'^i^- fe ?"*■- a /•■^ifTf^**-^^"'* m ^^§ ■'^■'^vTi^, •j^^^^tf" THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ;>. ^J^. ♦v>. ^\V^ ^Ji. ?rV/5 ■^^l ■ JS -*■ V t- c.* 5.>S^ \ 5^ ' ■4,.-^ '■ML i^^^: ■ifeS^. fe *m .i^f^??^^. *-»w> j?^l^ it..' .V V " -;. ^f ik,'- mu- r«>ifc-^^^_-.w —1 '\ 1, '«/'^X'b'li Hkii^ i THE TEACHING OF READING. Extract from Circular issued by the Education Department to Training Colleges ami Piqnl Teacher Centres. Dec. 1S07. " A large number of Pupil Teacher Centres has hitherto made little or no pro\ision for the Teaching; of Reading- ; in most Centres the Pupils are heard to read, but are not often taught reading. "The first step is to see that students recognise the value of (a) Easy audibility, for the effectual teacliing of a class ; and (b) Voice- economy, for the preservation of the health and vigour of the teacher," ko. B^~ The course of Instruction and the scheme of Vocal Exer- cises contained in this book, amply meat the suggestions of the above circular. CLEG GS Elocutionist TEXT-BOOK ON THE ART OF ELOCUTION (with a full scheme of vocal exercises) FOR PUBLIC SPEAKERS, AND FOR THE USE OF SCHOOLS AND ELOCUTION CLASSES. INCLUDING A WIDE AND CHOICE SELECTION' OF POETRY AND PROSE FOR READING AND RECPfATION. BY CHARLES E. CLEGG, Lecturer ok EloaUicn at Yorkshire United College, Bradford, and Lancashire College, Manchester, and Lecturer on English Literature and Elocution at the Liverpool Young Men's Christia?t Association. LONDON: GEORGE PHILIP & SON, 32 FLEET STREET, E.G. 45 TO SI SOUTH CASTLE STREET, LIVERPOOL. 1S96. [AU Rights Reserved,] e PREFACE The present volume is divided into two parts : the first deals with the principles of delivery ; and the second consists in a number of literary selections, which are intended to serve as exercises of those principles. Proceeding to some extent on lines elsewhere laid down, I have enforced that side of the subject Y\fhich it seemed to me could be most usefully enlarged upon, namely, the literary. This appears to be an aspect too much neglected, in favour of mere rules of speecli, by many treatises on Elocution. Aspirants to piMic si^eaking have been considered in a special chapter, which should in all instances be supplemented by the one on Voice Training, and the one on Gesture. Elocution classes, such as meet in various Public Institu- tions, will no doubt find the specimens of Prose and Verse well adapted to their requirements, and to students of these classes a study of the introductory argument will hardly be superfluous. The needs of High Schools and Colleges — especially of pupils from the age of about twelve forward — have been carefully kept in view, the several departments of literature represented providing ample scope for class-reading, and again for public recitation at annual Prize-givings, Speech-days, &c. Although most phases of Elocution are considered in tlie pages devoted to the Theory of the art, and the treatment more or less organized and proportioned, yet this work is 112S179 IV PREFACE. advanced simply as suggestive of the limits and complexity of the subject, and in no way as exhaustive. For the exercise on Sub and A-tonics I am indebted to an old master and friend. Ungrudging thanks are accorded to authors and to pub- lishers who have kindly given permission for certain copyright pieces to be inserted in this collection. E. Nesbit ("The Singing of the Magnificat"), E. F. Turner ("My Dentist"), and R. Blatchford ("A Lifeboat Episode"); and Messrs. MacMillan and Co. (selection from Sir Francis Doyle's " Poems "), Messrs. Triibner and Co. (extract from Sir Edwin Arnold's "Light of Asia"), Messrs. Blackwood and Sons (passage from George Eliot's "Silas Marner "), and J. W. Arrowsmith (selection from J. K. Jerome's "Three Men in a Boat "), are entitled to the heartiest thanks for their courtesy. It remains for me to say that, should any pieces appear for which due sanction has not been obtained, I offer sincere apology to those concerned, and assure them that no wilful liberty has been taken. If any poem has been inserted without proper permission, it has only been after vain efforts- to discover the address of the Author or the Publisher. C. E. .C. 56 Mount Pleasant, Liverpool, January \st, 1896. CONTENTS. Preface ......... Historic Outline . . ■ . The Art of Elocution (Introductory) ..... Part 1. The IxsTauiiEKT: Its Structure, Use, Development, Preser- vation. Vocal Exercises . . . . . 2. Elocution in Relation to Literature : Modern antd Biblical 3. ,, Applied to Public Speaking . . . . 4. Gesture and its Associated Mude of Expression 5. Naturalness ....... 6. Brief Studies ....... page 3 9 13 14 22 38 42 44 48 SELECTIONS— POETRY. (A) Dramatic. A.S You Like It, Act 2. sceue 5 ,, ,, .A.ct 3, scene 2 Hamlet, Act 2, scene 2 ,, Act 3, scene 1 . ,, Act 5, scene 2 . Henry the Fourth, Part I., Act 2, sceue 4 )) }• >> >> " Henry the Fifth, Act 2, scene 2' . Henry the Eighth, Act 3, scene 2 .Julius Caesar, Act 2, scene 2 . . ,, Act 3, scene 2 . ,, Act 4, scene 3 King John, Act 3, .scene 3 King Lear, Act 1, sceue 1 . -Macbeth, Act 3, scene 1 Much Ado about Nothing, Act 3, sceue 3 Othello, Act 1, scene 3 . PJchard the Third, Act 4, scene 2 . iiichard the Second, Act 5, scene 2 The Merchant of Venice, Act 1, sceue 3 „ ,, Act 4, scene 1 The Teuiiiest, Act 4, sceue 1 Speeches, &c. Gloster's Soliloquy .... Henry the Fifth before the Battle of Agincourt Queen Mab ..... Shakspere 119 n 92 l« 96 'J 95 ) J 1-35 J> 82 ) J 106 1> 112 »J 85 7) 64 ) » 67 »> 74 33 110 »3 127 3J 78 3) 117 3] 51 3» 99 >» 109 33 102 »3 55 3J 123 3» 141 3) 143 1) 14a CONTKNTS. PAGE Prose Dialogues. Bubbles of the Day, Sceue from, Jerrold 15S Slie Stoops to Conquer, Scene from. Goldsmith 155 The Hunchback, Sceue from, Knoioles 144 The Rivals, Scene from . Sheridan 151 (B) Narrative — Poetrv. Bishop Hatto . . Southey 165 Baby iu Church . M. M. Gow 183 Barbara Frietchie . Whittier 197 Feast of Belshazzar, The, Sir Edioin Arnold 180 Ginevra . . . S. Rogers 200 Grace Darling . . Wordsworth 163 Grenville's Last Fight, Gerald Massey 167 Last Shot, The . /. R. Reid 188 Legend of Bregenz, A, A. A. Proctor 162 Little Golden-Hair . IF. Carleton 160 Mary Queen of Scots . //. G. Bell 184 Maud Miiller . . Whittier 198 Paradise and The Peri, Thomas Moore 201 Ride of Paul Revere, The, Longfellow 178 Singing Leaves, The . Lowell 194 PAGE Singing of the Magnificat, The, E. Nesbit 170 Story of the Faithful Soul, The, A. A. Proctor 175 (C) Lyrics, Idylls, Ballads, &c. Above and Below . . Lowell 229 At Last . . . Whittier 219 Bivouac Fire, The . S. K. Cowan 223 Captain of the " North flest," The, Gerald Massey 205 David Livingstone . Punch 232 Forlorn, The . . Lowell 214 First Snowfall, The . Loxoell 216 In Schooldays . . Whittier 219 Lost Found, The . Longfellow 209 Maidsof Attitash, The . Whittier 1^^ Minister's Daughter, The, Whittier 221 Passions, The . W. Collins 33 Red Thread of Honour, The, Sir F. Doyle 226 Rock of Ages . . Anon. 217 Sandalphon . . Loivfellow 203 Song of the Camp, The, Bayard Taylor 213 Song for Stout Workers, A, J. S. Blackie 281 Singers, The . . Longfellow 229 Three Preachers, Tiie . C. Mackay 224 UNCLASSIFIED POETRY. (A) Various. A Character . J/. /;. Smedley 240 Charming Woman, Tlie, Lady Dufferin 246 Creeds of the Bells . /. Bungay 237 Fool's Prayer, The, Atlantic Monthly 242 Great Renunciation, Tlie, Sir Edwin Arnold 230 Anon. 243 Marit and I. . Old Schoolmaster, The, Lee 0. Harris 238 Only a Wee Bit Bairu . A non. 241 Robert of Lincoln . W. C. Bryant 236 Scandal .... Anon. 245 (B) Satire and Humour. Amen Corner, The . W. Carleton 248 Altruism . J. T. Trowbridge 267 CONTENTS. / Aunt Tabitha Catching the Cat Dora's Soliloquy . In Nevada . . ( John Day Little Quaker Sinner, The liay of Real Life, A PAGl'- 0. ir. Holmes 248 M. Vaiidergrifl 271 Anon. 266 C. Leland 264 Hood 254 Anon. 250 Hood 256 Little Boy Blue Nine Suitors, The , On the Doorstep . Our Village . Owl Critic, The PAGE M. Carey 259 Anon. 253 E. C. Stedman 252 Hood 261 F. T. Fields 263 Philosopher and Her Father, The, .'^hirlcy Brooks 258 (A) Serious. Blank Bible, Tlie . //. Rogers Trl Chariot Race, The . 11'. Wallace 288 Death of Colonel Newconie, The, Thackeray 275 Lifeboat Episode, A, Long Path, Tlie . Noble Revenge Poetry of the Bible Tale of Terror, A , (B) Humorous. Art of Proposing, The . Dickens 322 Artless Prattle of Childhood, The . 303 Briary Villas . . Anon. 307 Discussion at the "Rainbow," A, George Eliot 309 Getting into Society . Thackeray 327 SELECTIONS— PROSE. Gregsbury and the Deputation, Dickens 316 Ill-bred Hospitality . Denn Sivift 325 Membranous Croup . Mark J'xvain 339 Mr. Flutter ami the Tea Party, Anon. 331 My Dentist . E. F. Turner 346 Sam Weller's Examination, Dickens 319 Stage Coach, The . W. Irving 299 Towing Incidents, Jerome li. Jerome 335 /?. lilatchford Til O. II'. Holmes 283 Dc Quincey 282 . f/. Oilfillan 38 Hood 296 (C) Eloquence. The Wonders of Creation, Dr. T. Chalmers 349 The Devastation of Oude, Fi.. J'>. Sheridan 351 LIST OF AUTHORS. PAGE PAGE Arnold, Sir Edwin . 180, 233 Longfellow, H. W., 178, 203 , 209, 229 Atlantic Monthly . 242 Lowell, J. E. . 194, 214 216, 229 Anonymous, 217, 241, 243, 245, Leland, C. . . 264 250, 253 266, 307, 331 Moore, T. 201 Bell, H. G. . 184 Massey, Gerald . 167, 205 Blackie, J. S. 231 Mackay, C. 224 Bryant, W. C. . 236 Xesbit, E. . . 170 Bdngay, I. 237 Punch . 232 Blatchford, R. . . 277 Proctor, A. A. 162, 175 Brooks, Shirley 258 Quiscey, De . 282 Carey, M. . , . 259 Eeid, J. R. . . 183 Carleton, \V. 160, 248 Rogers, Samuel 200 Cowan, S. K. . 223 PiOGERs, Henry . 272 Collins, W. 33 Shakspere, W. 51 to 143 Chalmers, Dr. T. . . 349 Sheridan, R. B. 151, 351 DCYLE, Sir F. . 226 Swift, Dean . 325 Ddfferin, Lady . , . 246 Stedman, E. C. . . 252 Dickens, C. 316. 319, 322 Southey, R. 165 Eliot, Georoe . . 309 Smedley, M. B. . 240 Fields, F. T. . 263 Taylor, Bayard 213 Goldsmith, 0. . 155 Thackeray, \V. M. 275, 327 Gow, M. M. . 183 Turner, E. F. . 346 Gilfillan, G. , 38 Twain, ;Mark . 339 Harris, Lee 0. 238 Trowbridge, J. T. 267 Holmes, 0. W. , 248, 283 Vandergrift, JL . . 271 Hood, T. . 254, 256, 261, 296 Wordsworth, W. 163 IR^^NG, W. , . 299 Whittier, J. G., 197, 198, 206, Jerrold, D. 158 219, 221 Jerome, J. K. . 335 Wallace, W. . 283 Knowles, S. 144 INTRODUCTION. HISTORIC OUTLINE. The practice of making formal speeches and of declaiming poetry is not a new custom, nor is it peculiar to any one nation. Among the earliest deliverances of u commanding kind are the orations of INIoses ; while the rhapsodists of Ancient Greece are, perhaps, the forerunners of the ideal reciters of modern days. With the Hebrews, religion was the sphere that most exercised the powers of speech, in other than the commonplaces of every-day conference. The Greeks had a secular literature, Epic, Lyric, and Dramatic, that called into service the best powers of voice, and at the same time demanded the nicest intellectual appreciation. This, too, was the land of famous orators : — " Those ancieut, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratic, Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece." What is true of the Greeks is scarcely less true of the Romans ; the name of Quintillian is enough, to witness how carefully Elocution was fostered among the youth of Rome. The forum, theatre, and law courts all speak to the imperial sway of the voice in the Roman Empire ere the brilliance of that empire faded. From the decline of the Roman Drama to the rise of the Elizabethan Drama popular curiosity was met by Art Story. Stories of every conceiv- able order, culled from many nations, were simg or recited in all parts of Europe, by that band of vagrant artists, who went under such names as bards, minstrels, troubadours. Thus, during the "Dark Ages" and those immediately following, the public taste in the recitation of thrilling or romantic narrative and half-acted story, was kept alive. When we reach the days of Shakspere we are in a more or less modern state of things. The principles then laid down by Shakspere respecting delivery (in Hamlefs lesson to the Player) have now been accepted as canons of the speaking-art. No doubt the main means of cultivating Elocution, in the age of Elizabeth, was provided by the stage. Pulpits and platforms as we know them to-day were not then in vogue. Legal advocates may have pursued a course of training in the management of the voice. It is possible also that the widespread interest in national song, by necessitating attention to expression, may have required anything but a mean standard of excellence to be attained in the use of the voice. Having dealt the drama its death-blow, Puritanism takes over the voice and all its resources of strength and modulation, and makes it the organ lO Clezs^'s Elocutionist. ixb of paramount power in a cause that was mortified by the " Restoration," towards the close of the 17th century. Then for some little time the drama, especially comedy, employs the vocal art in the interest of a society that was essentially critical, and intolerant of carelessness or incompetency in its purveyors of entertainment. Judged, however, in ihe most generous spirit, we cannot but describe the career of the art we name Elocution, as an extremely cliequered one, in England, until we arrive at the middle of the 1 8th century ; then it is that we first find Religion, Politics, and Literature fully investing the voice and the associated art of exposition with rightful devotion and dignity. So that from that time to the present the achievements