. THE DEATH OP H.E.H. PEINCESS ALICE, GEAND DUCHESS OP HESSE. EAEL OF BEACONSFEELD. (b. DISRAELI.) Mt Lords, — -when' I last had the honour of addressing your Lordships it was in the warm controversy of public life. I little thought then that before we dispersed, I should have again to appeal to your Lordships. The subject to which I have now to refer on this occasion is one on which there will be unanimity— but, alas ! it is the unanimity of sorrow. My lords, you are too well aware that a great calamity has fallen on the Eoyal Family of this realm. A Princess, who loved us though she left us, and who always revisited her Fatherland with delight — one of those women the brightness of whose being adorns society and inspires the circle in which she lives — has been removed from this world, to the anguish of her family, her friends, and her sub- jects. The Princess Alice — for I will venture to call AA 354 SPEECHES. her by that name, though she wore a crown — afforded one of the most striking instances that I can remember of richness of culture and rare intelligence, combined with the most pure and refined domestic sentiments. You, my Lords, who know her life well, can recall those agonizing hours when she attended the dying bed of her illustrious father, who had directed her studies, and formed her tastes. You can recall, too, the moment at which she attended her royal brother at a time when the hopes of England seemed to depend on his life, and now you can remember too well how, when the whole, of her family were stricken by a malignant disease, she had been to them the angel in the house, till at last, her own vital power perhaps exhausted, she has herself fallen. My Lords, there is something wonderfully piteous in the immediate cause of her death. The physicians who permitted her to watch over her suffer- ing family, enjoined her under no circumstances what- ever to be tempted into an embrace. Her admirable self-restraint guarded her through the crisis of this terrible complaint in safety. She remembered and observed the injunctions of her physicians. But it be- came her lot to break to her son, quite a youth, the death of his youngest sister, to whom he was devotedly attached. The boy was so overcome with misery, that the agitated mother, to console him, clasped him in her arms — and thus received the kiss of death. My Lords, I hardly know an incident more pathetic. It is one by which poets might be inspired, and in which the artist EARL OF BBACONSFIELD. 355 in every class, whether in picture, in statue, or in gem, might find a fitting subject of commemoration. My Lords, we will not dwell at this moment on the suffer- ings of the husband, whom she has left behind, and of the children who were so devoted to her ; but our im- mediate duty is to offer our condolence to one whose happiness and whose sorrows always excite and com- mand the loyalty and affectionate respect of this House. Upon Her Majesty a great grief has fallen, which none but the Queen can so completely and acutely feel. No language can express the consolation we wish to extend to our Sovereign in her sorrow — such suffering is too fresh to allow of solace ; but, however exalted, there are none but must be sustained by the consciousness that they possess the sympathy of a nation. THE LIBEEAL PAETY. EAEL OF BBACONSFIELD. What have they done ? I will not even comment on what they have done. I will historically state it, and leave you to draw the inference. So long as Constitu- tional England has existed, there has been a jealousy among all classes'against the existence of a standing army. As our Empire expanded, and the existence of a large body of disciplined troops became a necessity, every precaution was taken to prevent the danger to 356 SPEECHES. our liberties which a standing army involved. It was a first principle not to concentrate in the island any overwhelming number of troops, and a considerable portion was distributed in the colonies. Care was taken that the troops generally should be officered by a class of men deeply interested in the property and the liberties of England. So extreme was the jealousy, that the relations between that once constitutional force, the Militia, and the Sovereign were rigidly guarded, and it was carefully placed under local influences. All this is changed. We have a standing army of large amount, quartered, and barracked, and encamped permanently in England, and fed by a considerable and constantly increasing Eeserve. It will in due time be officered by a class of men eminently professional, but with no relations necessarily with general society; while the Militia is withdrawn from all local influences, and placed under the immediate command of the Secretary of War. Thus, in the nineteenth century we have a large standing army established in England, contrary to all the traditions of the land, and that by a Liberal Government, and with the warm acclamations of the Liberal party. Let us look to what they have done with the navy. You remember, in this country especially, the denuncia- tions of the profligate expenditure of the Conservative Government in this respect, and you have since had an opportunity of comparing it with the gentler burden of Liberal estimates. The navy is not merely an instance EAEIi OF BEACONSFIELD. 357 of prbfligate expenditure, but of incompetent and in- adequate management. A great revolution is promised in its administration. A gentleman, almost unknown to English politics, is strangely preferred to one of the highest places in the councils of Her Majesty. He set to at his task with ruthless activity. The Consultative Council, under which Nelson had gained all his victories, was dissolved. The Secretaryship of the Admiralty, an office which exercised a complete supervision over every division of that great department — an office which was to the Admiralty what the Secretary of State is to the kingdom, which, in the qualities which it required and the duties which it fulfilled, was rightly a stepping-stone to the Cabinet, as in the instances of Lord Halifax, Lord Herbert, and others — is reduced to absolute insignificance. Even the Office of Control, which of all others required a position of independence, and on which the safety of the navy mainly depended, is deprived of most of its important attributes. For two years the Opposition has called the attention of Par- liament to these destructive changes, but Parliament and the nation are alike insensible. Full of other busi- ness, they could not give a thought to what they looked upon merely as captious criticism. It requires a great disaster to command the attention of England ; and when the Captain was lost, and when they hung on the details of the perilous voyage of the Megcera, then puWic indignation demanded a complete change in this reforming administration of the navy. And what has 368 SPEECHES. occurred ? It is only a few weeks since, that in the House of Commons I heard the naval statement made by a new First Lord, and it consisted only of the re- scinding of all the revolutionary changes of his prede- cessor, every one of which during the last two years has been pressed upon the attention of Parliament and the country, by that constitutional and necessary body, the Opposition. Gentlemen, it will not do for me — considering the time I have already occupied, and there are still some subjects of importance that must be touched — to dwell upon any of the other similar topics of which there is a rich abundance. I doubt not, there is in this hall more than one farmer, who has been alarmed by the suggestion that Agricultural Machinery was to be taxed. I doubt not, there is in this hall more than one publican, who remembers that last year an Act of Parliament was introduced to declare that all publicans were sinners. I doubt not, there are in this hall a widow and an orphan, who remember the pro- fligate proposition to plunder their lonely heritage. But, gentlemen, as time advanced it was not difScult to perceive that extravagance was being substituted for energy by the Government. The unnatural stimulus was subsiding. Their paroxysms ended in prostration. Some took refuge in melancholy, and their eminent chief alternated between a menace and a sigh. As I sit opposite the Treasury Bench, the Ministers remind me of one of those marine landscapes not unusual on the coast of South America. You behold a range of EAEL OF SHAFTESBURY, 359 exhausted volcanoes. Not a flame flickers on a single pallid crest. But the situation is still dangerous. There are occasional earthquakes, and ever and anon the dark rumbling of the sea» THE EEPEBSENTATION OP THE PEOPLE. EARL OP SHAFTESBURY. My Lords, — I do not believe this Bill ■will give us the pause of a siogle session. Everything at the present day is swift and gigantic. We have gigantic wars, gigantic speculations, gigantic frauds, gigantic crimes, a gigantic Eeform Bill, and, I much fear, we shall have a gigantic downfall. Our position is indeed full of misgivings and fears — ^we are bringing, suddenly and roughly, old England into collision with young Eng- land ; ancient and venerable institutions to be tried, without notice or preparation, by poverty, levity, and ignorance ; and by many who being neither poor, nor vain, nor ignorant, are yet too fuU of hot blood, effer- vescing youth, and burning ambition, to be calm, dispassionate and just. But after all this, there will arise many great and social problems. Prom all which I have seen and heard, I fully conclude that there will spring up in this country, and speedily, too, a revival of that hazardous and angry feud instituted long ago, between the House 360 SPEECHES. of Want and the House of Have. Then you will have new schemes, new agencies, new conditions, new pro- blems, and new fears : and to such an extent that those who have been foremost in urging the passing of this measure, will be among the very first to lament and condemn it. But, my Lords, if all this were necessary for the real advancement of the human race, if it were necessary for the interests of England, I am quite sure your Lordships would be the first to accede to it. In- stitutions must be expanded to suit men, but men are not to be dwarfed or cramped to suit institutions. Yet, my Lords, I should have thought that statesmen of high minds, and patriotic minds, and patriotic hearts, might have devised a scheme, by which these discord- ant elements might have been brought into union, so that, for a time at least, all that appears jarring and difficult might have been reconciled in some other safe and harmonious movement. My Lords, however dark and dismal may be the future of England, it is our duty to fight for our country, into whatever hands the Government may fall. Eng- land, though not so great and happy, may yet be a great and happy land. Whether Monarchical, Ee- publican, or Democratic, she will be England still ; and let us beguile our fears by indulging our imagination, and by picturing to ourselves, that which can never be realized — that out of this hecatomb of British tradi- tions, and British institutions, there will arise the great and glorious Phoenix of a Conservative Democracy. JOHN BRIGHT. 361 THE HOMES OF THE POOE. JOHN BEISHT. I ASK you, then, what of the people and what of the millions ? We find poverty and misery. What does it mean when all these families are living in homes of one room, to us, who have several rooms and all com- forts of life ? It means more than I can describe, and njore than I will attempt to enter into ; and, as need begets need, so poverty and misery beget poverty and misery. And so, in all our great towns, and not a little in some of our small towns, there is misery and helplessness much as I have described. In fact, look- ing at the past — to me it is a melancholy thing to look at — there is much of it which excites in me not astonishment only, but horror. The fact is, there passes before my eyes a vision of millions of families — not individuals, but families — fathers, mothers, children, passing ghastly, sorrow- stricken, in never- ending procession from the cradle to the grave. Now, I have to put to you one question. A friend of ours in the corner there was a little stirred because some of the subjects on which I treated seemed to take a political aspect. Why, someone has said that two things of all others in the world that are worth considering, worth talking about, are subjects of religion and politics. Now I want to ask you whether the future 362 SPEECHES. is to be no better than the past ? Do we march or do we not to a brighter time ? For myself, as you know, it will not be possible for me to see it, but even whilst the sands of life are running, it may be one's duty, if it be possible, in the smallest degree to pro- mote it. For you young gentlemen that are before me, that have done me the distinguished honour to invite me here to address you, I would say that you have before you, many of you, the prospect of witness- ing the transactions of the public policy of your country for forty or fifty, or even, it may be, for more years to come. On such as you depends greatly our future. What I want to ask you is, whether you will look back upon the past, and examine it carefully ; look round in the present and see what exists, and endeavour, if it be possible, to give a better and a higher tone to our national policy for the future. To me it appears that we have trodden for two centuries past — I keep myself to that, because since that time the public opinion of the country has had great and increased influence — I say for two centuries past we have trodden in the footsteps of the Caesars, and have accepted the barbarous policy of Pagan Eome ; whilst at the same time, with vast and uncon- scious hypocrisy, we have built thousands of temples and have dedicated them to the *' Prince of Peace : " and I say with grief and shame, that they who have miaistered at His altars, have for the most part on these matters been absolutely dumb. Now, Sir, I ask JOHN BRIGHT. 363 you this question, Shall we reverse this policy ? Shall we strive to build up the honour, the true honour, and the true happiness of our people, on the firm basis of justice, morality, and peace ? I plead not for the great, nor for the rich, I plead for the millions who live in homes of only one room. Can ye answer me in the words — words which years ago, on a somewhat like occasion, fell from the crowned minstrel who left us the Psalms — "The needy shall not always be forgotten; the expectation of the poor shall not perish for ever ? " [Conclusion of the Lord Beetor's Address, Glasgow, 1883.] EUSSIA. JOHN BBIGHT. I KNOW not, Sir, who it is that says "No, no," but I should like to see any man get up and say, that the destruction of 200,000 human lives, lost on all sides during the course of this unhappy conflict is not a sufficient sacrifice. You are not pretending to conquer territory — you are not pretending to hold fortified or unfortified towns; you have offered terms of peace which, as I understand them, I do not say are not moderate ; and breathes there a man in this House, or in this country, whose appetite for blood is so insa- tiable, that even when terms of peace have been offered and accepted, he pines for that assault in which of S64 SPEECHES. Eussian, Turk, French, and English, as sure as one man dies, 20,000 corpses will strew the streets of Sebastopol? I say I should like to ask the noble Lord — and I am sure that he will feel, and that this House will feel, that I am speaking in no unfriendly manner towards the Government of which he is at the head— I should like to know, and I venture to hope that it is so, if the noble Lord, the Member for London, has power, at the earliest stage of these pro- ceedings at Vienna at which it can properly be done — and I should think that it might properly be done at a very early stage — to adopt a course by which all further waste of human life may be put an end to, and further animosity between three great nations be, as far as possible, prevented. The Angel of Death has been abroad throughout the land ; you may almost hear the beating of his wings. There is no one, as when the first-born were slain of old, to sprinkle with blood the lintel, and the two side-posts of our doors, that he may spare and pass on ; he takes his victims from the castle of the noble, the mansion of the wealthy, and the cottage of the poor and the lowly, and it is on behalf of all these classes that I make this solemn appeal. I tell the noble Lord, that if he be ready, honestly and frankly to endeavour, by the negociations about to be opened at Vienna, to put an end to this war, no word of mine, no vote of mine, will be given to shake his power for one single moment, or to change his JOHN BRIGHT. 