which have made many of England's noblest sons most famous and influential, have not infrequently been won by that matchless vehicle (and all its significations) the human voice. PRESENT CONDITIONS. Considering our own day we find, with the amazing expansion and increasing complexity of the social fabric, a corresponding extension of the sphere of educated speech. In the pulpit, in parliament, at the bar, in various departments of educational work, from university down to the elementary school, the organ of speech is indispensable to a degree never before dreamed of. In these directions it is used towards the end of persuasion, or of instruction. Along with the growth of society is seen improvement in the general taste and ideal : literature, both prose and poetry, and of past centuries as well as of the most recent times, commands an ever multiplying community of lovers. With a vast proportion of the people, the joy in imaginative writings, particularly poetry, is magnified when such works are read aloud by the trained expositor. Thus we see that the two main aims of the vocal art are Utility and Pleasure. There is a further interesting phase of this well-nigh universal applica- tion of Elocution, and that is, that many women, towards practical no less than artistic ends, are pursuing occupations that require special fitness in the matter of Elocution. This is noticeably so in the case of teachers in schools, lecturers on domestic economy and other sciences, and again with those who take to public platforms in the interest of morals or of literature. No wonder, then, that of the several bodies of speakers (many with little training, and more with none) there should be a proportion who fail, from ignorance or abuse of the art upon which they rely. With a due understanding and exercise of the doctrines of delivery, everyone should benefit in health and in general physical power just so far as they give themselves ample exertion, rather than repeated spells of rest. As a matter of fact, no exercise is more beneficial to body and brain than Cleo-crs Elocutionist. 1 1 "ixb speaking, provided iihvays that it conforms to physiological laws and the dictates of art. Why then, the virtues of training in the art of delivery admitted, should there be difficulty in securing for Elocution a place in the curriculum of all Educational Institutions ? The rudiments of delivery could be taught to even very young pupils, and a practical demonstration of the physical basis of speech would always prove intelligible and attrac- tive. A teachei- well informed on the subject would notice defects in production and articulation among his pupils, and, knowing the cause in each case, could point to the cure. So that diseased throats, ruined voices, and stanuuering would often be averted. But, startling as it may seem, teachers themselves, except in rare instances, have no preparation in Elocution, practical or theoretical. And if the physical side of Elocution is neglected, the pesthetic side is more grudgingly promoted. Instead of the boys and girls of England being led to love the splendid ballad, narrative, and dramatic literature of our country by its being read and commended to them, and by their own read- ing and reciting of it in the class-room, they are made to positively dislike imaginative literature ; partly because it has been rendered a mere medium for philological inquiry, but mainly because there has been no specific treatment of those beauties and sentiments which reveal themselves only to the magic of the voice. Schools are the very places where gracious and patriotic feelings should be engendered and nursed in the youth of our nation ; and they are, largely, the places where not only is there an absence of stimulus, but where all ardour in the romantic and passionate features of poetry is pitilessly petrified by the chiUing processes of examinations in arithmetic, grammar, and the like. THE OUTLOOK. This is all truly disappointing to those who long to hear the English language' spoken accurately, sweetly, and robustly by the great mass of men and women in society. Still there is hope that trustworthy teachers and sufficing elocutionary literature— aided by an acute sense of need on the part of aspirants — will steadily lead to something like national recognition of the necessity of Elocution. Such a recognition, indeed, as shall make it a compulsory subject in the course of study designed for teachers in public schools, and that shall directly encourage good speech and recitation among children. Certain special prizes might be offered for exceptional excellence in the declamation of prose or the appropriate treatment of poetry. Thus the ambition of many Avoukl be healthily excited, and the level of the attainment of all would be greatly raised. Wholesome spurs of this kind are given to students in other departments 12 Cleggs Elocutionist. of scholastic work, and there can be no vaUd reason why oratory and poetical recitation should not equally enjoy such helpful bribes. But, already, more has been said than space affords for discursive remarks, and some notion must now be given of the plan and extent of om- discussion of the Art of Delivery. SCOPE AND AIM OF THE PRESENT TREATISE. Elocution has two main applications, which we shall distinguish as — (a; The Practical^ all that relates to the speaking of our own compositions, whether extempore or prepared ; those addressed to the understanding, and those directed to the emotions, (b) The Artistic, affecting the ex- pression of literary works, whether prose or poetry ; chiefly those that minister to the imagination and the sentiments. The present work consists in a brief treatment of four topics of om* subject, which are taken in the following order :^ I. The Instrument : its tStructure, Use, Development, Preservation. II. Elocution applied to Literature : (a) Modern Prose and Poetry, (b) BibUcal Prose and Poetry : important principles of Literai-y structure to be observed in Reading and Recitation. III. Elocution applied to Public SpeaJdng : general, practical con- siderations. IV. Gesture, and its associated mode of expression. The topic '■'■Naturalness'' \iSS\. receive separate consideration, and will be followed by a series of " Elocutionary Studies.'' In such a scheme, all those who work the voice with any serious aim should be catered for ; preachers, advocates, parliamentary speakers, lecturers, teachers, readers and reciters of literature, and various other classes of speakers. The section that deals with the physiology and the training of the vocal organs, and which includes the system of exercises for the ^'oice, has refer- ence of course to everyone alike. Much also of what is said in the several other divisions may be useful to students for whom it was not primarily intended. And in every case it would be well, perhaps, that the whole be read, so that a due impression of the unity of the subject may be gained. Lastly, though by no means least in importance, let it be ever borne in mind that intelligent and sympathetic insight is all-important in an art of this character ; it is needed to prevent pedantry and piide, excess of expression, as well as spiritlessness. AH the after advice assumes the presence of this faculty in the reader. The standpoint taken is that Elocution is the art of interpreting literature and language, and not the reverse, the standpoint taken by some men and women, reciters and speakers. ( 13) THE ART OF ELOCUTION. All arts agree in being a combination of two elements — the abstract and the concrete, or, more colloquially, theory and practice. Accordingly, Elocution, being an art, consists in certain (abstract) principles or laws, and their (concrete) investment in vocal and bodily expression. Elocution, the art of delivering language, embraces the entire compass of speech, from the simplest articulation to the most passionate expression of which human voice is capable. Its purpose is to express the meaning of language, and to reveal the accordant feeling, or, as we say, to give full value to the sense and sentiment of words. The abstract bonds — clearness, accuracy, truth, moderation — are precepts drawn from the "concrete " performances of the best artistes in delivery : not so many rules devised only by unpractical theorists and pedants. In every art, men, consciously or unconsciously, follow models in one form or other. If not by studying theories, then by observing or hearing the actual doings of men, whether in painting, architecture, sculpture, music, poetry, oratory, or recitation of literature. Great artists have always their own uncopyable charm, but every effective eflFort in any department of art will be so because it complies with certain general conditions. These general conditions, then, are the canons of art that may be noted and set down in strict terms, and grasped and applied by students. The successful practice of Elocution (as with all otlier arts) is dependent to a large degree upon native gifts ; but all may attain not a little excellence by (1) "constant and well- regulated exercise, (2) by using the mental faculties to a quick power of analysis of thought, and (3) by the cultivation of the ear and vocal organs for a ready appreciation and execution of tone." 1 4 Cleggs Elocutionist. Having agreed that Elocution may be acquired by intelli- gent people as other arts may be acquired, let us first take up I.— THE INSTRU3IEXT, ITS STRUCTURE, USE, DEVELOPMENT, PRESERVATION. 1. Structure. — There are three main divisions in the mechanism of the vocal organ: (a.) The vocal chords that vibrate and sound in response to the breath ; (&.) the lungs, that receive the breath and regulate its outgo ; (c.) the throat, nasal channels and mouth, that unite to modify the quality and volume of tone produced by the vocal chords. 2. The vocal chords vary in size and capacity in difierent persons, but almost all voices are capable of singing at least two octaves. The female voice begins, usually, an octave higher than the male voice. There is no difference in the structure of the male and the female vocal organ, further than in size — the larynx of woman being somewhat the smaller. This is equally true, also, of the rest of the mechanism — the lungs, throat, and mouth. But the matter of size does not necessarily determine tlie power of vocal endurance and variability. A small organ, well disciplined, will last longer and do more work than a large one indifferently used. Yet, undeniably, a large instrument (consisting in large larynx, lungs, and well proportioned mouth), skilfully exercised, will in the long run prove the most serviceable and effective. 3. Considering the inimitable beauty, variety, and power of the human voice, it must be admitted that its mechanism is extremely simple. Not so simple as those who are ignorant of physiology suppose, and yet not so complex as the wonderful effects would lead us to expect. Just three or four features can here be described. During silent respiration the two vocal chords lie free and open, and not as when adjusted foi- tone-production. The adjustment of the voice apparatus for tone consists, roughly speaking, in the closing and stretching of the chords against the moving current of air from the lungs. Each of these actions is brought about by a sepai'ate set of muscles. A further sclieme of muscles regulates the angles of the chords, so that the pitch may easily be changed, and yet another muscular arrangement raises or lowers the whole larvnx through a length of something less than an inch, according to pitch required. Knowledge, however, of the Cleo-cr's Elocutionist. 1 5 whole function of muscles that control the vocal chords can best be acquired by a study of the physiology of the voice, along with practical demonstrations under the guidance of surgeon and laryngoscope. 4. The lungs, as we have seen, provide the current or blast of air that, resisted by the vocal chords, becomes con- verted into sound. Now it is important to notice that the lowest sections of the lungs are less restricted than the upper parts. The lowest extremity, therefore — being the point of least resistance — must be considered the true seat of our com- mand over the use of the whole quantity of air taken into the bellows. It is not sufficient to urge that, as fluids press evenly, there is no need to do more than fill the lungs — leaving the emptying of them to nature. Besides, there is a good in this habit of deep-breathing — over and above that of securing superior control and steadier speech — in the fact that the A-arious parts of the lungs are thus almost uniformly refreshed. In natural, untrained breathing, the low parts of the lungs are often impoverislied. Especially is this the case with women : but it is also conspicuously so with men who take little physical exercise. 5. The throat, nose, and mouth are designed to act together as resonators of the sounds created in the larynx, and further, as articulators of these sounds. So influential are these upper cavities in the formation of the voice, that we say they alone make each voice "characteristic." Next to health, the sym- metry of these cavities is the best gift in this department. The main office of the throat is to swell and beautify the vowel effects. The channels of the nose are indispensable to liealthy breathing, and their share in articulation is not small. With- out them the n, m, and ng would be most unpleasant, and, in fact, speech would lose its charm of melody and sweetness. To the mouth is given the chief business of articulation. It is provided with very simple machinery, which, nevertlieless, is ample for the work of moulding sound into intelligible symbols. It is by the conjunctive action of the lips or tongue, or sometimes these parts operating together, that all speech elements, the vowels excepted, are shaped. Even to the vowels the mouth sfives the final finishing effect. 