365 position in this House. I am sure that the noble Lord is not inaccessible to appeals made to him from honest motives and with no unfriendly feeling. The noble Lord has been for more than forty years a Mem- ber of this House. Before I was born, he sat upon the Treasury bench, and he has spent his life in the service of his country. He is no longer young, and his life has extended almost to th6 term allotted to man. I would ask, I would entreat the noble Lord to take a course which, when he looks back upon his whole political career — whatever he may therein find to be pleased with, whatever to regret — cannot but be a source of gratification to him. By adopting that course he would have the satisfaction of reflecting that, having obtained the object of his laudable ambi- tion — haviijg become the foremost subject of the Crown, the director of, it may be, the destinies of his country, and the presiding genius of her councils — he had achieved a still higher and nobler ambition : — that he had returned the sword to the scabbard — ^that at his word torrents of blood had ceased to flow — that he had restored tranquillity to Europe, and saved this country from the indescribable calamities of war. SPEECHES. THE BOEES AND THE TEANSVAAL. eabij cairns. I HAVE risen, my lords, from the perusal of these papers with feelings which I find it difficult to describe. It is not easy, in the midst of the events which pass around us, to realize the character of the history we are creating for future ages ; but we can uflderstand and look back upon the history of past times, and infer from this the manner in which we shall be regarded by those who come after us. It is just 100 years since a page was written in the annals of England, darkened by the surrenders of Burgoyne and Cornwallis. Those were surrenders made by generals at a distance from, and without communication with, home — on their own responsibility — in great emergency — and without the possibility of any alternative. They were events, how- ever, which both at the time and long afterwards deeply touched our national pride. But it will be recorded hereafter that it was reserved for the nine- teenth century, and for the days of telegrams, to find a surrender, with reinforcements at hand, with every means for restoring the power and vindicating the authority of the Crown, dictated, word for word, by the Government at home. I observe that this arrangement is somewhere styled the Peace of Mount Prospect. My EAKL CAIENS. 367 lords, I much doubt whether it will not go down to posterity as the Capitulation of Downing Streets You have administered a bitter cup to English- men abroad and Englishmen at home. And you have made the draught undidy and unnecessarily bitter. Surely some of the ingredients might have been spared. I wish you could have chosen for the conclusion of such a capitulation, some other agent than one of the bravest, the most intrepid, the most promising generals in the service of the Queen. I wish you could have spared our troops the intense mortification of being paraded in order to see a half- civilized enemy marching off in triumph with our arms and accoutrements captured from British soldiers. I wish that while still the Transvaal remains, as you say it does, under our control, the British flag had not been first reversed and then trailed in insult through the mud. I wish that the moment when you are weakening our Empire in the East had not been selected for dismembering our Empire in South Africa. These are the aggravations of the transaction. You have used no pains to conceal what was humbling, and a shame that was real you have also made burning. But the transaction, without the aggravations, is bad enough. It has already touched, and will every day touch more deeply the heart of the nation. Other re- verses we have had — other disasters. But a reverse is not dishonour, and disaster does not necessarily imply disgrace. To Her Majesty's Government we owe a 368 SPEECHES. sensation which to this country of ours is new, and which certainly is not agreeable. " In all the ills we ever bore. We grieved, we sigbed, we wept ; we never blushed before." AFGHANISTAN. EABL GBEY. No man will more gladly than myself assent to what- ever may be proposed, in order to secure the safety and welfare of our gallant soldiers, who have so greatly distinguished themselves in the operations that have already taken place ; but it would be quite a different thing, to give our sanction to votes intended to afford the means of carrying on the war with vigour— that is to say, of engaging in further offensive operations against the Afghans. This, my Lords, if we consider the war to be unjust, would, in my opinion, be some- thing much worse than illogical ; and, for my part, I will not vote for giving a single shilling for such a purpose. 1 regard the war as unjust ; and I, there- fore, consider that in waging it a national crime is committed, and that we shall every one of us be responsible before God, if we consent, as Members of this House, to abet and encourage it. I must add, that my vote for the amendment of my noble friend, is meant to be one of decided opposition to the resolu- EAKL GREY. 369 tion moved by the noble Viscount, declaring the assent of this House to the use of the Indian Eevenue for the payment of the expenses of the war. This, I think, would be most unjust to the people of India. My noble friend on the cross-benches (the Earl of Derby) has explained his reasons for regarding the present state of the Indian finances as unsatisfactory. I entirely concur in this opinion. I believe the people of India to be already over-taxed and to require relief. We know what heavy burdens have been thrown on the Indian Treasury by successive famines ; we know, too, that various public works, which are urgently wanted, and some of which would greatly assist in averting future famines, have been postponed, owing to the difficulty of finding money to carry them on. In such a state of things it seems to me, that to employ the Eevenues of India in carrying on an unrighteous war, not to the advantage, but probably to the detriment of India, would be most unjust. The people of India have not been, and could not be, consulted on the subject ; they are not responsible for what has been done. It is the people of England who are responsible; for they, through their Eepresentatives, have given Her Majesty's Ministers the power to take the measures which have had the result which we see. The cost of the war ought, therefore, to fall on this country and not on India ; and on that ground I must vote against the Besolution of the noble Viscount. BB 370 SPEECHES. THE EASTEEN QUESTION. VISCOUNT CBANBKOOK. (dATHORNE-HAKDT.) Nobody, Sir, can doubt that there is at this moment, — assuming the Treaty of San Stefano to stand, — ^that there is a great darkening overshadowing the South- East of Europe. No one can doubt that one Power in Europe is supreme there at this moment. No one •can doubt that Turkey has by that Power been absolutely crushed. The right hon. gentleman speaks of what was done at the Conference ; but the right hon. gentleman himself more than once said that he was desirous that Turkey should exercise dominion over those States, with proper guarantees for their good government. That was the tone taken at the Conference ; but there was no question of this crea- tion of vast independent States. The circumstances are altogether different. Sir, I feel deeply the gravity of the situation. I trust I have not said a word to bring about a collision of opinion or feeling, or which might hinder the establishment of a secure peace. Hy strong desire has been otherwise. I have endea- voured to confine myself to the points mentioned by ■the right hon. gentleman. Is it possible that an English Minister, having the interests of England at heart, could possibly wish for war? It is simply absurd, that, with our interests in commerce through" VISCOTTNT CRAUBEOOK. 371 out the world, in trade at home, — our interests in the happiness of the people, in freedom from bloodshed, in the quietness of their homes throughout the coun- try — it is, I say, simply impossible that we could be desirous of war. Sir, it is so ridiculous an accusation, that I am almost ashamed to answer it. But, Sir, there are worse evils than war. Worse evils arise from the degradation of a country that is asserting its position and claiming its rights — degradation from the refusal to that country of the right to exercise its just influence in the settlement of the administration of a State in which it has held great interests. It is an insult to such a country, to be driven from the free discussion of those points to which it had com- mitted itself by its own adhesion and its own signature in conjunction with other Great Powers. It then becomes a duty of such a country, even at the risk which I, for one, am most anxious to avoid, of some bloodshed, to maintain its position. It will only, by deferring the time, weaken itself for future effort, when war will come down upon it heavily, and earnestly, and against its will. It is better to take time by the forelock ; and, if this country is unjustly excluded from its rights, to place itself in such a posi- tion as, to show that it means to maintain them, and not to allow the Empire of England to be trodden down and dishonoured, even by the greatest Empire or by any Power in the world. [On calling out the Beserves,] 372 SPEECHES. THE BEITISH EMPIEE. JOSEPH COWBN. The permanent importance of the external business of the British Empire is demonstrated by our having three great officers of State — the Ministers for India, the Colonies, and Foreign Affairs — charged -with its administration. Upon the wisdom, moderation, and manliness of its management ; upon the delicate but vital shading which is constantly given to, or is with- drawn from, diplomatic doings and correspondencsi depend vast issues. A blunder at home may be repaired with no further inconvenience than a display of party acerbity, or the delay of some needed reform ; but a blunder abroad may inflict colossal injuries, paralyse industry, convulse trade, plunge the popula- tion into penury, and the country into disgrace. Foreign policy may be made an instrument for secur- ing great national advantage and renown, or an in- strument for entailing great national injury and de- gradation. It is the pivot on which the national mechanism revolves. When it is loose, the empire oscillates, and society is shaken. The slightest vibra- tion is felt alike by the fireside of the humblest and in the palaces of the powerful. * * * * The British dominions embrace one-seventh of the land-surface of the globe, and nearly one-fourth JOSEPH COWEN. 373 of its population. They cover three and a half millions of square miles in America ; over a quarter of a million in Africa ; over a million and a half in Asia; and three millions in Australia. The total area is 8,600,000 square miles, or 65 times the extent of the United Kingdom. That is, for every square mile of land we have at home, we have 65 square miles across the seas. The population is esti- mated at over 310,000,000, and includes men of all colours — white, black, red, and yellow — and all creeds. The Queen rules over nearly one-third more Mussul- mans than the Sultan does ; she has over one-third more Mahometan than Christian subjects; and as many believers in Brahma as in Mahomet and Christ put together. There is not now, and there never has been, an empire which has equalled it in extent and population, in industrial enterprise and wealth, since the world began. There has never been one that ap- proximated to it in self-government. It is that faculty and habit of independence which has been spun into the staple of our being, that has given such boundless vitality to the English race, and conferred upon them the uttermost parts of the earth as an inheritance. Wherever the tracery of her widely-spread web extends, her responsibility is carried. She is here a citadel, encircled by an admirable line of defence — the ocean. She has not only to mount guard upon it, and all its outworks and dependencies, but she has long and in- tricate lines of communication to keep open and in- 374 SPEECHES. tact. This involves exceptional responsibilities, and necessitates wariness, energy and spirit. There are broad distinctions between the British and other empires — ancient and modern. It is more scattered. It has not four, but four thousand frontiers, touching, at one or more points, nearly every civilized state, and innumerable savage tribes. Such expanded and un- dulating borders, and such varied and uncertain neighbours, involve us in constantly recurring con- flicts, which make less figure in our annals than they do in our estimates. Physically, Great Britain is an island ; but, strategically, she is a great Continental Power. [General Election, 1885.] THE EIGHT OP PKEE SPEECH. JOSEPH COWEN. The floor of the House of Commons, in the estimation of some, has ceased to be the exclusive or even the most effective platform from which to address the nation : in the great council of the State which holds its debates in the columns of the Press, public questions are sifted and settled; and all that this assembly is required to do, or indeed can do, is to give force and form to the decisions thus arrived at. Now, I have no wish to disparage the Press nor undervalue its influence ; but I object to assign to it attributes JOSEPH COWEN. 875 it does not aspire to, or power it does not possess. The Press is primarily a record in which is out- lined the salient features of our restless, diffuse, and fragmentary life. It is a panorama on which are photographed the swiftly moving incidents of a busy existence. It is an Expositor through whose agency confused and complicated reports are sifted, facts discovered, and then disseminated. It is, too, an educator whose influence reaches through all the ramifications of society — from the palace to the prison. But it is vested with no representative function, and only in a limited degree can it be called an organ of public opinion. Newspapers express, often in a discursive and cursory way, the opinion of their conductors, but it is gross exaggeration to assume that they express the opinion of the public. Men derive from newspapers the materials for discussion, but it is ignorance on the part of politicians, and vanity on the part of journalists, to pretend that the opinion of the newspapers and the opinion of the public are always synonymous. More than once during these debates, what is termed the unbusinesslike character of the proceedings has been referred to, and a hope has been expressed that the arrangements of the House should be assimilated to those of a board of directors. I have little respect for, and no sympathy with, such suggested perversion. To contemplate the lowering to the level of a mercantile company an historical assembly which 376 SPEECHES. has been the cradle of the liberties of modern Euro and the political and legislative sanctuary of a gr and free people, proves how the spirit and faith o country, through a long course of prosperity anc sordid worship of success, can become unaspir: and materialistic, how the motives of nationality e patriotism, of reverence and courtesy, lose tli force and cease to be springs of action and guidef life. Never, I trust, will a British House of Commi degenerate into a shop or counting house ; nor le{ lation, which — in its loftiest purposes — is the m solemn duty that man can discharge to his fellowm which builds up the character and influences destinies of a nation, which secures the rights, liberties, and the property of the people, becom trade. We may cut away a mouldering branch fi our Parliamentary system, but we should remem that the trophies of the past are essential to elucid and confirm the wisdom of the present. This idols of the immediate dwarfs and deforms national cl acter. Let us recast our rules, brush the dust them, adapt them to modern requirements, but ] serve the spirit and continuity of our proudly-treasu historical traditions. I would not touch one of our customs that does not stand in the way of necess and urgent change. A breath blows the glory of s away. The quaint call of " who goes home '" when ^ The cry of "Who goes home ? " is raised immediate!; the Speaker leaving the chair. It is a relic of the olden : W. E. GLADSTONE. 