6. Use. — We now come to the more practical topic : the iife, not the form, of the instrument. To a musician it must 1 6 Cleggs Elocutionist. be of interest and value to have a clear idea of the architecture of the organ he wishes t-o play ; but full acquaintance with bellows, pipes, and stops would not suffice in itself to draw from the instrument even the most ill-composed melody. It is legitimate in analysis to discover the difierent constituents, and to assign their functions ; but in practice these various powers are merged, and the contrivance is thought of as a working whole and as an unit. To the musician, how distract- ing, too, would be the task of tracing the inside working of his instrument at the moment that he was striving for supreme eii'ects in the harmony of sensuous sounds. So in speaking. In the actual use of the voice as a vehicle of thought, there should be no need to think about the separate, related processes. We have to play upon our organ — the voice — a particular tune, and nothing should be allowed to interfere with the execution of that tune or message. At such times the voice is one thing, the communicant of our mind to the mind of another person. Full exercise and development of the various parts, separately and in conjunction, as a course of training, is obviously pre-supposed ; for increase in the power of each part means increase in the sum of effectiveness. 7. In voice-economics, a leai-ner should decide what range of tone is most natural to him. In some cases this range will be restricted to the very deep tones, in others the high tones ; but in most the best scope for speech will be neither high nor low — about the middle of the scale, from lower C to middle C. Never should we strive to copy voices utterly unlike our own, simply because of some superiority in power or intensity. In all cases the voice should be extended and generally enlarged, but it is impossible to change the radical cause of distinctions in voices. Persistent attempts in this direction have, in numbers of instances, led to a complete break-up of the voice. Having fixed upon the best series of say five tones, we should strengthen that special part of the voice along with regular cultivation of the whole of the voice ; using exercises devised to make the most of its resources. (See the section on Development). Note, at the same time, that there will often be a call on the parts of the voice above or below that portion most constantly used. You may desire to relieve the range most exerted, by dropping or by lifting the pitch : good Clegg's Elocutionist. 1 7 speakers know how to do this with effect to themselves and their hearers alike. The subject-matter, too, will occasionally require \\\q full com'pass of the voice. Clearly, then, the whole voice should be at your command. 8. Secondly, keep the voice well out of the throat, so that all the resounding parts above the larynx may be utilized as aids to the voice. Further, when the voice is properly accumu- lated in the mouth, the throat is less liable to share improperly in articulation. The habit of arresting the voice in the throat, and so involving the throat to an undue extent in articulation, is ruinous to the voice, and provocative of thick, indistinct, articulation. When the voice is thus badly conducted, there is more ditliculty in poising it, and giving it that rhythmic movement which is at once more economical, penetrating, and agreeable. This balance and rhythm may often be superfluous in ordinary conversation, but wherever speaking becomes more formal and impersonal, as in addressing public audiences, the instinctive resort to a slightly musical movement of voice must be encouraged. There is a qualification to be added. The smoothly modulated delivery ought not to be used to the exclusion of those short, sharp, percussions that give such natural emphasis to certain constructions. We know things by their opposites, and so the abrupt, staccato mode, in addi- tion to an interest of its own, makes the even undulations of the voice more tolerable and sifjnificant. 9. We have next to inspect what may be called the word- manufactory, the mouth. All pure tones (oo, oh, ah, ai, ee) come from the vocal chords, and are usually named vowels. The rest of the elements, "consonants," are moulded in the mouth or conjunctive parts, and are best styled either sub-tones or non-tones, according as they do or do not contain a trace of tone. For example, there is a degree of tone in the value of initial B, but no tone in the value of P. It will be seen from this, perhaps, that speakers will profit by giving attention to the mouth as an organ of speech. Constant exercise of all the muscles implicated in tone-production is no more essential than it is of all muscles that co-operate in word-making. The muscles of the tongue, lips, and other parts of the mouth, may be much increased in strength and sensibility by suitable gymnastics. Foremost among the muscles that must not be neglected in exercise are B 1 8 Cles^ors Elocutionist Vs.i those upon which the jaw rides ; and the exercise suited to them is secured in the adequate action of the jaw in speaking, whereby two advantages accrue to articulation, greater clear- ness, and firmer grip. 10. A word, in passing, on Stammering. Far better prevent stammerinij than leave it to be cured. Stammerinar is a defect of articulation that arises usually from a faulty co-ordination of the muscles of speech. It is often a deep-seated mischief, and hard to cure. But in most cases of mal-articulation (where no structural deformity exists) considerable benefit is derived from exercises designed to train the speech-muscles. Defects of this kind in certain stages may by this means be quite cured. The development exercises that follow will meet the needs of most cases. (See section on Development). 11. Finally, we must aim to develop all the voice-resources of power, beauty, and compass. The trifling demands of daily talk form no preparation for an organ that will have to work at high power in large and often trying buildings, and have to minister to the whole scale of the emotions, from the lowliest to the haost exalted ; to the slightest fancy no less than to the widest sweep of imagination. Everything we can do to fit the voice for its severe performances must be done. Rest is seldom the proper cordial. The judicious course is to put the whole mechanism of speech through such a variety and extent of exertion, daily, as will anticipate pretty fully the after-strain of preaching, speech-making, lecturing, or reciting. This must, of course, stop short of abuse, or its end will be defeated. The equivalent of the public-use of the voice is found in a species of ordered exercises that healthfully tax the lungs, the voice, and articulating mechanism in turn. These exercises are now provided in their proper place under the head of 12. Development — And along with the articulation ex- ercises are given certain exercises in pronunciation. These are meant to correct the numerous blunders in vowel-quality which are commonly called j^'f'ovincialisms. The exercises, however, embrace more than the vowels, and will be found to attack most of the errors that make our speech unlovely. Let the order of the development exercises be observed in practice, as each will improve the effectiveness of the succeeding group : — (1) breathing, (2) vocal, and (3) articulation exercises. Clegg's Elocutionist. 19 At least ten minutes daily should be given to the following exercises : — 1. — To develop and to gain control over the lungs : Count to 40, in one breath, or take Alphabet twice in one breath. Gradually increase the exercise till 8U can be easily reached, in one breath. 2. — Voice Development : A. — Sing up Scale from A to E, below middle C, on oh : and from F to C on ah. Repeat each tone four times. B. — Sins: as before, usins; movements of the arms down- ward from the shoulders, in front, for tones to E ; and backw-ard from chest for tones above E and up to C, to accentuate each tone. Fill the lungs well to start w^ith, then take short breath for each tone. 0. — Take the same range, holding out each tone witli equable power : duration, about half a minute. All these tones should be produced on the inhalation. 3. — Articulation : Tonics. A. — Speak [in most useful octave] the Yowels 00, oh, ah, ai, ee. Increase force, steadily, until great power is gained. Suh-Tonics and Atonies. B. — Speak in one breath, firmly and clearly, each of the following exercises : — JBlack babbling brooks break brawling o'er their bounds. /The painted pomp of pleasure's proud parade. Decide the dispute during dinner-time by dividing the diiference. Tourists thronged from time to time to traverse the Tliames tunnel. •J Gregory going gaily galloped gallantly to the gate. Crazed with corroding cares and killed with consuming complaints. Vanity of Vanities and all is Vanity. Frank Feron flattered his friends and found fault with his foes. His zeal was blazoned from zone to zone. Serpents and snakes were scattered on the sea. ^^Judge and jury adjourned the judgment. Chosen champion of the church he cherished her childien. The aziu-e sea is shining Avith ships that shape their course for home, yriiis thread is thinner than that thistle there. Year after year the o'er-ripe ear is lost. Ye heard him j^elling o'er your head. Up a high hill he lieaved a huge hard stone. y/AVe wildly wish whUe wiser workmen win whate'er will worth reward. 20 Clegg's Elocutionist. And rugged rocks re-echo with his roar. Lamely the hon Hmped along the lawn. Many men of many minds mixing in multifarious matters of much moment. None know nor need to know his name. England's king lay waking and thinking while his subjects were sleeping. 4. Pronunciation. — Vowel values. A, €, i, 0, u. A. E. 0. U. 1. i! 4. 5. All, war, tall, fall. Arm, father, card, dark (long). At, cat, apple, tap (short). Ale, pace, sane, ate (long). Rare, lair, dare, pare (short). 1. 2. 3. 4. Ere, where, there (long). Wet, let, mess (short). Even, me, fee, leave. Fern, mercy, err, learn. 1. 2. 3. 4. Field, shield, wield (long). In, it, twist, rim (short). Fir, first, thirst. Lie, thine, sigh. 1. 2. 3. 4. Sold, no, go, tone (long). On, lot, cough, or (short). Who, soot, whom, do (long). Come, other, son, won (short). 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Turn, nurse, curd, urn (long). Blush, pun, us, rut (short). True, rude (long). Pull, push (short). Tune, duke, unison. Syllabification. This, then, rough, fall, fix, dull, moon, broom, last. Ooidiict, relief, instinct, condemn, reason, morose, prudent. Extensive, completed, reformer, servitude, discursive, protector. Invalidate, penetrative, restoration, conservative, partizanisni. Transcendentalism, preservativeness, repository, monumentalise^ Cleg^s Elocutionist. 21 6. Congratulatory, supererogation, interpretatively, inhospitality. 7. Plenipotentiary, anti-pestilential, instrumentality, derationalisatiou. 8. Intercommunicability, latitudiuarianism, periodecahedral, unin- telligibility. Pkoxou.nce: — Initial G = Glory, not Dlory. C = Clearly „ Tlearly. D — During „ Juring. Final ts = Acts, not Acks. ing = Walking, not walkin'. a = Ma „ mar. ity = Charity „ charaty. ible = Possible „ possable. Avoid : — Melting the last letter of one word into the first of the next word. Example — An don't = And don't. Awfulie = Awful lie. Lodeyes = Law dies. Yardoor = Yard door. 13. Preservation. — This topic has in some sense been anticipated by remarks in the section on Use ; but in point of fact, a large volume could well be devoted to it. Many medical throat-specialists state that by far the majority of their clients — speakers and singers — cripple their voices through ignorance of the structure and use of the vocal organs ; the few are those who fail directly from lung and throat weakness. Writing from an extensive and varied experience with public speakers, it is possible to add, that every case of break- down, temporary or permanent, I have met with, has been primarily due to wrong production or other form of voice- abuse, and not to a singular physical condition. The one point of moment for all would-be speakers, readers, and singei'S to care for is, that they begin in the right way. All after-work, then, should simply perfect the vocal powers. But start in the wrong way, and they are likely to continue in that way, perverting the whole voice machine. The evil day of collapse may be long deferred, but there cannot, at any point, be in false production the ease and zest which accompany true speaking. It will be convenient to offer a few definite points of advice on voice-preservation, in the form of maxims : — 1. Exercise the voice vigorously, at least once a day, with a view to keeping it in full health. 22 Cles-ors Elocutionist. ' 2. Do not speak in a cold or damp air directly after sus- tained use of the voice. 3. Avoid competition with loud noises, whether inside or outside the building in which you speak. 4. Lessen the strain on the voice when the throat is at all relaxed. 5. Vary the pitch of voice frequently, keeping easily within the natural ranije. 