377 House is up — ^what a vista of social vicissitudes it summons to the memory ! The grating^ on the door- way — what stalwart conflicts between the represen- tative and the regal power it recalls ! Some of the regulations we are now asked to rescind have his- torical significance, whidh kindles generous emotions when we reflect on the efforts made to win them. Change we must have, but that now sought is exces- sive and bewildering. It involves momentous inno- vations amounting to a revolution of Parliamentary procedure, and is contrary to the temper and is inimical to the interests of the Legislature. PAELIAMENTAET OATHS. W. E. GLADSTONE. I AM convinced that on every religious ground, as well as on every political ground, the true and the wise course is not to deal out religious liberty by halves, quarters, and fractions, but to deal it out entire, and make no distinctions between man and man, on the ground of religious difference, from one end of the land when it was dangerous for Members to go home alone ; and when, for protection's sake, all going in one direction used to leave the House together. ^ This refers to the grating on the outer dpor of the House of Commons, through which the representatives of the Sovereign have to ask permission to enter. 378 SPEECHES. to the other. But I go a little farther in endeavouring to probe this contention which has been put forward by hon. gentlemen opposite, and I want to know, is your religious distinction a real distinction at all ? I will, for the sake of argument, and for no other pur- pose whatever, go with you on this dangerous ground of splitting theology into slices, and I ask you where you will draw the line. You draw your line at the point where the abstract denial of God is severed from the abstract admission of the Deity. My proposition is, that the line thus drawn is worthless, and that much on your side of the line is as objectionable as the Atheism on the other. If you call upon us to make distinctions, let them, at least, be rational; I do not say let them be Christian distinctions, but let them be rational. I can understand one rational distinction, that you should frame the oath in such a way as to recognise not only the existence of the Deity, but the Providence of the Deity, and man's responsibility to the Deity : and in such a way as to indicate the knowledge in a man's own mind, that he must answer to the Deity for what he does and is able to do. But is that your present rule ? No, Sir, you know very well that from ancient times there have been sects and schools, that have admitted in the abstract as freely as Christians the existence of a Deity, but have held that of practical relations between Him and man there can be jione. Many members of this House will recollect the noble and majestic lines — W. E. GLADSTONE. 379 " Omnis enim per se Divom natura necesse est immortali eevo summa cum pace fruatTir, semota ab nostris rebus, sejunctaque longe. Nam privata dolore omni, privata periclis, ipsa STiis pollens opibus, nil iadiga nostri, nee bene promeritis capitur neque tangitur ira." ' " Divinity exists " — according to these, I must say, magnificent lines — "in remote and inaccessible re- cesses ; but with us it has no dealing, of us it has no need, with us it has no relation." I do not hesitate to say that the specific evil, the specific form of irre- ligion, with which in the educated society of this country you have to contend, and with respect to which you ought to be on your guard, is not blank Atheism. That is a rare opinion very seldom met with ; but what is frequently met with, is that form of opinion which would teach us that, whatever may be beyond the visible things of this world, whatever there be beyond this short span of life, you know and you can know nothing of it, and that it is a bootless undertaking, to attempt to establish relations with it. That is the mischief of the age, and that mischief yon do not attempt to touch. What is more, you glory in the state of the law that now prevails ; you wish to tolerate all difi'erences of religion, you wish to allow every one to enter your Chamber who admits the existence of a Deity. You would seek to admit Voltaire. That is a specimen of your toleration. Vcd- * Lucretius, ii. 646. 380 SPEECHES. taire was not a taciturn foe of Christiamty. He was the author of that painful J)hrase which goes to the heart of every Christian, and of many a professor who is not a Christian — ecrasez Vinfdme. And yet that is the state of the law for which you are working up the country to madness, endeavouring to strengthen in the minds of the people the false notion, that you have got a real test, a real safeguard, and that Christianity is still safe, with certain unavoidable exceptions, under the protecting aegis of the oath, within the walls of this Chamber. And for this you excite a great religious war ! I hold that this contention of our opponents is disparaging to religion ; it is idle, it is irrational. For if you are to have a religious test at all, a test of Theism, which was what the hon. member for Portsmouth frankly said he wished to adopt, it ought to be a test of a well-ascertained Theism ; not a mere abstract idea dwelling in the air and the clouds, but a practical recognition of a Divine governing Power to which we are to account for every thought we conceive, for every word we utter. I fear I have detained the House too long. But after all that has been said, and after all the flood of accusation and of invective that has been poured out, I have thought it right, at great length, and very seri- ously, to show, at all events, that we do not decline the battle, and that we are not going to allow it to be said, that the interests of religion are to find defenders only on the opposite side of the House. That sincere W. E. GXADSTONE. 381 and conscientious defenders of the interests of religion are to be found there, I do not question at this moment ; but I do contend with my whole heart and soul that the interests of religion as well as the in- terests of civil liberty, are concerned in the passing of this Bill. My reason for saying that may be given in a very few words. If I were asked to put a construc- tion upon this oath, I should probably give it ^ higher meaning than most gentlemen opposite. It is my opinion that the oath has in it a very large flavour of Christianity. I am well aware that the doctrine of my hon. and learned friend, the Attorney-General, is that there are other forms of positive attestation, recognised by other systems of religion, which may enable the oath to be taken, by the removal of the words, "so help me God," and the substitution of other words, or of some other symbolical act, involving the notion of the Deity and responsibility to the Deity. I do not now refer to cases of that kind, but to cases where the oath is taken in the usual form. Now, re- member the oath does not consist of spoken words alone. The spoken words are accompanied by the corroborative act of kissing the Book, which, accord- ing to the intention of the Legislature, ought to impart the acceptance of the Divine revelation. There have been other in other forms countries. I do not know whether there is still in Scotland the form of holding up the hand. In Spain, I believe, the form is that of kissing the cross; in Italy, that of laying the hand 382 SPEECHES. upon the Gospel. But in this, according to the ori- ginal intention, there is something which involves the acceptance of Christianity. You do not mean that the law is, or can be, applied in this sense. A law of this kind is like coin spick and span new from the mint, carrying upon it all its edges in their sharpness and freshness. But it wears down in passing from hand to hand ; and, though there is a residuum, yet the distinguishing features disappear. So it is with the oath. Whatever my opinion may he as to the origmal vitality of the oath, there is very little difference of opinion as to what it has now become. It has become a Theistic test. It does, as I think, involve a reference to Christianity ; but while this is my personal opinion, it is not recognized by authority, and at any rate does not prevail in practice; for some gentlemen in the other House of Parliament, if not in this also, have written works against the Christian religion, and yet have taken the oath. But undoubtedly it is not good for any of us to force this test so flavoured, or even not so flavoured, upon men who cannot take it with a full and cordial acceptance. It is bad to do so ; it is demoralizing. It is all very well to say, " Oh, yes, but it is their responsibility." That is not in my view a satisfactory answer. A seat in this House is to an ordinary Englishman in early life, or, perhaps, in middle or mature life, when he has reached a position of distinction in his career, the highest prize of his ambition. If you place between him and that prize W. E. GLADSTONE. 383 not only the necessity of conforming to certain civil conditions, but the adoption of certain religious words, and if these words are not justly measured to the con- ditions of his conscience and convictions, you give him an inducement — nay, I do not go too far when I say-^-you offer him a bribe to tamper with those con- victions, to do violence to his conscience, in order that he may not be stigmatised by being shut out from what is held to be the noblest privilege of the English citizen, that of representing his fellow-citizens. There- fore, I say that besides our duty to vindicate the prin- ciple of civil and religious liberty, it is most important that the House should consider the moral effect of this test. It is — as the hon. member for Portsmouth is neither more nor less than right in saying — a purely Theistic test. Viewed as a Theistic test, it embraces no acknowledgment of Providence, of Divine govern- ment, of responsibility, or retribution. It involves nothing but a bare and abstract admission, a form void of all practical meaning and concern. This is not a wholesome, but an unwholesome lesson. Yet more. I own, although I am now, perhaps, going to injure myself by bringing the name of Mr. Bradlaugh into this controversy, I am strongly of opinion that the present controversy should come to a close. I have no fear of Atheism in this House. Truth is the expression of the Divine mind, and, however little our feeble vision may be able to discern the means by which God may provide for its preservation, we may 884 SPEECHES. leave the matter in His hands ; and we may be sure that a firm and courageous application of every prin- ciple of equity and of justice is the best method we can adopt for the preservation and influence of truth. And I must painfully record my opinion that grave injury has been done to religion in many minds — not in instructed minds, but in those which are ill- instructed or partially instructed, and which have large claims on our consideration— in consequence of steps which have, unhappily, been taken. Great mis- chief has been done in many minds through the resistance offered to a man elected by the constituency of Northampton, which a portion of the people believe to be unjust. When they see the profession of religion and the interests of religion ostensibly associated with what they are deeply convinced is injustice, they are led to questions about religion itself, which they see to be associated with injustice. Unbelief attracts a sym- pathy which it would not otherwise enjoy, and the upshot is to impair those convictions and that religious faith, the loss of which I believe to be the most inex- pressible calamity which can fall either upon a man or upon a nation. W. E, GIADSTONE. 385 lEELAND. W. B. GLADSTONE. I HOLD that there is such a thing as local patriotism, which in itself is not bad, but good. The Welshman is full of local patriotism — the Scotsman is full of local patriotism ; the Scotch nationality is as strong as it ever was, and should the occasion arise — which I believe it never can — it will be as ready to assert itself as in the days of Bannockburn. I do not believe that that local patriotism is an evil. I believe it is stronger in Ireland even than in Scotland. English- men are eminently English, Scotsmen are profoundly Scotch, and, if I read Irish history aright, misfortime and calamity have wedded her sons to her soil. The Irishman is more profoundly Irish, but it does not follow that because his local patriotism is keen, he is incapable of Imperial patriotism. There are two modes of presenting the subject. The one i&to present what we now recommend as good, and the other to recommend it as a choice of evils. Well, Sir, I have argued the matter as if it were a choice of evils ; I have recognized as facts entitled to attention the jealousies which I do not share or feel, and I have argued it on that ground as the only ground on which it can be argued, not only in a mixed auditory, but in the public mind and to the country, which cannot give c 386 SPEECHES. a minute investigation to the operations of that com- plicated question. But in my own heart I cherish the hope that this is not merely the choice of the lesser evil, but may prove to be rather a good in itself. What is the answer to this ? It is only to be found in the view which rests upon the basis of despair and of absolute condemnation of Ireland and Irishmen as exceptions to the beneficent provisions which enable men in general, and Europeans in particular, and Americans, to be capable of performing civil duties, and which considers an Irishman either as a Insm vmturce or one for whom justice, common sense, moderation, and national prosperity have no meaning, and who can only understand and appreciate perpetual strife and dissension. Well, Sir, I am not going to argue that view, which to my mind is founded on a monstrous misconception. I say that the Irishman is as capable of loyalty as another man — I say that if his loyalty has been checked in its development, why is it ? Because the laws by which he is governed do not present themselves to him, as they do to us in England and Scotland, with a native and congenial aspect, and I think I can refer to two illustrations which go strongly to support the doctrine I have advanced. Take the case of the Irish soldier, and of the Irish constabulary. Have you a braver or a more loyal man in your army than the Irishman, who has shared every danger with his Scotch and English com- rades, and who has never been behind them when W. E. GLADSTONE. 387 confronted by peril, for the sake of the honour and safety of his Empire ? Compare this case with that of an ordinary Irishman in Ireland. The Irish soldier has voluntarily placed himself under military law, which is to him a self-chosen law, and he is exempted from that difficulty which works upon the population in Ireland — namely, that they are governed by a law which they do not feel has sprung from the soil. Con- sider how common it is to hear the observation in dis- cussing the circumstances of Ireland, that while con- stabulary are largely taken from the Eoman Catholic population and from the very class most open to dis- affection, where disaffection exists, they form a splendid model of obedience, discipline, and devotion such as the world can hardly match. How is this? It is because they have undertaken a voluntary service which takes them completely out of the category of the ordinary Irishman. They are placed under an authority which is to them congenial because freely accepted. Their loyalty is not checked by the causes that operate on the agricultural population of Ireland. It has grown as freely in the constabulary and in the army, as if every man in the constabulary and every Irish soldier had been an Englishman or a Scotsman. However this may be, we are sensible that we have taken an important decision — our choice has been made. It has not been made without thought ; it has been made in the full knowledge that trial and diffi- culty may confront us in our path. We have no right 388 SPEECHES. to say that Ireland, through her constitutionally-chosen representatives, will accept the plan I offer. Whether it will be so I do not know — I have no title to assume it — but if Ireland does not cheerfully accept it, it is impossible for us to attempt to force upon her what is intended to be a boon ; nor can we possibly press England and Scotland to accord to Ireland what she does not heartily welcome and embrace. There are difficulties, but I rely upon the patriotism and sagacity of this House ; I rely on the effects of full and free discussion; and I rely more than all upon the just and generous sentiments of the two British, nations. Looking forward, I ask the House to assist us in the work which we have undertaken, and to believe that no trivial motive can have driven us to it, to assist us in this work which we believe will restore Parlia- ment to its dignity, and legislation to its free and un- impeded course. I ask you to stay that waste of public treasure, which is involved in the present system of government and legislation in Ireland ; and which is not a waste only, but which demoralizes while it exhausts. I ask you to show to Europe and to America that we, too, canface political problems which America twenty years ago faced, and which many countries in Europe have been called upon to face and have not feared to deal with. I ask' that in our own case we should practise with firm and fearless hand what we have so often preached — the doctrine which we have so often inculcated upon others — namely, that EARI, SELBORNE. 