6. Shun nostrums. n.-EJLOCUTIOX IN REIiATIO:N^ TO LITERATURE. (A), Modern Poetry and Prose ; (B), Biblical Poetry and Prose. (A.) Before we dwell upon the principles of Elocution, applied to modern poetry and prose, it will be expedient for us to fasten on some workinsr definitions. o The word literature, rigorously used, denotes experiences of the human mind recorded in artistic language. Works of literary art have this further test applied to them, that they shall, in virtue of their spirit or their form, or both united, give general and enduring delight. Examine any dozen poems or prose writings, of the first order, that occur to the mind at the moment, and they will be seen to possess this double quality. It is the flower plus perfume. A definition of Poetry is not easy to press into the measure of a single sen- tence. In fact, an adequate definition of poetry in any number of words has been the despair of poets and critics of all ages. Nevertheless, it will be pardonable to compound a definition, out uf many, that will answer the present purpose. We need not build a larger house than will meet our require- ments. With this apology, we may describe poetry as such an elevated expression in rvords of the imagination and feel- ings of the poet, as will excite like images and feelings in the minds of others. Poetic language is therefore peculiar in several respects. Poetry dwells upon and elaborates images, and so favours picturesque words. Again, the world of poetry is above that of everyday life, and, accordingly, poetry prefers words that retain their pristine vigour or beauty : words degraded by association with vulgar and mechanical things are inimical to poetry. Sounds are inseparable from words, Clegg's Elocutionist. 23 hence sounds are brought under the laws of art, and are dis- posed according to accent, quantity, and rhyme. The three great kinds of poetry are : — Narrative, Lyric, Dramatic ; and all, doubtless, have emanated from the one source — the ballad-dance of the early days of each nation's his- tory. The Narrative (notably the Heroic) depicts doings and sufferings of men, and refers incidents to a bygone day : thus appealing forcibly to the imagination. The Lyric reveals the inner self of the writer, and calls upon the joys or sorrows of the reader. The Dramatic presents the poet's intention by means of an organised group of charac- ters ; and we are required, jointly with the poet, to forget our- selves, and act or suffer with the personages of the play. Next, let us give a passing glance at Prose. Prose is the second, not the first, great landmark in literary history. It is traceable rather to the loosening of the bonds that braced Poetry than to a separate creative fiat. Its develop- ment is coincident with the growth of civilization. Clearness, simplicity, conciseness, are three of its intrinsic ti-aits, accord- ing to the gospel of modern taste. In subject it may often overlap or even transcend the sub- jects of Poetry. It begins with transcriptions of the homeliest life, and ends in the loftiest sublimities. But in form. Prose ends where Poetry begins. Poetry is intense, prose extense. Poetry isolates a fraction of life and concentrates itself upon it — drawing out the ideal feature, and giving to it a monu- mental form. Prose admits many more and trifling details, and aims at fullness rather than fineness of treatment. The two modes will come out clearly by a comparison. The prose writer would not consider that he had overspent liimself in composing an essay of 5,000 words on the substance of Shelley's verse — ■ " We look before and after, and pine for what is not, Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught. Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought." The 20 lines or so of Hamlet's soliloquy, " To be or not to be," etc., could not fitly be rendered in fewer than ten times that number of lines in prose. And so it comes about that poetry, on account of the excessive compression of thought it loves, invites a much more subtle vocalization than is neces- 24 Clegg's Elocutionist. sary for the fully expanded forms of prose. Further than this in the line of definition tve cannot go now. What has been said will help the beginner to approach the subject of literary structure with more readiness, and, perhaps, make him more willing to accept the reasoning, that the true basis of the art of reading or recitation is the basis of literary design or structure. The entire scale of inflections and intonations is furnislied and fashioned by the composition, and not the reverse, as might sometimes be supposed from the manner of not a few interpi'eters. These, then, are the two large divisions of our subject now to be examined. (1) Literary Structure (chiefly concerning Poetry), and (2) The Technique of Yocal Interpre- tation. 1. Literary Structure. — No better way is open to us than taking types of structure. Look at six poetical compositions (contained in this collection). "Mark Antony's Oration;" " The Bridge of Sighs ; " " Ginevra ; " " The Norman Baron ; " " A Parental Ode ; " " Maud Miiller." The subject of the first is the betrayal of Caesar ; of the second, the pitiful end of a poor outcast girl ; of the third, the accidental death of a young bride in the midst of her wedding festivities ; ^of the fourth, the conversion and death of a feudal baron under the influences of song, prayer, and storm ; of the fifth, a poet's apostrophe to his mischievous child ; of the sixth, tlie unfulfilled desires of a child of nature. The subjects are each difierent, and the patterns in which they are woven are different. A plain literary definition of each would be — 1. " Antony's Speech : " Dramatic Oration. 2. "The Bridge of Sighs :" Objective Lyric. 3. " Ginevra : " Simple Narrative. 4. " Norman Ban 111 : ■' Picturesque Narrative. 5. "A Parental Ode : " Apostrophe and Parentlie.sis. 6. "Maud :\Iuller : " Pastoral Idyll. Now, look more closely at these pieces, and they will reveal a shapeliness or proportion, which is named Unity. In modern poetry may be observed a great number of literary unities. In some poems the details unified are few ; in others, a mass of details, that give an impression of much complexity, and dis- close a beautiful design. Straight lines are interesting in their way, but artfully complicated lines will make lovely CI eggs Elocutionist. 25 forms that gratify our liner sense. The unity of a single element is the slightest design, and is generally too bald to awaken uncommon pleasure. Unity of design is one of the chief of art interests ; but before the mind conceives the idea of unity, it must be conscious of some degree of complexity. The unadorned development of a single idea has consequent!}' the faintest hold upon the mind ; whilst the most involved pattern, cunningly simplified, will most satisfy the mind. No. 1 is a remarkable oratorical achievement, suiting its own end perfectly. It is an illustration of climax as design : the gradual rise from conversational tone, through various adroit deviations, up to the most resistless climax of passion. No. 2 is an instance of dramatic unity in the lyric. That is, a dramatic centre-piece uniting two strains of sentiment. ■ No. 3 illustrates the common and favorite unity of antithesis. In this case the first half of the poem presents unbounded joy ; passing at its highest point into shade ; thence, by rapid steps, into gloom and appalling calamity. No. 4 is an example of unity of parallel interests, working side by side, and enhancing the effect of each other. The " Songs of the Gleemen " form one element ; the actions and demeanour of the " Dying Baron " another; " Prayers of the Monk," and the enveloping echoings of the raging tempest outside the castle, the third. No. 5 stands almost alone as a specimen of unity of j^aren- thesis. The sublime and the ridiculous are bound to each other by means of recurrent parenthesis. No. 6 exemplifies admirably the unity of parallel. Two lives in the light of each other are made to share a parallel fate. Unity defined and p)reserved hy refrain has endless illustra- tions in both serious and humorous poetry. Tennyson's " May Queen" and Hood's "Bachelor's Dream," are marked types, the former of serious, the latter of comic poetry. The real use to the Elocutionist of the study of the literary constitution of a poem is two-fold — first he is saved from that lamentable blunder of treating the parts of a work as if each were the whole ; discerning that the constituents of a poem have to be justly subordinated to the dominant tone of the whole. Extravagant " reciters," who associate pantomime with their art, insist on making the most out of every separate 26 Cleo-o^s Elocutionist. opening for display, regardless of the injury this inflicts upon the total harmonised effect sought by the author. Secondly, and of primary moment, is the safe dictation it gives to the voice. The workmanship of a poem— in respect of architecture — decides the lines and limits and plan of vocal expression. Koughly speaking, the elements of expression are Tone, Power, Inflexion ; and if we may distinguish their ofiices, the first two are the exponents of the feelings, and the last one the chief servant of sense. This, palpably, is a very arbitrary division, but not without justification for practical use. Turning again to the six patterns of unity scrutinised a moment ago, observe what obedience of tone, power, and inflexion they impose upon the voice. Antony's Speech is a series of ascending steps, culminating in an outburst that well-nigh " moves the stones of Rome to rise and mutiny." The momentum of the delivery is increased by being stayed at intervals with a reference to " the honour- able men." Think then what the effect would be if the strticture of this oration were ignored, and the whole work thundered out at full pressure ; or, again, if the several parts were seized upon and magnified out of all spirit with the central purpose of the speech. The Bridge of Sighs consists in a line of impassioned con- templation (over the body of one " more sinned against than sinning ") broken in the middle by a dramatic puttiJig of the catastrophe, which serves at the same time to unite the severed lyrical strain. Manifestly, the voice will express the first part of the lyrical outflow in a register of tones it will have to resume, in modified force, after the dramatic interruption. To deliver the entire poem as if it were a straightforward dirge, would be like converting a piece of chaste gold into solution. Ginevra requires the voice to depict the first side of the antithesis cheerfully, with nimble movement ; the second side changes the joy and rapidity of the A'oice into deepening sad- ness, the pace varying from standstill to moderate. The last portion of the poem dissolves, steadily, the mystery and gloom, and, although never rising to the pitch of either side the antithesis, it acts as a key to the whole, and should be delivered in tliat simple explanatory manner that such a discovery — long after the tragic event — asks. Clegg's Elocutionist. 2J The Norman Baron consists in three distinct lines that melt into one another, and re-appear separately. Vocally, these three elements must be well distinguished : the schemes of tones describing the Dying Baron will differ from the tones that echo the approach and full outbreak of the thunderstorm, and different from both will be the chain of tones depicting the Sonars of the Saxon Gleemen and the devotions of the Monk. The voice and its intonation thus indicating these three threads will, at the same time, so interlace them that they shall minister to our sense of beauty ; in this case the unity of parallels. As to which element dominates here, it is not possible to go wrong ; the subject of the poem is the dying experiences of a human being. Only wilful misreaders would give the storm or the singing effect the uppermost place. A Parental Ode supposes the alternation of two opposite intonations : literally, two apostrophes are being carried on in different vocabularies. The one ideal, the other real. The antagonism of the two modes of address determines the course of the voice. A somewhat lofty and mellifluous expression best suits the one, while the other prompts an abrupt drop into the region of conversational tone. Observe, liowever, that the aside-like nature of the parentheses, abrupt as they are, have still to bear relation to the higher strain. It is nothing short of a feat to present a perfect illusion of such a situation. But to treat the poem as the development of one idea, or to so sharply sunder the ties of the two strains so that they utterly part company, is to wreck the ingenuity of Hood. Maud JIuUer is an idyll conceived in soft tones throughout. Two contrasted characters are brought under each other's in- fluence for a few moments, and the whole after-life of each is coloured by the sensations of this single interview. The parallel is rather real than apparent. Both live a dis- appointed life, in totally different spheres. At the close of the poem the poet sets future Hope over against the Despair pictured in the two histories of the Rustic Beauty and the Judge. As the voice proceeds to trace the details of design in the poem, it will be artistically natural to relate the for- tunes of Maud Miiller in a higher and more musical tone than IS used for the fate of the Judge. The parallel will thus be brought out and maintained, while the organic unity of the 28 Clegg's Elocutionist. details should be definitely struck by a pervading sympathy of tone. For the first few lines there is an absence of sentiment — the voice moving in the groove of easy description : the last lines of the poem are impressed with the deepest gravity. Thus the opening and the close. The body of the poem requires the voice to move backwards and forwards alons: the two streams of experience, at the last flowing into the buoyant sea of Hope. Of the music or metrical element of poetry a word must be added. All poetic language, as we have seen, consents to inherent music, and, without this musical principle, would cease to be poetry in the exact sense. We cannot, therefore, in our adequate interpretations of poetic works of sense, senti- ment and rhythm, neglect the last and distinctive feature. This rhythmic quality we produce by j)oising the voice, so that the words, instead of jostling carelessly as in prose, ride along a propped and balanced intonation. The words are shot through, so to speak, with a cord of elastic tone. By this, be it understood, neither sense nor sentiment is improperly enslaved. Both are even freer than they are in colloquial forms. Modern Prose. — With modification, and some exception, the instruction framed for poetry will be applicable to prose. Several cardinal points will be taken up in tlie after argument on Naturalness. Four large classes of prose may be defined, corresponding remotely with the diff"erent kinds of poetry. In one class we should find the prose of Milton, Burke, De Quincey, and Ruskin ; in another, the novels of Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and Eliot ; in another, the eloquence of preachers and patriots ; in the other class would come literary essays, such as Addison's, Macau lay's, Carlyle's, and many writings (of literary value) on scientific and philosophical subjects. Generally speaking, prose is met by a less exceptional manner of delivery than will satisfy poetry. Still, there are passages of prose in each of the above classes that would be suited by nothing short of the grandest elocution. Apart from logical phrasing and the exhibition of the sense of sentences, the reader has to show, by his perfectly sym- Cleggs Elocutionist. 29 pathetic voice, the rise in dignity or beauty of the language ; he has equally to touch with truth that emotional language characteristic of the third class, and again the words of dia- logue characteristic of the second class. It will appear to some people a mere triviality for one to remind students that satire, demureness, irony, and other details, have special intonations of their own. But Swift, Addison, Dickens, Thackeray, and Ruskin, who sprinkle their works liberally with one or other of these qualities, are the writers most often misread by readers unversed in the ttsthetics of expression. And yet these same readers, for themselves, well know the nature of every element in a composition. The one Changeless Rule in Elocution, to be obeyed by everyone, is propriety; but the full acquisition of this gi'eat principle will be a life-work. Mind, it has full reference to demonstration no less than to suppres- sion of feeling, and is anxious only for truth of expression. 2. Vocal Technique. — We come now to the more me- chanical pi'inciples that affect logical expression, and form the ground-plan of utterance generally, upon which feeling or any quality, other than sense, is superposed. Hardly any student of elocution can hope to succeed, either as speaker or reader, without knowledge and mastery of these laws. They are rooted not only in logic, but in expediency ; they at once give the true meaning of language, and prevent waste of vocal power. To the forces of expression they are what the rails are to a locomotive. And, considering what directness and ease they secure, they are acquired with small difficulty. Without presuming to draw an entire network of lines — inflexions — along which the voice shall run on different occasions, various intelligible rules, of the nature of fixed principles, may be given. Further than this it seems super- fluous to go ; only those laws of inflexion that admit of per- fectly clear statement and symbolization should be noted in a text-book. For the rest, the learner will do best to consult up down the living instructor. The two signs y^ \^ represent the two elementary actions of the speaking voice, and form the basis from which spring all complex vocal modulations. They have only two essential attributes — (1) Order; (2) Length. With respect to the first, the voice may descend and then rise \ ^ , or rise and then descend ^' \ . 30 Clegg's Elocutionist. Respecting the second, the length may vary from a ditone to an octave, thus : — DITONE. THIRD. FIFTH. OCTAVE. Mark, that inflexion (the characteristic of speech) is a glide, not a definite musical step ; still there can be no objection to the use of musical terms as signs of measure. It is desirable to exercise the voice in these upward and downward inflexions, and also in the various lengths. These provide the training for ear and voice, without which sense is liable to be maimed, and sound to be robbed of its melody. Inflexion constitutes a large part of the technique of elocu- tion. Virtually, it holds the position that drawing occupies in relation to painting. Tone, pitch, emphasis, are the colour- ing and life of elocution. Inflexion, like drawing, is an exact art. The separate shades of meaninc; contained in different constructions of language can only be expressed by certain glides of a particular length. It is this utmost nicety (which alone satisfies the gifted student) that crowns naturalness in the delivery of artistic compositions. Taking the V as the naked plan of voice movement, let it be noticed that, as the two sides are of equal length — ^varying from length of ditone to octave — the same sense of complete- ness will, practically, be felt by the ear whether the voice takes the course of V proper, or of inverted A- This is the principle of complimentary inflexions. Once thoroughly grasped, this idea enables a student to abolish a number of cares about the conduct of his voice. So long as the ear has i-eceived the satisfaction at the close of an expression that this law of balanced inflexion gives, it matters not whether the last contrullinii; inflexion has been a downward or an upward one. Or, in stricter words, it may often be prefer- able from all standpoints to end the sense with a rising in- flexion. Consider, first, in the most general way, the second feature of inflexion — Length. Bear in mind that simple unim- passioned speech is content with a scale of two tones (ditoncs), whereas interrogation, wonder, animation, require at least Clegg's Elocutionist. 3 1 three tones. Take a series of three sentences rising in degree of expressiveness — 1. (Ditones.) Now fades the ghmmering landscape from the sight And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 2. (Thirds.) Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed, Thousands of theh seamen made mock at the mad little craft. 3. (Fifths.) But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruttle up your spirits and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar. It will readily be felt that each of these verses demands an inflexion-scale of a particular length. What meets the first is too limited for the last. The beginner needs to realize these difierent powers. Prose submits to the same laws of inflexion as poetry. Second, note the Order of inflexion. On this head there is no necessity to delineate exactly what the voice rightly does Avithout our concern ; this kind of teaching bewilders and i-ebufTs those whom it seeks to attract. Only those rules will be ijiven that affect Words in (1) Apposition, (2) Opposition, (3) Series, (4) Parenthesis. 1. Words in Aj^iposition take similar inflexions : Ex. " Is a candle brought to be put under a bushel or under a bed, or &c." 2. Words in Opijosition (antithesis) take opposite inflexions : Ex. " Do all men kill the thhigs they do not love ? " " Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? " 3. A series of three independent qualities has the upward inflexion on the first and last, with the falling inflexion on the middle member, thus : Ex. According to your age, weight, and worthiness. Series of words of the Positive class are taken on upward inflexions, with the exception of the last member but one : — 32 Clegg's Elocutionist. Ex. " I will buy with you, sell with, talk with, walk with you." Series of words of the Negative class are inflected in the opposite way, thus : Ex. " But I wUl not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you." Thus, it will be seen that whatever order the inflexions follow in the body of a sentence, the last two inflected mem- bers have complimentary glides of the voice, giving the ear the requisite sense of finish. 4. Parentheses are spoken sKghtly quicker than the preced- ing matter, and dropped a tone or two in pitch. But the last inflexion in the parenthesis should be upward, and form a proper basis for the continuance of the voice beyond the parenthetic words : — The inflexions of a sentence con- taining parenthesis might be represented thus : — " Upon my power I may dismiss this court Unless Bellario (a learned doctor Whom I have sent for to determine this) Come here to-day. " The elements of Pitch, Emphasis, and Tone can be but sparingly treated : they belong to life, and cannot well be exhibited by printed signs. Each will receive general comment in the following Analysis of " The Passions " :— TONE. 1. Fear. High in pitch. Slight in power. Tone tremulous. 2. Anger. „ „ „ Strong in emphasis. Time quick. 3. Despair. Low „ Extremes. From slow to rapid. 4. Hope. Middle „ Level, flowing. Easy time. 5. Revenge. Anger intensified. More guttural. 6 Pity. Low pitch. Soft emphasis. Slow time. 7. Jealousy. Low, variable. Tender, then harsh. Slow. Rapid. 8. Melancholy. Low. Gentle in power. Slow time. 9. Cheerfulness. High. Light emphasis. Quick time. 10. Joy. Higli. Fuller emphasis. More animated. i'^' Mhfli Hudi I -'-'^^'clier, almost rhapsodial expression. Clegg's Elocutio7iist. 33 The poet has in. the most charming and finished manner sketched each passion in its different aspects, and it is to the poem itself that we must all go for our one great lesson in the treatment of the "Passions." Here everything is considered — pitch, tone, emphasis, and modulation. In directing the student to this poem we may safely leave the subject of feeling ; he will secure from this all the training that written descriptions are capable of giving. THE PASSIONS. William Collins. (Verse printed as Prose). When ]Mnsic, (heavenly maid !) was young, ere yet in earliest Greece she sung, the Passions oft, to hear her shell, thronged around her magic cell : exulting, — trembling ; — raging, — fainting ; — possessed, be3-ond the Lluse's painting. By turns, they felt the glowing mind disturbed, — delighted, — raised, — refined ; till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, filled with fury, rapt, inspired, from the supporting myrtles round they snatched her instruments of sound ; and as they oft had heard, apart, sweet lessons of her forceful art, each — for madness ruled the hour — would prove his own expressive power. 1. First, Fear — his hand, its skill to try, amid the chords bewildered laid — and back recoiled — he knew not why : — even at the sound him- self had made ! 2. Next Au'/er rushed, his eyes on fire : in lightnings owned his secret stings ; with one rude clash he struck the lyre, and swept, with hurried hands, the strings. 3. With woeful measures, wan Desimir:—\ov<, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; a solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'twas sad, by fits— by starts, 'twas wild. 4. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, what was thy delighted measure ? Still it whispered promised pleasure, and bade the lovely scenes at distance " Hail ! " Still would lier touch the strain proloni; ; and, from the rocks, the woods, the vale, she called on " Echo," still, through all her song ; and, where her sweetest theme she chose, a soft, responsive voice was heard at every close I — and Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair ! 5. And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, Bevenge impatient rose : he threw his blood-stained sword in thunder duwn ; and with a withering look, the war-denouncing trumpet took, and blew a blast — so loud and dread, were ne'er prophetic sounds su full of woe : and ever and anon, he beat the doubling drum, with furious heat. And though 6. sometimes, each dreary pause between, dejected Pity, at his side, her soul-subduing voice apijlied, yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien ; while each strained ball of sight— seemed bursting from his head. 7. Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fixed ; sad proof of thy distressful state ! Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; and now, it courted Love — now, raving, called on Hate. 34 (^'^^gs'^ Elocutionist. 8. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, pale Melancholy sat retired ; and from her wild, sequestered seat, in notes by distance made more sweet, poured, through the mellow horn, her pensive soul : and, dashinj^ soft, from rocks around, bubbling runnels joined the sound. Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; or, o'er some haunted stream, witli fond deIaj,^round a holy calm diffusing, love of peace and lonely musing, — in hollow murmurs died away. 9. But, oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone, when Cheerfulness— o, nymph of healthiest hue, — her bow across her shoulder flung, her buskins gemmed with morning dew, — blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung ; the hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs, and Sylvan Boys were seen peeping from forth their alleys green -. brown " Exercise " rejoiced to hear ; and " Sport " leaped up, and seized liis beecheu spear. 10. Last, came Joy''s ecstatic trial ; he, with viny crown advancing, first to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; but soon he saw the brisk awaken- ing viol, whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved tlie heat. Tiiey would have thought who heard the strain, they saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, amid the festal-sounding shades to some unwearied 11. minstrel dancing ; while, as his Hying fingers kissed the strings, Love 12. framed, with Mirth., a gay, fantastic round ; — loose were her tresses seen, her zone unboiuid ; — and he, amidst his frolic play, as if he would the charming air repay, shook thousand odours from his dewy (B) Biblical Poetry and Prose. — 1. It is a time-honoured habit of critics to molest whatever existina: forms of art offend them, ere they erect their own structure. In dealincf with the readinjj aloud of the Bible, there is strong temptation to question some of the prevalent fashions of elocution before proceeding to advocate other methods. But the balance of good is invariably in favour of constructive work ; and, to men of serious intent, in a matter of such solem- nity as the reading of Divine revelation, this constructive mode is peculiarly becoming. The teaching offered in this section cannot be exhaustive, but it will be none the less devoid of the stinji of dor;matism. 2. Where the voice is called in once to treat the scriptures purely as the national literature of the Hebrews, it is employed a hundred times in connection with the solely sacred use of the Bible. That is to say. Elocution serves the reading of the Bible chiefly in its place in Public "Worship. And in this domaia two recjuirements are to be satisfied : — (a) Faultless articu- lation, (b) Full intelligibility. Clegg's Elocutio7iist. 35 The former has had attention ; the latter, as it pertains to reading the scriptures, demands somewhat special counsel. First let me say, that for all reasons a dignified rhythmic elocution (which includes that subliming quality musicians name sostenuto) seems, for public uses, the best suited to the Bible. It gives ample room for variation of the temper of language, and the sense need in no degree be made to sutSer by it. _ 3. Besides, there are two positive contentions on behalf of this style. Genealogies and bald chronicles excepted, almost all biblical writing is poetical, and fits itself naturally to this higher treatment. " Metrical beauty is the inborn music which beats a natural accompaniment to the creative toil of the imagination, and vindicates the essential unity of the life Avhich runs through it." This inborn music, from the solitary plaint to the swelling antl>em, awaits the thrill that the finely attuned and balanced voice alone can "\xe. The second positive plea for this voice is, that it carries much better than does the homelier manner ; and the sustained carrying power of the voice becomes a grave question when large, and sometimes ill-shaped, churches have to be occupied. 4. Pull intelligibility is a requisition as difiicult to meet as is faultless articulation. By the term is meant such an appro- priation (by the reader) of the writer's mind, and manner of expression, as shall enable him (the reader) to make clear the substance of a chapter or a book, and the particular form to which that substance consents. Now, the Bible, independent of its spiritual significance, is incomparably rich in more than one literary department, and great in all others but in drama. Idylls, lyrics, allegories, odes, are kinds of poetry that abound in scripture : pi'ophecy claims a place to itself as the most exalted form conceivable, and, standing aloof from all other literatures, is the special possession of the Hebrews. In prose, the Bible is remarkable for epic, history, philosophy, biography, and written and spoken addresses. The prose we may pass by here. Two or three kinds of the poetry we must take into account. 5. Of all versions of the Bible extant, the Revised is the one from which the most correct literary effects may be gained. In this version, the old obstacles — the arbitrary divisions of 36 Cleg^s Elocutionist. books into chapters, and chapters into verses — have been removed, and the general trend of tlie writer has been safe- guarded. Further, the Revisers have brought out clearly the poetical features of innumerable passages in various parts of the Bible ; and in their manipulation of the Psalms, they have done a work of literary justice and lasting value. It is now possible for readers to see and to show the organic unity of books and passages, and to perceive metrical beauties and formal unities, to which even discerning students were before oblivious. Tliis is the idea of higher Unity that requires students to read books as wholes, and at one effort. The true literary effect, for instance, of Ruth, Job, Malachi, Habakkuk, Joel, cannot be caught unless the whole book be read, and read as a continuous composition. Sometimes two Psalms (such as 42 and 43) are one constitution, and should be read toijether as one poem ; by this means the Unity, broken by separation into two parts, is restored. The only forms of Unity that we can single out in these pages are some of those to be met with in the Psalms. (For full treatment of this subject students should read the Com- jyanioyi to Cambridge Bible.) There are notable Unities which are distinguished as : — 1. Unity shoivn in the groivth of a single idea. Ex. Psalra 29. Here a thunderstorm is depicted rising from the Mediter- ranean, passing over the forest of Lebanon to the wilderness of Kadesh, and there subsiding. The Sun shines out once more, and " In His temple everything saith Glory." "The voice of the Lord " is the refrain. Now the vocal part would be to trace the development of the main idea in one succession of tones, and the refrain in a deeper and grander quality of voice. This would truly inter- pret the form and spirit of the Psalm, and give all listeners the requisite key to the structure. 2. Dramatic TJnity consists in sudden change from one con- dition of mind to another— from despair to hope, from defeat to victory ; or the reverse order : Psalms 57 and 89 are good illustrations of these opposites. "Whilst Psalm 27 is a different instance of Dramatic Unity — verses 7 to 12 are really the lan- guage of the mood of depression from which the speaker has been rescued, and for which he is now giving praise to God. Ciegg's Elocutionist 37 In the case of the first two examples /uentioned, the voice would change where the change of spirit begins, and thus reveal the pattern of Unity. "With the 27th Psalm the delivery would correspond in joy- fulness to the end of the 6th verse, and continue this key from the 13th to the end. But the Dramatic Centre-piece (from verse 7 to 12) would be spoken in sadder intonation, to mark it oti" as the language of the state from which the Psalmist has been delivered. 3. Unity of Parallel. — Of this class there are numberless examples in the Psalms, but the 19th is the one generally selected for illustration. It is the one which inspired Addi- son's hymn "The Spacious Firmament," «kc. The physical and the moral law come in for equal adoration from the Psalmist, who sees a profound witness in each to the existence and goodness of the Creator. As the parallels do not shade into one another, but join abruptly, the reader must choose two degrees of pitch — say the hi^dier one for the first declaration of the Psalm, " The heavens declare the glory of God," and the lower pitch for the second, beginning " The law of the Lord is perfect." Care must be taken to make the Unity felt by the listener, — to read it as though it were two distinct poems would be an un- pardonable blunder. The Unities of Succession, Historic Narrative, and the several more formal Unities, would demand more space for their discussion than the present allows. Of the voice, in relation to these Unities, two general statements may be made. First, that as the changes are more sudden and considerable in Hebrew poetry than in any other, the voice has a new and special task. Second, pitch and inflection trace the shape of the poem : intonation follows, and reveals the spirit. But, whether in prose or poetry, the reader, by imaginative vision, should see the whole of the composition, he wishes to read, from beginning to end. By this means he is able to give, as he proceeds, the right value and complexion to every detail in its true relation to the whole work. In this place, on the ground of fitness and high merit, no lines perhaps will be more welcome than those on — ^8 Clegg's Elocutionist. "THE POETRY OF THE BIBLE." By George GilfiUan. " That so much of Scripture should be written in the language of poetry- has excited some surprise, and created some inquiry ; and yet in nothing do we perceive more clearly than in this, the genuineness, power, and divinity of the oracles of our faith. As the language of poetry is that into which all earnest natures are insensibly betrayed, so it is the only speech which has in it the power of permanent impression. The language of the imagination is the native language of man. It is the language of his excited intellect, — of his aroused passions, — of his devotion, — of all the higher moods and temperaments of his mind. It was meet, therefore, that it should be the language of his revelation from God. '' The language of poetry is thus the language of the inspired volume. The Bible is a mass of beautiful figures ;— its words and its thoughts are alike poetical ; — it has gathered around its central truths all natural beauty and interest ;— it is a Temple with one altar and one God, but illuminated by a thousand varied lights, and studded with a thousand ornaments. It has substantially but one declaration to make, but it utters that in the voices of the creation. It has pressed into its service the animals of the forest, the flowers of the field, the stars of heaven, all the elements of nature. The lion spurning the sands of the desert, the wild roe leaping over the mountains, the lamb led in silence to the slaughter, the goat speeding to the wilderness ; the rose blossoming in Sharon, the lily drooping in the valley, the apple-tree bowing under its fruit ; the great rock shadowing a weary land, the river gladdening the dry place ; the moon and the morning star ; Carmel by the sea, and Tabor among the mountains ; the dew from the womb of the morning, the rain upon the mown grass, the rainbow encompassing the landscape ; the light, God's shadow ; the thunder. His voice ; the wind and the earthquake, His foot- steps :— all such varied objects are made— as if naturally so designed from their creation — to represent Him to whom the Book and all its emblems point. Thus the quick spirit of the Book has ransacked creation to lay its treasures on Jehovah's altar ; united the innumerable rays of a far- streaming glory on the little hill. Calvary ;— and woven a garland for the bleeding brow of Immanuel, the flowers of which have been culled from the gardens of a universe." III.— ELOCUTIOX APPLIED TO PUBLIC SPEABJNG. General Practical Consideratio's. 1. Public speaking" is a term we associate with the utter- ance of our own thoughts and feelings, as distinguished from Reading and Recitation, which usually imply the expression of more strictly artistic compositions of other minds in verse and prose. Here the end in view is either persuasion or instruction, and often both together may be intended in the same effort. Cleg^s Elocutionist. 39 Oratorical speeches, designed to rouse, belong to a different category from that occupied by lectures addressed to the understanding ; while those speeches or addresses that first appeal to the intelligence, and then seek to carry conviction by an excitement of the sympathies, should be placed in both classes, unless they may be properly reserved for a third class. By providing a third class it will be possible to put all minis- trations of whatsoever kind into one or other of the three. We should then say addresses — used in the widest meaning — are either simple or mixed, and speak to (a) the understanding, (b) the feelings, or (c) to understanding and feelings. As examples of the first description, take any series of lectures on mechanical science ; of the second, Chatham's (and John Bright's) orations are often good specimens ; and innumerable illustrations may be found in pulpit eloquence. Edmund Burke and Lord Macaulay supply numerous examples of the third kind, as indeed have done most of the first-rank political leaders from time to time. In judging of the true difierence of tone between the first two classes, let the speeches of Brutus and Antony, in Shakspere's "Julius Ctesar," be kept in mind as the very best illustrations of the nature and effect of tiie two modes to be found in either actual or imaginary utterance. 