389 the concession of local self-government is not the way to sap or impair, but the way to strengthen and con- solidate, unity. I ask that we should learn to rely less upon merely written stipulations, and more upon those better stipulations which are written on the heart and mind of man. I ask that we should apply to Ireland that happy experience which we have gained in England and in Scotland, where the course of generations has now taught us, not as a dream or a theory, but as practice and as life, that the best and surest foundation we can find to build upon is the foundation afforded by the affections, the convictions, and the will of the nation; and it is thus, by the decree of the Almighty, that We may be enabled to secure at once the social peace, the fame, the power, and the permanence of the Empire. [Conclusion of speech, 8th April, 1886.] CONCILIATION AND COEECION. EAUIi SELBOHNE. How can you possibly suppose that the supremacy of the law in Ireland could be restored by giving over the absolute power of governing Ireland to those whose organization has been directed against that object? Suppose you were sanguine enough to entertain that 390 SPEECHES. hope, what is to be done in the meantime ? Are you to have no law in the meantime except the law of the National League ? Are you not to have the means of punishing or repressing crime, of stopping intimida- tion, protecting people in the enjoyment of their lives, rights, and liberties ? Why, the most sanguine men, who may most devoutly believe in their hearts that some measure of Home Eule will be carried within the next three or four years, do they sincerely mean to say that, besides all the uncertainties as to what sort of rule there might then be in Ireland, you are to have no effective law there until that time? I have said so much about this idea of conciliation, interpreting it as I do to mean Home Eule ; because, if it means anything else, then I say we are all quite as much for conciliation as the noble earl ; quite as much — I do not say more, because I give him credit for perfect sincerity, and a real honest desire to do what is best for Ireland. For many years we have shown the sincerity of our desire to do everything in reason, and, perhaps, more than was in reason, for the conciliation of Ireland. But if conciliation means only Home Eule, then it is a little strange that there should be no law in the meantime, or no measures to strengthen the law if the law is not able now to assert itself. I refer now to the cuckoo cry — I hope I may be ex- cused for using the expression — of coercion against conciliation. I have said enough about conciliation. EABL SELBOBNE. 391 Now, what is really meant by coercion ? Who are they to whom it will apply^he observers of law or the breakers of it ? Are they those who commit crimes or those who suffer from them ? Those who commit crimes. Are they those who respect other men's liberties or those who tyrannise over them ? Those who tyrannize over them. If you call the repression of these things by the name of coercion, then I say that coercion is jnerely another name for government, for the criminal law of any kind, for the existing criminal law ; and those who say you shall not have coercion are really contending for this — that where people choose to disobey the law they shall not be compelled to obey it ; that where they choose to resist the law they shall not be compelled to yield ; that where people organize conspiracies against the law, the law ought not to be maintained against them. Therefore, I say you may call it coercion if you please, but it is no more coercion than the administration of the criminal law is coercion in England ; and if the ordinary administration of the law in Ireland were as easy as it is in England, and if juries were as free from intimidation and influence there as here, you would have all you want without any new legislation. But to stigmatize the repression of crime and the enforcement of ordinary law as coercion, is even less reasonable than to say that Home Eule is the only possible kind of conciliation. My lords, it is a subject of regret to me that I am 392 SPEECHES. compelled to differ from my noble friends ; but most of all am I sorry to differ from the great man to whose service I have devoted many of the best years of my life. My separation from him will be a bitter thing to me to the end of my days ; but before all regard for persons, before all regard for friends, before all regard for myself, must be the regard I have for my country, for truth, for law and justice, for private liberty and public honour. IRISH DISTEBSS. MITCHELL HBNEY. The man who prophesies that the distress in Ireland can be permanently removed by getting rid of a cer- tain number of persons, and who, by means of the emigrant ship, will put out of sight this dreadful spectre of starvation and destitution, is no friend to this country. The friend of England is the man who will tell the naked truth, and that is, that neither political disabilities nor questions of nationality are the main causes of the difficulties with Ireland. The causes of these difficulties are to be summed up in the simple phrase — empty stomachs and idle hands. If these hands are idle from causes over which the people have control — that is to say, if the people are wilfully idle — I will be the first to condemn them; MITCHELL HENRT. 393 but I know well that the poor Irish cotter is one of the most hardworking of God's creatures, and when he comes over to this country to work in the way of trade or harvesting, he presents a picture of self- denial and perseverance that is not to be met with amongst any other class. Consider, gentlemen, how these men conduct themselves at harvest time in this country, and at such places as Jarrow, Newcastle-on- Tyne, and Liverpool, where they work from morning till night for the smallest pay. It was only this even- ing that an hon. member said to me in conversation, when urging the desirability of giving something for the people to do in the shape of task work — " I have seen the Irish labourer in our towns engaged in digging out the foundations of buildings, and my heart has bled for them when I considered the kind of work they have to do for the merest pittance." These are the people who in England readily do hard work, but at home they have none to do. How can they till a soil that is saturated with water, and what hope have they from their flocks when they find that one-third of their value is lost in the cost of getting them to the market ? But the Government holds out no hope that it will do anything for the starving popula- tion of the West. I have addressed the House in warm tones on this question. For the last two or three years these subjects have not been under discus- sion. We have had exciting political topics, and many matters have engaged our attention, the 394 SPEECHES. memory of which is not very sweet to me; but throughout all, I have cherished the hope that my right hon. friend, when he came into office, and before making up his mind, would go to the West of Ireland and see for himself the state of things which exists there. But he has not done that ; he has preferred to go on in the old way, getting his information from the old sources in Dublin. If they are continued I see no hope of amelioration of the people's distress. I con- clude, by stating that the land in the West of Ireland can be reclaimed economically, wisely, and profitably, and I repeat that until you deal in some way with the land, upon which a certain residuum of the popula- tion must live, you can never hope to solve, in a satisfactory manner, the dreadful problem coming constantly before us. lEBLAND. JOSEPH OHAMBEBLAIN. The Irish policy which was elaborately expressed in the two great Bills of the late Government, and for opposing which we have been subjected to every obloquy and reviled as apostates and renegades, has been finally abandoned by its authors. At last we have knocked the bottom out of the proposals which were presented to us two years ago as a final, a full, and a JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN. 39S satisfactory settlement of the Irish question. What better justification can we have for our action than the confession of those -whom we opposed, that the policy to which we objected was insufficiently considered, was incomplete, and required amendment in every im- portant detail? Of the two great Bills of the late Government, the Land Bill was the first to depart, " unwept, unhonoured, and unsung." The Land Bill has gone ; not merely the details of the measure, but the principle also has now absolutely departed — the obligations of honour, the responsibilities of the British people, the atonement for past misdeeds which could only be made at the expense of the British taxpayer, all these have been surrendered without recall. Mr. Gladstone declared that a Land Bill was a necessary complement to any scheme of Home Eule, and that no such proposal could be carried into effect without invoking the aid of the British taxpayer. We differed , from Mr. Gladstone on that important point, and when the Bound Table Conference was held, I sub- mitted to that conference an alternative plan for abolishing dual ownership, and at the same time without having recourse to the credit of the British nation. Now I find, and it is a most gratifying thing to me, that Mr. Gladstone on two recent occasions has declared that it is no longer necessary to invoke the credit of the British nation, and that without this it is still possible to abolish dual ownership. I think so satisfactory a confession is a feather in the cap 396 SPEECHES. of the Liberal Unionists. But the havoc which our criticism has made in the Home Eule Bill is not one bit less complete. We are now told that the financial arrangements of the Bill, which were vaunted as a masterpiece of constructive ingenuity, are to be en- tirely revised. The provisions for the protection of the minority are to be reconsidered, and even the exclusion of the Irish representatives from Westminster — which we were assured was the keynote of the situation, the central feature of the Bill — even that is now declared to be a matter of no importance whatever, and a subject which is to be reserved for future discussion at some indefinite period. But under these circumstances what remains ? When you have made these changes in the Bill, and when you have made the changes which are consequential upon them, if the Bill is not then dead, it is at least a dismembered and mutilated trunk. The Bill has been so altered that I doubt whether its parent would know it. The only thing that remains is a prin- ciple stated so vaguely that it is open to inconsistent interpretation, and as to which its advocates confess that they have failed in their first attempt to apply it. It seems to me that that is not a hopeful basis for union or upon which to found a new policy, which is not revealed to us, and which is not to be disclosed until we have laid down our arms and surrendered all means of effectual opposition; and as a basis for re- union it becomes impossible when it is coupled with the condition that this new policy, like the old one, is DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE. 397 to be made acceptable to the men who have already done their best to make the government of Ireland impossible, and whose object is now, as it always has been, the entire and absolute independence of their comitry. I say it is not upon such terms as these that an honourable peace can be negotiated. For my part, if re-union with the majority involves the accept- ance of the Pamellite yoke, I would prefer to keep my neck free. I refuse to accept a servitude which has every day become more galling and intolerable to those who have so hastily accepted it. OBSTEUCTION IN PAELIAMENT. DIIKE OF DBVONSHIEB. (marqtjis of HABTINGTON.) An attempt has been made to justify the opposition, the protracted opposition, which is being offered to the measure now before Parliament by casting the respon- sibility upon its authors and supporters of introducing a novel, unconstitutional, and tyrannical measure. If all this were true, which I deny, it would be but a partial justification for the course of obstruction which has been pursued. It would not be a justification for any member who believes in the efficiency and utility of Parliamentary government and Parliamentary in- stitutions, and who desires to maintain the efficiency 398 SPEECHES. of Parliament and the efficiency of Parliamentary institutions. It is not so very long ago, I suppose, that every one in this country would have been ready to declare that our system of Parliamentary govern- ment was the most perfect in the world. There is no doubt that it has been a model upon which other countries have framed, or endeavoured to frame, their governing institutions ; but, gentlemen, if the practices which have been carried on in the present Parliament were allowed unchecked to continue, many would be found in this country very soon to question the utility of Parliamentary institutions altogether. Is Parlia- ment, as it is now permitted to act, giving us an efficient and strong Government ? Is Parliament in its present condition able to give the attention which it ought to devote to the foreign, the colonial, and the Indian affairs of the Empire ? Is Parliament able to give the attention which it ought to give to the efficiency of the public services, which is now ques- tioned ? Is it able to devote its attention to econo- mical administration and financial problems ? Is it able to give attention to those legislative changes which many of you care about more than you care about any other question of government? Gentle- men, in its present condition Parliament is not able to give that constant and carelful attention which is needed to these things, and it is in the power of a minority to insist that its time shall be devoted to one subject only, to the exclusion of all others. I know DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE. 399 it will be said that I am making considerable admis- sions, and that the case of our opponents is that so long as the Irish question is unsettled, it will block the way and be obstructive to the efiSciency of Par- liament. If it be true that the Irish question blocks the way, it is only part of the truth, and I altogether deny the assertion that, if the Irish question is dis- posed of by a complete surrender to the Irish de- mands, efficiency would be restored to the delibera- tions of Parliament. On the contrary, I think that such a surrender would be the most fatal act which Parliament could accomplish. The example would not be forgotten, and every unscrupulous, tyrannical minority would insist on using, or abusing, its rights to the uttermost, wotild follow in the minutest detail the example of the Irish members, and would insist on imposing its own will on the majority, notwith- standing the fact that they may have been altogether unable to convince or persuade the majority of the justice of their demand. And I maintain, therefore, that we are not only insisting upon the will of the majority being superior to that of the minority, but we are doing what is essential to maintain in the future the authority and power, which a majority in Parliament ought to possess as compared with the minority. 