2. It would not be within the province of these pages to discuss the wide subject of rhetoric, even if the ability were at command. All that can be done is to point out what vocal economics must prevail ; and then add a few reasonings, conceived for the beginner chiefly, as to the kind of discipline that will be good for him to undergo. First, as to the needs common to public speech of every species. A good clear voice, well under control, and possessing both variety and power : this must be striven after. Then the pronunciation should be precise, but not pedantic. The lan- guage ought to be appropriate to the theme, and the sentences crammaticallv constructed : whilst the mass of matter should be informed by evident unity or proportion, that the whole may be easily grasped and remembered. But among the details that speakers have to consider is one of great importance, affecting so much their own comfort and that of their audience, and yet a detail that has received little comment. I refer to the room or building in which speaking may have to be carried on. Many men know, to their cost, 40 Clcgg's Elocictionist. what it means to speak week by week in a church, or in a hall, that defies their efforts to be agreeably heard. Only now and then do we find really large structures that lend themselves faultlessly to the speaking voice. (I am now, of course, assum- ing that the Elocution is all that it should be). But there are two things, in particular, that speakers might look to with ad- vantage. First, the general design of the room in relation to the position of the speaker — whether a long, narrow, or a short, stumpy room ; or, again, an irregularly-shaped room. Is the ceiling unusually high, or unusually low- — little or much wood about the room % The actual size of the place ; the numljer of occupants. All these and many other details, trifling as they seem in their relation to speaking, are capable of affecting a speaker physically to an extent he alone experiences. In most cases a long, narrow room will require a slightly higher pitch and more intense tone than a short, broad room needs. Short rooms enable you to turn from left to right, and so spread the voice gently over the occupied area ; long rooms compel the voice to be on a greater stretch for the con- venience of auditors at the most distant point. 3. My main argument for all speakers is this : The cavity (as it may be called) in which we speak (be the shape what it will) must be regarded simply as carrying on tlte work of the mouth — that is to say, a resonator or larger mouth, magnifying and modi- fying at once the tones produced by the vocal chords. Puzzling it will be, no doubt, at first, but we must all strive to use the room in which we articulate vocal tone as we use the mouth. That will lead to this difference of method, that, whereas before we had viewed the room or hall as an enemy, an inevitable resistance, for the voice to either overcome by sheer power and endurance, or surrender to, despite all vocal tactics, we now consider the cavity or room as a friend, acting as a larger resonator in the service of the mouth, accumulating and dis- tributing the sound created by the voice. But knowledge of the powers and limits of this friend is the one thing that will bring relief and effectiveness to our own mechanism. Let the guiding principle be — seek nothing from the physical sources of the voice that is securable from the resounding arrangement outside ourselves. Here naturally follows this important question : How can the mouth situate itself to turn the larger reverberator to best Cleggs Elocutionist. 41 account % By attention to two or three simple points, in addi- tion to humouring the voice with nicety to the encompassing walls. (1.) The mouth should be well opened, and kept in the best line of resonation. (2.) Bending the head down, or turning it from side to side, so as to narrow the passage of the throat, must always be avoided. (3.) Leaning against any fixture, or speaking behind a local obstruction — such as book, desk, or stand — is injurious to free, easy speech. So much for this confined and hasty view of certain economics of Delivery. 4. Now we are to discuss, in a superficial way, four prac- tices that men who aspire to some distinction in public speaking may not do ill to follow. This advice is for the inexperienced. Three features are present in most successful speeches or lectures. There is a suitable and varied vocabu- lary ; a skilful and exact arrangement of this vocabulary into sentences and sections; and there is an orderly and propor- tioned setting forth of thought, giving the effect of wholeness. First : As a foundation training for the speaker, nothing can excel wide reading, whether for language, ideas, or construc- tion. Poetry should not be excluded from this education, but have a prominent share — especially such masters as Shak- spere, Tennyson, Browning, and Lowell. Second: It is im- possible to over-rate the value of experimental exercise in literary composition. The influence of regular, careful com- position (on various themes) over the mind that has often to express itself in public speech, is almost decisive. It begets precision and constructive power, and quickens that larger sense of order that enables a man to rapidly resolve his ideas of a subject into natural groups, and this sometimes in the very course of speaking. The use of such preparation for impromptu speaking is not open to question : the ojjerations of analysis and synthesis so cultivated in written compositions, give the mind just that alacrity and method that mark off the ready, intelligent speaker, from the faulty, incoherent speaker. De- pend upon it you will speak very largely as you write, or at anyrate you may do — write, therefore, with care and vigour. Third: Study Elocution in connection with literature. A 42 ^ Clegg's Elocutionist. modulated voice, poised so as to move roundly and sweetly ; numberless vocal effects the outgrowth of the study of the extent and depth of life reflected in literature ; — these are only two of the blessings conferred on the speaker by the habit of reading aloud works of literary merit. Fourth : Take ad- vantage of all the offers for practice in speaking you can. Theory alone will take you but one step on the way ; practice, ceaseless experiment, is indispensable to the gaining of that self-possession which enables you to trust yourself, and to use your full stock of powers without confusion. Few men, with indifferent experience, reach eminence in any line of activity, but in the field of oratory, practice is a peculiarly royal-road to perfection. First-rate works on rhetoric do not deserve to be despised by the really ambitious student : and speakers of reputed eloquence or trenchancy, whether in the Pulpit, Par- liament, or at the Bar, will always be of avail if the admirer will not degrade himself into being a mere mimetic slave. IV.— GESTURE. 1. Most people in ordinary, as well as extraordinary, dialogue, use some gesture, and, whether they are aware or not, change the expression of their face. Among the many families of gesture used by men and women are (1) those that localise objects, or indicative gestures- (2) those that describe shape and action, or imitative gestures; (3) movements that act as the alphabet of the emotions, or exjyressive gestures. The countenance, too, is a fairly true commentary on the inner condition of mind. Notice, when anyone is telling a thrilling story, how the face and hands evince the changing spirit. The animating prin- ciple moves all the means of expression at its command. Dialogue, also, will bring into play a whole set of gesticulations and facial expressions, without which the spoken words would often fail to convey the due sense. Gesture anticipates and takes the place of words, from time to time, in most dialogue. Robert Browning, in numbers of his poems that represent Dialogue, and in his dramatic monologues, faithfully depicts this elliptical language, and leaves the reader to supply, by his power of vivid realization, whatever movement or facial change may be natural in the circumstances. Well, now, how does this discussion help us to give a place to gesture 1 This question may be answered, in the first place. Cleggs Elocutionist. 43 by our remembering that literature is a representation, no less than an interpretation, of life in some form or other, and, in greater or less degree, will carry the assent of countenance and accentuation of gesture with it. In the delivery of literature, and in the speaking of our own minds equally, the impulse and the need for sympathy of ges- ture and countenance will be present. 2. Fixing the attention on gesture for the moment, let us decide what sort of expression is meant technically by this term. Nine persons of every ten use profuse gestures that commonly lack both point and grace ; or the movements are not more than rudimentary jerks of the elbows or fingers. Other people habitually employ violent gesture, out of all keep- ing with the value of their talk ; and not a few people deliver themselves so tamely that there is nothing inconsistent in their motionless attitude. Awkward, angular, and distracting gestures of many other kinds are chai-acteristic expressions of Englishmen in almost all ranks of society. Only those who have been specially educated to come before the public in one or other of the artistic functions, show freedom from the jrrosser and clumsier actions of the arms. For one person who learns graceful and appropriate action of the arms, a thousand will train their feet for dancing. There is an abstract conception of gesture no less than of dancing as an art. The abstract idea of gesture confines the movements of the arms and hands within certain bonds of graceful curves ; as moving figures restricted to given bonds of rhythm would theoretically explain dancing. It will now be seen how applicable this more artistic manner of gesture is to literature. Literature itself, poetry essentially, is the artistic interpreta- tion of life by means of language. And just as the poet's view of life is exceptional, so is the language he uses, and the arrangement he gives it, conformable to the laws of Art. The gesture, correspondingly, that is suited to accompany the delivery of purified and metrical expression, is not the spas- jnodic or spontaneous impulse of the instant, but the gesture which has been brought into obedience to the laws of Art — that is to say. Nature at her best. 3. Before mentioning the elementary laws that must be in- corporated by all who come before the public to commend their 44 Clegg's Elocutionist. subject on artistic lines, let it be said that public speakers and lecturers, quite as much as interpreters of literary works, need to turn the arms to their service if they would prevent them being a distraction, not to say a constant embarrassment. A little care in the early days of practice will habituate speakers to an easy, graceful, and most helpful use of gesture : allowed to slip our attention during the years of self-discipline, nothing can disturb the serenity of a sensitive man, during speaking, like the lawless action of his arms. The following are four of the elementary laws upon which graceful action rests : — (1.) The arms should move first from the shoulders, not the elbows. (2.) The hands contain all expression, and are informed last. (3.) The fingers should be so combined as to contribute that help that the mind requires. (4.) On return to a position of repose, the elbows to be turned outward and the wrists turned in. The principle of curves to prevail in all gesticulation (other than that which is intentionally imitative of the vulgar or peculiar in actual life) in opposition to that of angles. 4. Facial exjri'ession should so accord with the sentiment uttered by the voice as to confer the value of emphasis upon speech. Voice, look, and gesture are an union ; their united purpose is to manifest the speaker's mind, or the mind that he lias for the time being appropriated. V NATURALNESS. Many authorities have just one injunction for beginners in any department of Art, and that is, " Be Natural ! " It is a state very easily enjoined ; less easily acquired. But what is meant by this " Naturalness," so nauch in request, in Elocu- tion 1 Opinions difler somewhat. By those who take a sternly practical standing, natural reading or recitation is always in the colloquial vein, and is best when it is nearest to the " talking " manner. Their assumption seems to be, that the art of deli- very consists in wrestling with lofty ideas and fine phrases, overcoming them, and making them run in the loose, easy fashion of conversation. Such judgments consider all other styles of delivery affected. An opposite class, who approach the subject intensely, but Cleg^s Elocutionist. 