400 SPEECHES, SECONDAEY EDUCATION. W. E. FOESTEB. Depend upon it, this matter of secondary education is one which we cannot afford to leave in its present state. To take only the lowest ground, the competition, com- mercially, which we have to encounter with other countries, should make us lose no time in legislating upon it, I will take the case of my own borough. I do not know that it is worse — I believe it to be better — than many other places in this respect; but it offers us a very practical illustration. Bradford is a large manufacturing town — the centre of a great manufactur-, ing district; it exports goods to other countries, at least quite as much as the neighbouring towns, and there is no reason why the middleman, the merchant, the person who arranges the process of exchange from the manu- facturer, should not be an Englishman. He never, or scarcely ever, is. He is almost always a German in the case of the German or even of the French trade. It is the same at Manchester and, I believe, at many other places. Why is this ? Because the educa- tion given to the boy who leaves school at sixteen or seventeen, on the Continent, at once fits him for these pursuits, while our own education for this purpose is deficient. There is a great cry just now for technical education; but it is necessary, in speaking of technical W. E. FORSTEK. 401 education, to avoid the error of putting the cart before the horse. We must give in our schools — what is given on the Continent — the groundwork and elements of science, before technical education can be of much use. Again, there is one fact bearing on the events of the last year or two which I think dught to make one of the objects contemplated in this Bill seem very im- portant. We have brought new social forces into play that must affect the interests of the country. We have conferred more power upon the labouring class. Who are likely to lead that class ? Those belonging to it who have most talent. Therefore, it is surely most important that we should provide the means by which boys of talent among the working class should grow up fitted by culture* to use their talents aright. One word more as to the founders. We are told that by reforms we desecrate their memory; but were they here — I almost wish they were — they would help us. They were the reformers of their day. They would be the reformers of this. They would call it a cruel mockery of their benevolent intentions to sacrifice the spirit of their gifts to the letter in which they are worded. And, looking at the time when many of these foundations were endowed, there is a special fitness in our now setting to work to give them new life and strength by adapting them to present wants. Many of the richest and most important of these schools date back to the glorious Tudor times, when England was waking up to take the foremost part in the march of 402 SPEECHES. Christian civilization. Who were these founders ? And why did they endow these foundations ? They were men who were possessed by the new ideas of the age ; they were fighting for industry against feudalism and for equal laws against class privileges; for free thought against bigotry; and knowing that knowledge and education and culture were on their side, they wished, by providing for future education, to procure champions for their cause in the future. And now, again, new ideas have power — this new central idea, bringing with it many others, that no special class is to guide the destinies of England — that Jiot the aristocracy, nor the bov/rgeoisie, no, nor yet the working class, is to govern England — ^but that England for the future is in truth to be self-governed ; all her citizens taking their share, not by class distinction, but by individual worth. And what is this, but England, carrying out in her far better way that idea, which the great Napoleon strove by force to realise ; that one principle which supported him in spite of all his errors and crimes. La carriere ouverte aux talens, or, as Carlyle translates it, "the tools to him who can use them." Thanks to these founders, we have, at this moment, a great opportunity of helping to the realization of this idea — of yet again making our past minister to our future ; and in the confidence that the House will not let slip this oppor- tunity, I submit to them this motion. EABL KOSEBEKY. 403 EDUCATION. EASL BOSEBEBY. Let us win in the competition of international well- being and prosperity. Let us have a finer, better educated, better lodged, and better nourished race than exists elsewhere ; better schools, better univer- sities, better tribunals, ay, and better churches. In one phrase, let our standard be higher, not in the jargon of the Education Department, but in the acknowledgment of mankind. The standard of man- kind is not so exalted but that a nobler can be imagined and attained. The dream of him who loved Scotland best would lie not so much in the direction of antiqukrian revival, as in the hope that his country might be pointed out as one that in spite of rocks, and rigour, and poverty, could yet teach the world by precept and example, could lead the van and point the moral, where greater nations and fairer states had failed. Those who believe the Scots to be so emi- nently vain a race, will say that already we are in our opinion the tenth legion of civilization. Well, vanity is a centipede with corns on every foot: I will not tread where the ground is so dangerous. But if we are not foremost, we may at any rate become so. Our fathers have declared unto us what was done in their days and in the old time before them: we know 404 SPEECHES. that we come of a strenuous stock. Do you remember the words that young Carlyle wrote to his brother nine years after he had left this University as a student, forty-three years before he returned as its Kector ? — " I say, Jack, thou and I must never falter. Work, my boy, work unweariedly. I swear that all the thousand miseries of this hard fight, and ill-health, the most terrific of them all, shall never chain us down. By the river Styx, it shall not ! Two fellows from a nameless spot in Annandale shall yet show the world the pluck that is in Carlyles." Let that be your spirit to-day. You are citizens of no mean city, members of no common state, heirs of no supine empire. You will many of you exercise influence over your fellow men : some will study and interpret our laws, and so become a power ; others will again be in a position to solace and exalt, as destined to be doctors and clergymen, and so the physical and spiritual comforters of mankind. Make the best of these opportunities. Eaise your country, raise your University, raise yourselves. Your light, if you show it forth, will not merely illustrate your- selves, but be reflected here. We, your elders, then, have at any rate a personal interest in observing your career : they, your teachers around me, I, your tran- sient Head, may well look forth with anxiety to. see if the great wave of learned life, that will roll from these walls into the world, is to be an influence for good, or W. E. GLADSTONE. 405. an influence for evil, or feebly dwindle into a stagnant puddle : we catch its curling crest without knowing where it will break or what it will effect : we can but mutely hope that it will neither wreck nor strand the vessel of the State, but help to bear it safely on. The words of a moment, or a speaker like the present, can neither bear a lesson nor bequeath a memory. Were it otherwise, I should simply pray you to love your country; to add this one ennobling motive to those other dead and living influences of the past, the present, and the future, which urge you in the path of duty, which sustain you in the hour of trial, in the day of difficulty, in the very valley of the shadow of death. [Conclusion of the Lord Beotor's address at Edinburgh, 1882.] DISB STABLISHMENT. W. E. GLADSTONE. If there are those who consider that national Estab- lishments are opposed, under all circumstances, to the principle of the Christian religion, we do not belong to the number of such persons. It is our duty to look at the case of the Church of England as we find it. It is our duty to look at the facts and principles of the case, and to the feelings and convictions of the people with regard to it. * * * * * * 406 SPEECHES. I do not envy any man who ventures to take in hand the business of disestablishing the Church of England. Even if it were as fit to be done as I think it unfit, there is a-difiBculty in the case before which the boldest man would recoil. It is all very well as long as we deal with abstract declarations, put upon the Notice Paper of this House, of what might be done or ought to be done ; but only go up to the walls and gates and look at the way in which stone is built upon stone, on the way in which the foundations have been dug, and the way they go down into the earth, and consider by what tools, what artillery you can bring that fabric to the ground. I know the difficulties, and I am not prepared in any shape or form to encourage the creation of expectations' which it would be most guilty, most unworthy, most dishonourable on our part to entertain, lest we should convey a virtual pledge. We cannot go in that direction ; we do not intend to do so ; we deprecate it, and we should regard it as a national mischief. Under these circumstances I hope the House will be prepared to meet with a negative the motion of my hon. and learned friend (and without the slightest reproach to him, or to those whom he represents), because we believe it is neither called for by the cir- cumstances, nor agreeable to the desires and con- victions of the people of this country. [May, 1870,] MARQUIS OF SAIISBURT. 407 THE ESTABLISHED CHUECH. MABQUIS OF SAIilSBURT. You have read, no doubt, what I have called the long and dreary epistle from the retirement of the late Prime Minister. You have seen how, amid other things, he has consigned to the category of doubtful matters, which depend on the majority of voices, his conviction and his course in reference to the Estab- lished Church of this island. It is the last of the opinions of his youth that he has given up, that he has sacrificed upon the altar of party. I could have wished, that this crowniag'abandonment of the convictions of his youth had been spared to us. I confess that I never be- lieved that I should see Mr. Gladstone among those who deemed the disestablishment and disendowment of the Estabhshed Church of this island as among the pos- sible measures, to which he could be induced to con- sent. But, deeply as we may lament this evidence of the power of the party ties, we must not the less misinterpret the significance of this avowal, or the duties which it imposes upon- us. It means that the time of ultimate and supreme conflict is at hand, it means that the danger, which we have foreseen for many years, is close at our doors, it may come upon us even in the present Parliament. The lan- guage of Mr. Chamberlain, used as it has been with- 408 SPEECHES, out rebuke, and the fact that he has been allowed to assume the position of leader of the Liberal party, almost without hindrance and without demur, shows that you may have a proposal for disestablishment and disendowment brought forward in the present Parliament, a proposal more fraught with frightful disaster and with calamitous events than any change of legislation that has taken place in our time. I see it is said that other Churches in other lands have succeeded on the voluntary principle. In America the voluntary principle succeeded, because from the very first, when the Churches were formed, the popu- lation was small, and the voluntary principle was appealed to, and endowments were furnished. In the case of our Nonconformist bodies, the endowments have grown up gradually from the beginning. When they were small there was little to provide, but pro- vision has gradually been added, until they have accumulated resources, which enable them to meet all the necessary claims that are made upon them. But nothing of this kind would be the case with our Church. That would be stripped bare, and all in- terest except the life-interest of those who how hold livings would be abolished ; and in every part of the land the machinery, by which God's Word had been preached, by which Christianity has been upheld, by which the sick have been visited and comforted, and by which the ministrations of religion have been carried to suffering humanity — by one blow all this MARQUIS OF SALISBURY. 409 machinery would be destroyed, and generations would be required before it could be replaced. This it is which Mr. Gladstone is prepared to sacrifice. We can have no sympathy with those who think that, by sup-, porting the Liberal party now, they may get better terms when the catastrophe occurs further on. There are Liberal Churchmen, whose action in the face of this great crisis astounds me. I can understand men, who think that the interests of the Church are of an inferior character, and that there is more importance in keeping the party together — I say I can under- stand those men giving their support in order to keep the party in office, and to pay homage to their leaders, and thinking that these things are more important than keeping intact that provision for the preaching of Christianity, which has existed for one thousand years; but to those who are of an opposite mind, those who I believe to be numerous, those Liberal Churchmen, who think that the interests of Churches are the dearest matter in the whole field of political controversy with which they can have to deal — to them I appeal to consider the course which they should pursue ; and now that it is announced in no obscure way, that their leader is prepared to desert them at the first convenient opportunity, they, at all events, must know the importance of the stake, for which the contest is about to be waged. If the Liberal Churchmen now support the Liberal party, after the declaration to which I have already referred, they are 410 SPEECHES. supporting machinery, which is to destroy that which they hold most dear. They are sharpening the weapons, by which the Church is to be struck down. At all events, we can hold no ambiguous language on this matter. With us it is a matter of life and death. Our party is bound up with the maintenance of the established and endowed Church of this country. We hear many sanguine expressions of opinion on the part of our adversaries, as to what may be the result of the impending election, but perhaps what has recently taken place in France may teach to some of our Opportunists in this country the wisdom of modesty in prediction. Be that as it may, we do not look to the result. We look to the principles we up- hold, by which we are bound in conscience, by the traditions of our party, and as a matter of honour, to stand or fall. We can admit on this matter no compromise — no hope that we shall support any pro- posal for the overthrow, or for the injury of that which we hold most dear. The maintenance of the frame- work of our Constitution, the upholding of the rights of property, and, more than all, the support of that sacred institution, its support by ancient endowments and by the recognition of the authority of the State, which now for generations in Scotland and in Eng- land has held up the torch of Truth, and that has maintained the truth of Christianity before the world — to that as a party, as honest men, and as Christians, we are irrevocably bound. LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL. 411 DEFENCE OP THE CHUECH. LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL. I WOULD urge upon you not to lend yourselves hastily to any projects for the hasty demolition of the Estab- lished Church. But I would also, in dealing with this question, mingle a little of the wine of sentiment with the cold, clear spring water of utilitarianism. I see in the Church of England an immense and omnipre- sent ramification of machinery, working without any expense to the people, and daily and hourly liftiog the masses of the people, rich and poor alike, up from the dead and dreary level of the lowest and most material views of life, to the contemplation of higher and serener forms of existence and of destiny. I see in the Church of England a centre, a source, and a guide of charitable effort, mitigating by its mendicant importunity the violence of human misery, whether mental or physical, and contributing to that work an alleviation from its not superfluous resources ; and I urge upon you not to throw that source of charity upon the haphazard almsgiving of a busy and a selfish world. I see the Church of England eagerly co- operating in the work of national education, not only benefiting your children, but saving your pockets, and I remember that it has been the work of the Church to pour forth floods of knowledge, secular and scientific 412 SPEECHES. as well as religious. But my chief reason for support- ing the Church of England I find in the fact that, when compared with other creeds and the sects, it is essentially the Church of religious liberty. Whether in one direction or in another, it is continually pos- sessed by the ambition, not of excluding, but of in- cluding, all shades of religious thought, all sorts and conditions of men ; and in standing out like a light- house over a stormy ocean, it marks the entrance to a port where those who are wearied at times with the woes of the world, and troubled often by the trials of existence, may search for and may find that " peace which passeth all understanding." I cannot and will not allow myself to believe that the English people, who are not only naturally religious, but also eminently practical, will ever consent, for the purpose of gratify- ing sectarian animosities, or for the wretched purpose of pandering to infidel proclivities, to deprive them- selves of so abundant a fountain of aid and consolation, or acquiesce in the demolition of a constitution which elevates the life of a nation and consecrates the acts of a State. [Binningham, April 16, 1884.] SIR EDWARD CLARKE. 413 THE NATIONAL CHURCH. 8IR EDWARD CIuUSEE. (SOIilCITOK-GENEEAL. ) The Church is of Divine foundation, its system is Divinely ordered, its faith Divinely guarded from cor- ruption or decay. In the Establishment we find the privilege and obligation of an universal duty ; in the endowments which the piety of her sons has, in past ages, consecrated to the Divine service we see the guarantee for the independence of her ministers, and for that unfailing service of charity, by which far more than this her heritage is given directly to the poor, in the relief of ignorance and sorrow, of sickness and of want. In our belief the inheritance of the Church is the most precious possession of the poor. This is not your belief, but it is that which I share with millions of my fellow-countrymen. Many of those are to be found in the ranks of the Liberal party ; many who, in presence of such considerations as these, will refuse to join in a policy of destruction. But these will not be all. There will, I believe, be with us many who do not share in this belief, do not approve the system of the Church, and do not profess her creed, but who accept as their rule of political conduct something better than the party expediency 414 SPEECHES. of the moment. What, Sir, is the characteristic of the higher statesmanship of the day ? It is that the principle that the welfare of the people is the supreme law is becoming more and more the rule of our legis- lation, and of all the activities of our public life. And this other truth we ought to have learned, that the welfare of the people does not mainly depend upon forms of Government, or the arrangement of political privileges, or even on the distribution of the national wealth. It depends, on the character of the people. Who will deny that the teaching of the National Church is one of the most potent of all the influences which form and elevate the national character? Fixed in a pure and manly faith ; secured by the very conditions of its establishment from the spasmodic extravagances of religious fervour, and the more per- manent danger of priestly domination; it is the strongest of all existing forces to strengthen and refine the spirit of our people, and to teach them that in the fulfilment of Christian duty lies the only hope of pro- tecting our social life from the extremes of a cynical selfishness on the one hand, and on the other from the vagaries of a fantastic and predatory socialism. Sir, we of the Tory party gladly and gratefully accept the honourable duty of standing foremost in this cause. But we believe that as the years go by there will come to our side more and more of those who place the national welfare above the ties of a political combination, and will claim to share with us the ARCHBISHOP BENSON. 415 patriotic work of guarding the inseparable interests of the Church and the People. [February, 1892.] THE CHUECH IN WALES. ABOHBISHOP OF CANTEEBTIRY. (e. W. BENSON.) The Church in Wales, we are told, is "an alien Church." An alien Church! That has at once so glib and so ringing a sound. But has it any meaning ? When was it found out that it was an alien Church ? Did the old Eisteddfods think it such when harpers and bards were scholars and teachers in the Church, even down to the days of Bishop Heber? Was it thought an alien Church when Archbishop Peckham made his toilsome journey the whole land through, because the Church alone, which belonged alike to both, could explain English policy to Llewelyn and conciliate the good will of King Edward? Was it thought alien when, under Tudors and Stuarts, forty- four Welshmen succeeded in turn to the four Welsh sees, and Welshmen filled so many posts on both the English benches — of Judges and Bishops? Was it thought alien when your famous scholar Morgan translated the Bible under the roof of the Dean of Westminster, and brought it out at the charges of the Archbishop of Canterbury ? * * * * 416 SPEECHES. No ! there is not the shadow of a truth in the catch- word, "Alien Church." Even if you look but on outward fornis,the Churches of England and of Wales were one 150 years before the States were one. Truer, historically, would it be to speak of " the Church of Wales in England " than of "the Church of England in Wales." For the succession of Augustine died out strangely soon, but the Celtic consecrators of St. Chad, with the Northerners who came from Aidan, have their successors in every see. Nay, the very plan, the very orientation of all our churches is pre-Eoman, Celtic, Welsh. The whole history of Wales witnesses to this — that when she was most Welsh she was most identified with the Church. If the Church anywhere is a national institution, she was national to Wales. * * * * We have spoken of the tangible and the external, but our hearts are not there. We have spoken of them as instruments in this world of that devotion to the widest interests of the people, that love of souls, that " perfect charity " without which faith, know- ledge, zeal are nothing worth. Of this I am here to assure you. This is the message that I bring you. We should think scorn of ourselves if we contentedly beheld the established Christianity of Scotland — Pres- byterian though it be in discipline — discharged of its duties, and dislodged from its tenure, as the spiritual organ of the State and kingdom of Scotland united with us by comparatively recent ties. LpRD RUSSELL OF KILLOWEN. 417 But you, who are our eldest selves, fountain of our episcopacy, the very designers of our sanctuaries, the primaeval British dioceses, from whom our very realm derives its only title to be called by its proudest name of Great Britain, I come from the steps of the chair of Augustine, your younger ally, to tell you that, by the Benediction of God, we will not quietly see you dis- inherited. [Church Congress, Ehyl, 1891.] INTEENATIONAL LAW AND AEBITEATION. LOED EUSSELIi OP KILLOWEN. (lord chief justice.) I HAVE but touched the fringe of a great subject. No one can doubt that sound and well-defined rules of in- ternational law conduce to the progress of civilisation, and help to insure the peace of the world. We boast of our advance, and often look back with pitying con- tempt on the ways and manners of generations gone by. Are we ourselves without reproach ? Has our civilisation borne the true marks ? Must it not be said, as has been said of religion itself, that countless crimes have been committed in its name ? Probably it was inevitable that the weaker races should, in the end, succumb, but have we always treated them with consideration and with justice ? Has not civilisation 418 SPEECHES. too often been presented to ttiem at the point of the bayonet, and the Bible by the hand of the filibuster ? And apart from races we deem barbarous, is not the passion for dominion and wealth and power account- able for the worst chapters of cruelty and oppression written in the world's history ? Pew peoples — perhaps none — are free from this reproach. What, indeed, is true civilisation ? By its fruit you shall know it. It is not dominion, wealth, material luxury ; nay, not even a great literature and education widespread — good though these things bp. Civilisation is not a veneer ; it must penetrate to the very heart and core of societies of men. Its" true signs are thought for the poor and suffering, chivalrous regard and respect for woman, the frank recognition of human brotherhood, irrespective of race or colour, of nation or religion, the narrowing of the domain of mere force as the govern^ ing factor in the world, the love of ordered freedom, abhorrence of what is mean and cruel and vile, cease- less devotion to the claims of justice. Civilisation in that, its true, its highest sense, must make for peace. We have solid grounds for faith in the future. Go- vernment is becoming more and more, but in no narrow class sense, government of the people by the people and for the people. Populations are no longer moved and manoeuvred as the arbitrary will or restless ambition or caprice of kings or potentates may dictate. And, although democracy is subject to violent gusts of passion and prejudice, they are gusts only. The LORB RUSSELL OF KILLOWEN. 419 abiding sentiment of the masses is for peace — for peace to live industrious lives and to be at rest with all mankind. With the prophet of old they feel — though the feeling may find no articulate utterance — " how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace." Mr. President, I began by speaking of the two great divi- sions — American and British — of that English- speaking world which you and I represent to-day, and with one more reference to them I end. Who can doubt the influence they possess for ensuring the healthy progress and the peace of mankind ? But if this influence is to be fully felt they must work to- gether in cordial friendship, each people in its own sphere of action. If they have great power they have also great responsibility. No cause they espouse can fail ; no cause they oppose can triumph. The future is, in large part, theirs. They have the making of history in the times that are to come. The greatest calamity that could befall would be strife which should divide them. Let us pray that this shall never be. Let us pray that they, always self-respecting, each in honour upholding its own flag, safeguarding its own heritage of right and respecting the rights of others, each in its own way fulfilling its high national destiny, shall yet work in harmony for the progress and the peace of the world. [Couclnsion of Speech at Saratoga, Angnst, 1896.] MODERN ORATORY. EXAMPLES FROM SERMONS. SINGLEHEAET. ABCHBISHOP OF CANTEEBUBY. (e. W. BENSON.) Stie up then the gift of God that is in you. Eouse the " Naturally Christian Soul." Feed your supernatural life in Christ and the Spirit, that was given you in germ. He prays for you that your faith may not fail. When you are converted, strengthen your brethren. Hasten by all means the process by which the Likeness of Christ is being formed in you, that the Life of Christ may be lived in you. Peel, feel, without flinching from the pain of it, all that is meant by the unhealth, the uncleanness, the ignorance, the perversion that have, within your reach, subdued and brought very low, house after house, person after person, on God's good plots of ground, now loaden with sad depressed homes. The extreme ignorance of life that you will find ! the misbelievers, I do not say about God, but about every man ! The misery of even those who are much better themselves, whilst sin, drunkenness, baseness, impurity arouse in them contempt, scorn, perhaps laughing scorn — but no compassion — no love ! The twilight of 422 SERMONS. those that are still better than these, who know Christ, but know Him through so many superstitions — attributing to Him such wilfulness as to whom He will save, ^uch hardness as to His future treatment of almost all mankind, or such coarse material modes of communicating Himself and the Father even now to the soul ! Surely the depths of Satan are profound, and the bondage of men is sore. But you are the light-bearers ! you are the chain-breakers ! if you are not, then there are none. For none profess to work like you for Love. And He who worked for Love, and died for Love, possesses the only Name given among men whereby we can be saved. Converted men and men of Love — these are the only true Ministers of Conversion and Love. " Lay aside, then, every weight " — every lower motive, I mean — for lower motives will be but weights under which you will walk unsteadily. Offer self utterly, if you can, upon that altar to-day. And then to your work, with the Gift of God added to your powers — " sworn never to cease your labour, your care, and your diligence " — converting " all thoughts, all passions, all delights " into one ever-present glowing remembrance of " how high the dignity — how weighty the office and charge — to seek for Christ's sheep that are dispersed abroad, and for His children in the midst of this naughty world, that they may be saved through Christ, for ever.' :^ISHOP WIIBERFORCE. 423 THE LOVE OP THE BEETHEEN. BISHOP OP OXFORD, AFTERWARDS OF WINCHESTER. (SAHUEL WILBEBFOBCE.) Evert patient inquirer into the history of man and of society must be met by this remarkable fact ; that, at a certain comparatively late period in the world's being, there arose at once, in the midst of its worn-out selfish apathy, a wholly new spirit of love and care for others. The old half-dead body of heathen society travailed, for awhile, uneasily, and from its uttermost corruption there came forth this gracious birth. In that old world, there were sickness and sorrow and poverty ; racked bodies and broken hearts ; but there was no comforter. These stricken ones were rudely pushed, by a common consent, out of the herd, lest the sight of their sorrow might trouble others. The loftiest philosopher would justify killing his old slaves when they grew troublesome and useless. Society was con- structed upon the plan of shutting out from those who yet could rejoice, all that could remind them of the coming inevitable doom. The sight of misery was as distasteful to them as the emblems of mortality to the Eastern Despot. Selfishness was written broadly upon all things. The very outward fabric of their cities bore this brand. There were in them, in multitude, 424 SERMONS. the dark places of violence ; corners full of the groans of those who had slunk into them to die undisturbed ; there were in them palaces, in which men sat in purple, and fared sumptuously every day ; there were in them amphitheatres, in which sport was made for man by the slaughtering of men by each other's hands, and by the violence of wild beasts ; there were in them shows, baths, and the like, with which the ambitious rich bribed the adherence of the capable needy, by providing for them the means of personal gratification; — but for the helpless there was no helper ; for the comfortless there was no comforter. There were no hospitals, no asylums, no refuges for the out- cast, the maimed, and diseased. In vain did they sigh forth theit wretchedness. The selfish world passed idly and proudly by, and left their wail unheeded. When, suddenly, there rose amongst them a band of men who spake with other tongues ; whose hearts were full of sympathy and love ; who bare the burdens of others ; who declared that it was well not to forget misery, but to remember it ; not to drive it out of sight and mind, but to seek it out, and to share it. And these men did as well as spake. They left their all, whether it was little or great — nets at Gennesareth, learning at Tarsus, or lands in Cyprus, — that they might go up and down the wide waste earth as comforters of others. And from this nothing could divert them; men's carelessness and ingratitude, the violence of the con- tented rich, and the coldness of the disconsolate poor. BISHOP WILBERFORCE. 425 — the one could not turn them aside, the other could not chill them. They were beaten, ridiculed, cast out, stoned, made the offscouring of all things ; and yet they went on, blessing, healing, comforting, enlighten- ing, seeking for the poorest, the neediest, the most comfortless, the most miserable, that they might en- rich and cheer and comfort and bless them. And as their march went on, the very visible framework of outer things bore witness to them; men gave their substance, yea, and themselves also, to minister to others ; refuges and hospitals sprung up, and the great and the rich and the delicate waited in them upon the helpless and the poor. Such an outward change passed manifestly upon society; nor, further, was it one of those merely general outward movements by which, at all times, its mighty waters have been swayed at the unseen breath of some passing storm of feeling. The manifest outward change was built upon a declared inward change, and this change was a true personal change in each one on whom its influence passed. Knit though they all were, most truly, into one body, yet was each one for him- self a new man. New motives actuated him; new powers enabled him. New motives, — for each one of these believed that God had revealed Himself to his inmost soul as his Father, his Friend, his Portion. Each one believed that the Everlasting Son had iadeed become a man, had obeyed for him the broken law> had opened for him the gate of heaven, and had died 426 SERMONS. for himself and for all those who were round about him. Thus, new motives led him on. He loved God because God first loved him ; he loved the Lord his Eedeemer Who had died for his salvation ; he longed to carry out and perfect His gracious work. He knew in himself that he was healed of his plague : he felt all the wonder of his deliverance, and he longed at once to proclaim what great things had been done for him, and to share them with every captive around him. He saw in every other sinner, one capable of this salva- tion, one needing it infinitely, and one bound to himself in the brotherhood of a common redemption : and so he was debtor, for Christ's sake, both to Jews and Greeks ; both to the wise and the unwise. He per- ceived that all this misery and evil were not God's creation, but the marring of God's creation ; that the Everlasting Son had come to make all things new, and that to him, weak as he was, had been committed a share in working out this renewal, — a charge and ministry of redress for these oppressed and afflicted ones. And as he had these new motives, so was he upheld by new powers : in him was the very power of God ; the Holy Ghost was given ; in him that Holy One dwelt. The Spirit, which even before had worked faintly upon all men, producing everything which was good in all, was now poured out abundantly and hereby the love of God was shed abroad in his heart. He loved God, and therefore he loved his brother also. The chilling mist of selfishness had rolled away for BISHOP THOEOLD. 427 him. Old things were passed away ; behold, all things were become new. Here, then, is the fact; and here are its causes. Christ had brought in a new life, — the life of God in the soul of man ; the life of love to God and love to his brethren. And this it becomes us, at this day, well to note ; for if this be indeed Christianity at one time, it must be Christianity at all times. If the Christian's works of love be not, as most assuredly they are not, the price he pays for heaven, the means by which he is to obtain his pardon, the payment, irk- some, perhaps, in itself, but necessary for its results, — if they be not this, but are, on the other hand, the coming out of the life of God in every soul in which it is acting, then, wherever this life is, there will be found these results. [Opening of a Sermon on 1 S. John, iv. 21, preached in May, 1845.] DECISION. BISHOP OF KOCHESTEE. (a. W. THOEOLD.) ' Do you suppose it was a final refusal, that Christ never repeated the offer, and that the young man lived and died without ever repairing his loss ? It is certain that he was sorrowful, and that Christ was sorrowful, which are elements of hope about the case. It is plain also that it was a terrible risk he ran when he went away ; for to look Christ in the face, and to weigh him openly and deliberately against the world, and to conclude that He is not worth as much as the world, and to go away and leave Him, is as serious a rejection of His love and His service as a human will could make. On the whole, however, if we cannot quite accept the ingenious sug- gestion of a distinguished living theologian, at once poet, scholar, and divine, that this young ruler was Lazarus of Bethany — who, sent to the grave to learn what death had to teach him, and then raised out of it by the hand of Him Whom once he rejected, afterwards clave to Him for ever — we may remember, with a humble gladness, that God in His desire to save makes many opportunities for His wayward children; and while each day that we harden our hearts we diminish our chances. He who hopes the best and makes the best of us, never gives us up until we compel Him, and, so much more patient with us than we are with each other, perhaps at last saves us, though as a brand from the burning. To conclude. Do what it will, the world cannot get rid of Christ, nor of His claims. He is everywhere, and perhaps never since He disappeared from among men has His Name been more potent than now. As for His Church, she has had a kind of resurrection. The very keenness of the controversies that weaken her strength and sour her temper, spring inevitably BISHOP THOROLD. 429 from the passionate ardour with which her doctrines are cherished, and her Divine Head adored. The Gospel is more preached than ever, and the Bible is more studied. If we ask what is at this moment the subject of keenest interest at home, judg- ing from the literature, the conversation, and the struggle both behind and in front of us to-day, we reply, Eeligion. If, once again, we ask what is the force which is most ineradicable, and continuous, and irrepressible, and embarrassing for European states- men, we say, Eeligion. Once again, if we inquire what is the special religion which modern thinkers and writers can never afford to leave alone, and which, while they profess to treat it as dead and done witli, somehow they do not feel able to neglect and despise as they would other things in a like condition, but again and again return to examine, and attack, and once more assume to slay — it is the religion of Christ. This Christ, Whose figure fills the entire horizon of thought, Who by His grandeur seizes our imagination, and by His tenderness wins our love, and by His life compels our homage, and by His cross soothes our conscience ; Who looks on and says nothing when men scoff at Him, but sufficiently proves Himself to those who really love Him — this Christ comes to us to-day, us who say, " What lack I yet ? " and asks, in the words of the man who condemned Him, " What will ye do with Me ? " With Caiaphas you may send Him to His cross — 430 SERMONS. His second cross — and not merely because you count Him a blasphemer. Perhaps you hardly give Him a serious thought. Eather, because the pleasures of sin for a season shut Him outside a corrupted heart. Well, His prayer for such is, " Father, forgive them ; for they know not what they do." With Pilate you may wash your hands and try to get rid of Him and His troublesome claims, with a pitiful but uneasy contempt. That may last for a time, but conscience will come back, as living and inexorable as ever. Or, best of all, with the Apostle, you may say, " Lord, to whom shall we go ? Thou hast the words of eternal life. And we believe and are sure that Thou art the Son of the living God." SPIEITUAL WAEFAEE. BISHOP OP LIVERPOOL. (J. C. EYLE.) True Christianity is a fight and a wa/rfare. If we would be saved and go to heaven when we die, let us all distinctly understand that while we live we must do battle. . True Christianity ! Mind that word "true." Let there be no mistake about my meaning. There is a vast quantity of religion current in the world which is not true, genuine Christianity. It passes muster ; it BISHOP KYLE. 431 satisfies sleepy consciences ; but it is not good money. It is not the real thing which was called Christianity eighteen hundred years ago. There are thousands of men and women who go to churches and chapels every Sunday, and call themselves Christians. Their names are in their baptismal register. They are reckoned Christians while they live. They are married with a Christian marriage service. They are buried as Chris- tians when they die. But you never see any " fight " about their religion ! Of spiritual strife, and exertion, and conflict, and self-denial, and watching, and warring, they know literally nothing at all. Such Christianity may satisfy man ; and those who say anything against it may be thought very hard and uncharitable ; but it certainly is not the Christianity of the Bible. It is not the religion which the Lord Jesus founded, and His Apostles preached. True Christianity is " a fight and a battle." The true Christian is called to be a soldier, and must behave as such from the day of his conversion to the day of his death. He is not meant to live a life of religious ease, indolence, and security. He must never imagine for a moment that he can sleep and doze along the way to heaven, like one travelling in an easy car- riage. If he takes his standard of Christianity from the children of this world, he may be content with such notions; but he will find no countenance for them in the Word of God. If the Bible is the rule of his faith and practice, he will find his lines laid down 432 SERMONS, very plainly in this matter. He must " fight and do battle." With whom is the Christian soldier meant to fight ? Not with other Christians. Wretched indeed |'is that man's idea of religion, who fancies that it consists in perpetual controversy. He who is never satisfied un- less he is engaged in some strife between church and church, chapel and chapel, sect and sect, party and party, knows nothing yet as he ought to know. Never is the cause of sin so helped as when Christians waste their strength in quarrelling with one another, and spend their time in petty squabbles. No, indeed ! The principal fight of the Christian is with the world, the flesh, and the devil. These are his never-dying foes. These are the three chief enemies against whoin he must wage war. Unless he gets the victory over these three, all other victories are useless and vain. If he had a nature like an angel, and were not a fallen creature, the warfare would not be so essen- tial. But with a corrupt heart, a busy devil, and an ensnaring world, he must either " fight " orbe lost. Some may, perhaps, think these statements too strong. You fancy that I am going too far, and lay- ing on the colours too thickly. You are secretly say- ing to yourself, that men and women in England may surely get to heaven without all this trouble, and warfare and fighting. Listen to me for a few minutes and I will show you that I have something to say on God's behalf. Eemember the maxim of the wisest BISHOP RTLE. 433 general that ever lived in England : — " In time of war it is the worst mistake to underrate your enemy, and try to make a little war." This Christian warfare is no light matter. Give me your attention and con- sider what I say: What saith the' Scripture ? — " Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life." — "Endure hard- ness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ." — " Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not, against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be aBle to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand." — " Strive to enter in at the strait gate." — "Labour for the meat that endureth unto everlasting life." — " Thiak not that I came to send peace on the earth : I came not to send peace but a sword." — " He that hath no sword, let him sell his garment and buy 'one." — "Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong." — " War a good warfare, holding faith and a good con- science." Words such as these appear to me clear, plain, and unmistakeable. They all teach one and the same great lesson, if we are willing to receive it. That lesson is, that true Christianity is a struggle, a fight, and a warfare. FF ■434 SERMONS. IMMOETALITY. BISHOP OF DUEHAM, (j. B. LIGHTFOOT.) It is true that Christian writers 'have from the very first found in the decay and revival of universal nature, types, analogies, evidences (if you will) of man's immortality. But, nevertheless, it is most certain that these analogies were only felt after the belief was established by the knowledge of Christ's resurrection. Suns set and rose before Christ ; seeda decayed in the ground, and plants sprang up before Christ. But what was the impression that these regenerations of nature left on the heathen mind? Why, they appeared not as analogies, not as resem- blances, but as contrasts to human destiny. All else seemed to speak of incessant renewal, of continuous life ; man alone was born to eternal, irrevocable death. " Suns may set and rise again," writes one, " but we, when our brief day has set, must slumber on through one eternal night." " Alas ! the flowers and the herbs," mourns another, " when they perish in the garden, revive again afterward and grow for another year; but we, the great and strong and wise of men, when once we die, sleep forgotten in the vaults of earth a long unbroken endless sleep." It was the morning BISHOP LIGHTFOOT. 435 ray of Christ's resurrection which changed the face of external nature, lighting it up with new glories : which smote upon the stern features of the mute colossal image, striking out chords of harmony and endowing it with voices unheard before. The majestic sun in the heavens, the meanest herb under foot, joined now in the universal chorus'of praise, proclaim- ing to man the glad tidings of his immortality. For just this was wanted to give the assurance which mankind craved. Hitherto it had been a hard struggle between physical appearances on the one hand, and human aspirations and instincts on the other. It was difficult to witness the gradual decay of the metital powers, to watch over the sick bed and see the bodily frame wasting day by day, to count the pulsations of the heart as they grew few,er and feebler, till the last throb was hushed ; then to gaze on the relaxed muscles, the glazing eye, the marble brow, the bloodless lips ; then to consign the motionless body to the greedy flames o'f the fire, or the slow putrefaction of the grave, and to know that only a few handfuls of dust remained of what so lately was instinct with volition and energy, — to see and to know all this, and still to believe that life could survive the momentous change. But yet there was that within the man which told him that his destiny could not end here. He had capacities which in this world never attained their proper developement or worked out their proper results. He had affections, which were imprisoned and fettered here, and which 436 SEKMONS. seemed reserved for a larger scope. He had aspirations which soared far beyond the limits of his present existence. He could not^— do what he would — put away the thought that he had a personal interest in the generations to come ; that the future of the world was not, and could not be, indifferent to him. Therefore he was anxious that he should leave a good name behind him, that his fame should linger on the tongues of men; and so by stately mausoleums and heaven- aspiring pyramids, by inscribed tablets and sculptured images, he recorded his stammering protest, that he was still a man among men — that he was still alive. But all was vague, uncertain, faltering. From this suspense Christ set us free. His resurrec- tion dispelled the mists which shrouded the conceptions of mankind ; and where before was an uncertain haze, there burst forth the brightness of the unclouded sun. Truth entered into the lowliest cottage doors. Truth made her home in the hearts of the peasant and the artisan. The feeblest child now grasps the idea of immortality with a firmness which was denied to the strongest intellect and the most patient thought before Christ. And yet now, after the experience of eighteen centuries, we are asked (as though it were a small thing) to throw aside the miraculous element of revela- tion, to abandon our belief in the fact of the Eesurrec- tion, that is, to abandon the Christ of the Gospels, the Christ as we have known Him; and to begin anew BISHOP LI&HTFOOT. 437 from the beginning, to grope our way once more " through darkness up to God," to seek to discover arguments for the immortality of the soul. What is this but to stultify the experience of history ? What is this but to throw mankind back into second child- hood ? What is this but to return to the state when for even the gifted few, as it has been aptly said, " a luminous doubt was the very summit of their attain- ments, and splendid conjecture the result of their most laborious efforts after truth ? " This we cannot do. Christ has given us the victory, and we will not lightly surrender its fruits. Christ has given us the victory. We know now that death is not annihilation, is not. vacancy, is not despair. Death is not an end, but a beginning — a beginning of a regenerate and glorified life. The assurance of our immortality has scared away all the nameless terrors which throng in the train of the king of terrors. Onfe weapon only remained in his hands, and this too has been wrested from him by Christ. The sting of death is sin. This sting Christ has drawn : for He has defeated, and in Himself has enabled us to defeat, even sin. So the last terror is gone. The triumph is complete. Death is swallowed up in victory. And all mankind are bidden to join in the Apostle's psalm of praise : — " Thanks be to God, Which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." 438 SERMONS. WHAT LAUD DID FOR ENGLAND. BISHOP OF PETEKBOBOUGH, AFTEKWAUDS OF LONDON. (mandell oeeighton.) You may think that I have dwelt unduly on Laud's errors and shortcomings, that I have not made al- lowances for the difficulties of the time, that I have applied too high a standard. We learn more, I think, from considering the causes of men's failure than of their success. The great question about great men is not " Why did they accomplish so much ? " but " Why did they not accomplish more ? " Is not that the question which we need to ask most diligently about ourselves ? It is not so hard to have a noble end ; the difficulty lies in working it out by worthy means. We can never learn this lesson enough. It is the great moral lesson which history teaches, and only when this lesson is clearly taught does history teach aright. Laud's conception of the Church was sounder, larger, more practical than that of his opponents. Events justified his wisdom. Presbyterianism was tried, and failed ; Independency was tried, and failed ; efforts at ecclesiastical combination proved to be impossible. When England again had to consider the matter, nothing was vital except the system of Laud, which was practically accepted at the Eestoration. It was BISHOP CBEIGHTON. 439 after all the most possible, because it was the most intelligible. Laud had laid down its main lines. The Church of England was part of the Catholic Church, holding the Catholic faith, maintaining the historic Episcopacy, dispensing the sacraments according to primitive ordinance. "I die," said Laud in his will, "I die as I have lived, in the true orthodox profession of the Catholic faith of Christ, a true member of His Catholic Church, within the communion of a living part thereof, the present Church of England." This was the position of the English Church, and nothing subsequently altered it. Compromises might be urged by politicians, but nothing could be accepted which threatened to destroy the order of the English Church as a part' of the continuous Church of Christ. This was the original basis of the English Church. It had been passionately attacked from the beginning. It had been inadequately expressed in practice. Laud asserted it clearly and definitely, and showed how it was to be set forth and what it involved. He won for it deep reverence and profound conviction, which were conspicuously shown by Charles I. Had Charles been willing to abandon the Church and to give up Episco- pacy, he might have saved his throne and his life. But on this point Charles stood firm ; for this he died, and by dying saved it for the future. Men may differ in their opinions about the form of the Church, or even if any particular form is necessary. But amid the differences which they see around them, they may at least, if they 440 SERMONS. are fair-minded, agree on this — ^tbat the Church of England has discharged a special duty in the Christian commotiwealth, and has done a work which no other organisation could have done. We who are its faith- ful children have boundless hopes of its future possi- bilities for doing God's work in the world. All may combine, without any sacrifice of their own convictions, in recognizing what Laud did, and in admitting the services rendered since to God and man by the Church which he maintained at a crisis of its existence. None of us, however much we may be devoted to that Church, can wish to be mere eulogists, or even apolo- gists, of Laud's policy and actions. The cause for which Laud contended is too precious in otar eyes for us to associate it with human frailty and want of judgement. We accept Laud's teaching with gratitude; we admire his zeal, his devotion, his courage, his conscientiousness. We commemorate to-day all that was great and noble, all that was lasting, in his life and character. We seek the heart and the head of the man, and rejoice in the clear vision and en- lightened insight which saw and claimed the fair heritage which is ours to-day. [Lecture at All Hallows, Barking, Jan. 10, 1895.] C. J. VATTGHAN. 441 LIGHT. DEAN OF LLANDAPF. (O. J. VAUGHAN, D.D.) What is light to the traveller ? It may have happened to some of you to lose your way in the dark. You had often before traversed a particular field or trodden a certain pathway. In the day-time you needed not to investigate, you needed not to look around you. You could have passed from point to point, with eyes fixed on the ground, and a mind wholly preoccupied- But on a certain evening, as you took your journey, the light failed you. You had gone in the dusk, you must return in the dark ; and now you find the difference between the two things ; how great the distinction be- tween a little light and none ! You go round and round the hedge or the palisade ; you look for the gate or the stile ; you look and you feel, and it is all dark- ness. Night is upon you, and you begin to fear you must spend its long hours shelterless. At last a feeble glimmering becomes perceptible in a distant quarter ; a rushlight in a cottage- window ; a lantern in a farm- yard shed ; it is enough for hope in that perplexity ; you make for it and you are safe. Such is light, when a man compares it by experience with darkness. So small a thing, so much to him ! 442 SERMONS. And how much more, if the light were in such a case the light of day, kindling the whole region into bright- ness, and dissipating in a moment all the fear and all the distress of that wandering. And we are all, in this sense, travellers and way- farers. It is not Christ Who makes us so. We have all to make our way through the wilderness of this world to some destination — and what ? We cannot answer the question. Sometimes life seems as if it led no-whither ; as if it were rather (what Scripture some- times calls it) a "walk," than a journey; a little circuit, bringing us back at night to the home from which we started, rather than an extended progress, to terminate in an end most unlike its beginning. One day so like another ; one experience of ourselves and others so little varied from a former ; the events of life so small ; its interests so trivial, its occupations so secular and so unhesCvenly ; we go round and round the hedged and fenced paddock of our being, and see no way out of it on this side or on that. Christ comes to us then as the Light : shows us the path we were missing, the outlet which we were ignoring ; says to us, " This is the way, walk ye in it." And most of all in those marked moments of life, which occur sometimes in the most monotonous and least eventful lives ; days of bitter grief, when we feel ourselves bereaved and desolate in a world all cold and bare and dark ; days of anxious suspense, when we feel that there is but a step for us between life and CHARLES KIITGSLEY. 443 death, and we are powerless to take it ; days of dreadr ful humiliation, when we find out our own weakness, our own vileness, our own nothingness, and can do nothing to repair or to supply ; then, above all, is the coming of Christ as the Light welcome and reassuring ; when He can say, "Lean upon Me, and I will uphold thee; I have been before thee by this way ; I will guide, I will support, I will bring thee home." MUSIC. chaeles kingslby (afterwards canon op westminstbb). Music. — There is something very wonderful in music. Words are wonderful enough : but music is even more wonderful. It speaks not to our thoughts as words do : it speaks straight to our hearts and spirits, to the very core and root of our souls. Music soothes us, stirs us up ; it puts noble feelings into us ; it melts us to tears, we know not how : it is a language by itself, just as perfect, in its way, as speech, as words ; just as divine, just as blessed. Music has been called the speech of angels ; I will go further, and call it the speech of God Himself : and I will, with God's help, show you a little what I mean this Christmas day. Music, I say, without words, is wonderful and blessed ; one of God's best gifts to men. But in sing- 444 SERMONS. ing you have both the wonders together, music and words. Singing speaks at once to the head and to the heart, to our understanding and to our feelings ; and therefore, perhaps, the most beautiful way in which the reasonable soul of man can show itself (except, of course, doing right, which always is, and always will be, the most beautiful thing) is singing. Now, why do we all enjoy music ? Because it sounds sweet. But why does it sound sweet ? That is a mystery known only to God. Two things I may make you understand — two things which help to make music — melody and harlnony. Now, as most of you know, there is melody in music when the different sounds of the same tune follow each other, so as to give us pleasure ; there is harmony in music when different sounds, instead of following each other, come at the same time, so as to give us pleasure. But why do they please us ? and what is more, why do they please angels? and more still, why do they please God ? Why is there music in heaven ? Con- sider St. John's visions in the Eevelation. Why did St. John hear therein harpers with their harps, and the mystic beasts, and the elders, singing a new song to God and to the Lamb; and the voices of many angels round about them, whose number was ten thousand times ten thousand ? , In this is a great mystery. I will try to explain what little of it I seem to see. CHARLES KINGSLET. 445 First — There is music in heaven, because in music there is no self-will. Music goes on certain laws and rules. Man did not make those laws of music ; he has only found them out: and if he be self-willed and break them, there is an end of his music instantly : all he brings out is discord and ugly sounds. The greatest musician in the world is as much bound by those laws as the learner in the school ; and the greatest musician is the one who, instead of fancying that, because he is clever, he may throw aside the laws of music, knows the laws of music best, and observes them most reverently. And therefore it was that the old Greeks, the wisest of all the heathens, made a point of teach- ing their children music ; because, they said, it taught them not to be self-willed and fanciful, but to see the beauty of order, the usefulness of rule, the divineness of law. And therefore music is fit for heaven ; therefore music is a pattern and type of heaven, and of the everlasting life of God, which perfect spirits live in heaven ; a life of melody and order in themselves ; a life of harmony with each other and with God. Music, I say, is a pattern of the everlasting life of heaven ; because in heaven, as in music, is perfect freedom and perfect pleasure; and yet that freedom comes not from throwing away law, but from obeying God's law perfectly; and that pleasure comes, not from self- will, and doing each what he likes, but from perfectly doing the will of the Father Who is in heaven. 446 SERMONS. And that in itself would be sweet music, even if there were neither voice nor sound in heaven. For wherever there is order and obedience, there is sweet music for the ears of Christ. Whatsoever does its duty, according to its kind which Christ has given it, makes melody in the ears of Christ. Whatsoever is useful to the things around it, makes harmony in the ears of Christ. Therefore those wise old Greeks used to talk of the music of the spheres. They said that sun, moon, and stars, going round each in its ap- pointed path, made as they rolled along across the heavens everlasting music before the throne of God. And so too, the old Psalms say. Do you not recollect that noble verse, which speaks of the stars of heaven, and says — What thoiigli no human voice or sound amid their radiant orbs be found ? To Eeason's ear they all rejoice, and utter forth a glorious voice ; for ever singing as they shine, " The Hand that made us is divine." And therefore it is, that that noble Song of the Three Children calls upon sun and moon, and stars of heaven, to bless the Lord, praise Him, and magnify Him for ever : — and not only upon them, but on the smallest things on earth; — on mountains and hills, green herbs and springs, cattle and feathered fowl ; they, too, he says, can bless the Lord and magnify Him for ever. And how? By fulfilling the law CHARLES KINGSLET. 447 which God has given them ; and by living each after their kind, according to the wisdom wherewith Christ the Word of God created them, when He beheld all that He had made, and behold, it was very good. And so can we, my friends ; so can we. Some of us may not be able to make music with our voices : but we can make it with our hearts, and join in the angels' song this day, if not with our lips, yet in our lives. If thou fulfillest the law which God has given thee, the law of love and liberty, then thou makest music before God, and thy life is a hymn of praise to God. If thou art in love and charity with thy neighbours, thou art making sweeter harmony in the ears of the Lord Jesus Christ, than psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music. If thou art living a righteous and a useful life, doing thy duty orderly and cheerfully where God has put thee, then thou art making sweeter melody in the ears of the Lord Jesus Christ, than if thou hadst the throat of a nightingale. For then thou in thy humble place art humbly copying the everlasting harmony and melody which is in heaven ; the everlasting harmony and melody by which God made the world and all that therein is, and behold it was very good, in, the day whein the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy over the new-created earth which God had made to be a pattern of His own perfection. For this is that mystery of which I spoke just now, 448 SERMONS. when I said that music was as it were the voice of God Himself. Yes, I say it with all reverence : but I do say it. There is music in God. Not the music of voice or sound ; a music which no ears can hear, but only the spirit of a man, when awakened by the Holy Spirit, and taught to know God, — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. There is one everlasting melody in heaven, which Christ, the "Word of God, makes for ever, when He does all things perfectly and wisely, and righteously and gloriously, full of grace and truth : and from that' all melody comes, and is a dim pattern thereof here ; and is beautiful only because it is a dim pattern thereof. And there is an everiasting harmony in God ; which is the harmony between the Father and the Son; Who though He be co-equal and co-eternal with His Father, does nothing of Himself, but only what He seeth His Father do ; saying for ever, " Not My will, but Thine be done," and hears His Father answer for ever, " Thou art My Son, this day have I begotten Thee." Therefore, all melody and all harmony upon earth, whether in the song of birds, the whisper of the wind, the concourse of voices, or the sounds of those cun- ning instruments which man has learnt to create because he is made in the image of Christ, the Word of God, Who creates all things ; all music upon earth, I say, is beautiful in as far as it is a pattern and type of the everlasting music which is in heaven ; which H. P. LIDDON. 449 was before all worlds and shall be after them, for by its rules all worlds were made and will be made for ever ; even the everlasting melody of the wise and loving will of God, and the everlasting harmony of the Father toward the Son, and of the Son toward the Father, in one Holy Spirit Who proceeds from them both, to give melody and harmony, order and beauty, life and light, to all which God has made. Therefore music is a sacred, a divine, a Godlike thing, and was given to man by Christ to lift our hearts up to God and make us feel something of the glory and beauty of God and of all which God has made. [From sermon on S. I