45 partially, regard Naturalness of Elocution, especially so far as it afi'ects poetry, as comprising a full vocal ritual ; and to them, affectation would only begin with the so-called "Naturalness" of the other class. Here, then, is a wide divergence of view. Palpably, these are extreme views. It would never do to read all types of poetry and prose in either one style or the other. Each style would suit some poems, but, doubtless, a far greater number of compositions would require neither manner. The principle of bringing a stereotyped style of treatment to all literature, regardless of the different degrees of spirit and beauty embraced, is vicious in the extreme. Our manner of exposition — relating to both sense and feeHng — must conform to the literary matter ; not the matter be made to tit a cast-iron manner. By this provision — surely an artistic one — every poem or other literary effort woukl find its proper place in the scale of our emotions, and receive a true articulation in the voice of the emotions. Satire and humour in verse would deserve a style far re- moved from that of pathos or of sublimity. " The Well of St. Keyne," and "Our Village," for instance, proceed from a playful mood that has nothing in common with the pathos of Burns' lyrics, or with the sublimities of Milton. Literature may be said to register all states of mind, from low to lofty, and for every state of mind the voice has a peculiarly appro- priate intonation. The range of feeling and the vocal range are co-extensive and co-intensive. Is i-t not, then, wrong to apply any but the truly consistent voice to each state of mind embodied in separate literary works ? Fully elaborated, this artistically-natural method would entail many and delicate discriminations. For, as it could be shown that no two literary efforts cover exactly the same ground, so, accordingly, no two vocal duties should be quite identical. For example, there is a certain solemnity about Longfellow's " Sandalphon," that is not wholly dissimilar to the tone of Lowell's " Above and Below ; " nevertheless, there is a distinc- tion of degree, if not of kind, and this distinction would be realized and sounded by a reader of insight and sensitiveness. It is in accuracy and subtlety that Art serves a student so well. Light touches and fine strokes are the acquirements of the Artist — not to be had for the mere asking. Grace and inspiration need to go hand in hand : neither can dispense with the other. 46 Clegg's Elocutionist. But I have two difficulties, says the scrupulous student, which are not yet simplified. First, how freely shall the minor elements of a poem be expressed : second, what method of treatment may properly be adopted for writings (poetry or prose), that apparently are framed on other than the auto- biographic basis. In both matters, much rests with the indi- vidual, educated taste. But with regard to the 1st point : Most elocutionists of educated taste would keep vividly in view the one thing commemorated in each composition, and would emphasize the various details according to their value in relation to the main theme. Take, for example, the poem entitled, "Barbara Frietchie." Here the prime point is the splendid loyalty of a ninety-years'-old woman. Not a man in Fi-ederick-Town dare declare his loyalty to the Union in the face of the incoming Rebel army, to whose leader this heroine boldly speaks : "Shoot, if you must, this old grey head, but spare your country's flag." The patriotic act occupies the centre of the poem : all that leads up to it, and that follows it, is subordinate. Of the details leading up to the chief topic, no doubt the one for most emphasis is the unmanly action of the townsmen in timidly concealing the National Flag ; of the particulars that follow Barbara Frietchie's act, the most sig- nificant is the sympathy and honour that the " loyal winds " and " sunset light " show in such noble human conduct. Short expressions and dialogues by characters introduced into narrative poems should not have the same dramatic distinctive- ness and vigour that would be proper to speakers in a drama. In serious Epic or Narrative, speeches are only recorded by the Narrator. The composition must not be stayed to admit of full play of the dramatic manner. All parts must harmonize with the governing theme and intent of the author. The habit of pouncing upon tine phrases as prey for exaggerated expres- sion, without reference to their place in the whole work, is unpardonable in anyone but tlie mountebank. We come now to the second topic — the ditiferent -persons to which pieces may be referred. This is a knotty point, and the source of quite irreconcilable differences of opinion. The solu- tion of the problem may be helped by the following view. All matter — prose or poetry — spoken directly in the person of the writer, may be appropriated and delivered as our own, the writer and the reader being for the time identical. Almost Clegg's Elocutionist. 47 all Lyrical matter, and much Narrative (and all forms of Oratory) would occupy this class. But sometunes an author chooses a plan of I'epresentation by which he briefly introduces a chai-acter, and tlien gives the story over to this invented personage, the author himself wind- ing the work up with some moral or comment. Longfellow's " Tales of the Wayside Inn " illustrate this class. As a rule, it is necessary to maintain, appreciably, the rela- tion of tlie second person to the tirst : that is to say, you can- not, in the character of the deputed speaker, give yourself the freedom of expression you could if the personage were drama- tically independent. The utterances of such a chai-acter are always modified by its relation to the master character in whose service the subordinate acts. A third class may be formed of all compositions in which the author sinks himself, and instead of speaking about a character, he creates a character that is self-explanatory. Here, then, is a form of the pure dramatic mode. Such poems as Tennyson's "May Queen," "Northern Cobbler," many of Browning's poems, and all prose sketches in the homely ver- nacular, come into this category. An adoption of the par- ticular shade of character presented is here needful ; — the limits and growth of the imitation to be settled by the poem itself. Lastly, in the treatment of dramatic scenes (from Shakspere) by one person, the characters must be clearly distinguished, and yet shaded off into one another and organ- ised, just as the speeches themselves are. A highly defined vocalisation of the diflerent speakers gives the ludicrous etiect of a ventriloquial entertainment. [By way of parenthesis, allow me to add that, among the more general but important concerns of the public reader or reciter of literature, is the question of his audience, with particular regard to what may be styled breadth of effects to be used. In the case of an illiterate audience, it would be desirable often to indulge a very pronounced manner ; humour as well as pathos would have to be demonstrated more or less fully. An educated audience would be offended by just this kind of thing. You would count on a ready response in the matter of sympathy and intelligence in everything provided. Humour, too, would be caught and fully enjoyed without the exaggera- tion that might be proper with the opposite class of audience. 48 Cleggs Elocutionist. This point, then, of the particular quality of our hearers, may- be no small determining factor.] From this argument we may see that to be " Natural " is to be ourselves — augmented. The scale and varied demand of our task considered, the "Natural," undeveloped, inexperienced self, will mostly be " Naturally " insufficient. It is only by steady, liberal train- ing that we become adequate for the immense undertaking of appreciating and revealing the wealth of a literature, by means of human tones. Naturalness in the sense of vulgarity, insipidity, noisiness, or faultiness of articulation, is not a thing to encourage — nor, indeed, is this kind of naturalness in the minds of those who advocate this quality in the true sense. What we all really mean by naturalness — though our own terms are often mis- leading — is that naturalness that results from Art : Art which is artistic enoucrh to conceal itself. TI. EIjOCUTIOJ^ART " READINGS." (analyses.) A few simple suggestions on the delivery of certain typical pieces will possibly both interest and help the beginner. Three of the items are in verse and two in prose. The brief treatment of each is intended only to indicate in a general way the line of analysis or " reading " that may be followed by the student, and does not even claim to be the only " reading." Poems: 1, "Portia's Plea for Mercy." 2, " The Singing Leaves." 3, "The Amen Corner." Prose items: 1, "A Tale of Terror." 2, "Ill-bred Hos- pitality." 1. " Portia's Plea for Mercy " (i^ge 57). The elements of this speech are — 1. The true expression of mercy is spontaneous, not forced. 2. Its becoming character in those who occupy positions of power. 3. As a human virtue, its superiority to power; more — 4. It is a chief attribute of the Creator. Therefore — 5. Man is more Godlike in the exercise of Mercy than ia power ; especially when he tempers justice with mercy. Cleggs Eloaitionist. 49 The central important point of the speech is that 6. On the gi'ound of unmixed justice, none are entitled to claim Salvation. 7. This life stands in relation to an after-life, and as God deals mercifully with His creatures, and not in the manner of their deserts, they should at least act in God's way towards one another. Justice and mercy are set over against each other : Shylock the advocate of the one, and Portia of the other. 2. " The Singing Leaves " (page Idi). In Part I. of this narrative we get a clear idea of the spirit of all the characters introduced. The Kins' is severe and proud, but not devoid of tenderness, as we see in his respect for his dead Queen, whose likeness seems to re-appear in the features of his youngest daughter. The look this beautiful girl gives her father at his savage contempt for her choice, acts as a powerful reproach, and he at once relents. Pride, vanity, and humility are the three qualities severally embodied in the three daughters. Each declares her character in her choice. Part II. sees the King — who has easily secured at "Vanity Fair the presents for the two eldest daughters — in vain search for the choice of the third dauj^hter, "The Sinajino; Leaves." Neither in Vanity Pair nor in the Greenwood, but in the realm of the human heart, is to be found the three-fold mes- sage supplied by the King's Page. Part III. makes no refer- ence to the eldest daughters, but tells how she, " in whose blithesome hair dim shone the golden crown," realises to the full her desire — "they speak to my very heart, and it speaks to them evermore." The Page declares that thoufjh his love- songs are his only wealth in the world of tangible tilings, yet in the region of fancy, melody, and imagination, his lute and he are Lords. The play on the number " three " is a curious interest in this ballad formed on a Mediaeval model. 3. " The Amen Corner " (page 248 j. This piece is by an American writer, and as it has an American flavour in both spirit and expression, it would be well to give it with a distinct touch of American intonation and inflexion. D 50 Clegofs Elocictionist. It is scarcely needful to say that the first portion of the poem should be treated in a bloodless, matter-of-fact strain. In the interview there comes the serene simplicity of the aged man, whose feelings should be expressed in a voice sweet and flowing ; but there ought not to be an attempt at literal imitation of a cracked and feeble voice. After the full de- scription of the old man in the poem, it is not justifiable to do more than suggest the fashion of his utterance. 4. " A Tale of Terror " (page 296^. Deliver this piece of conversational prose in as simple and unafiected a way as you can command — up to the point where the aeronaut begins to query the sanity of his companion. The climax needs to be thrillingly related, and the method of ending the story must suggest the oblivion that overtakes the balloonist at the embrace of the maniac. 5. " Ill-bred Hospitality " (j^age 325^. This is a specimen of Swift's finest sarcasm. To adopt a tone free from sarcastic bite would be as great a blunder in the rendering of this piece as an abusive attack would be. The tone suited is not utterly free from bitterness, but in the main is unforced. Demureness, sarcasm, irony, have their place in this sketch, and the interpreter must not fail to exhibit in tone the finest distinctions. A very ordinary range of voice will be sufiicient, as passion plays no part whatever. It is a pure piece of intellect. Having dealt with the Art of Elocution, the next thin^ is to provide such literary compositions as will form suitable exercises for mind and voice. The poems which follow will be found representative of almost every style and spirit to be met with in modern poetry. The prose selections — serious, humorous, and eloquent — pro- vide good material for practice. Whilst all the pieces have been chosen for some intrinsic merit, and for their use to the student, tliere are very few, if any, altogether unfit for the popular purpose of public enter- tainment. The classification of poetry and prose illustrates the plan laid down in the section that discusses Literature. Clegg's Elocutionist. 51 PART II.— CHOICE SELECTIONS OF PROSE AND POETRY. DRAMATIC LITERATURE. Othello. Act. I., Scene III. — A Council Chamber. Duke. Write from us : wish him post-post-haste : despatch. \st Sen. Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor. Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Officers. Duke. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you Against the general enemy Ottoman. — I did not see you ; welcome, gentle signior ; \To Brabantio. We lack'd your counsel and your help to-night. Bra. So did I yours : Good your grace, pardon me ; Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed ; nor doth the general care Take hold on me ; for my particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature, That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself. Duke. Why, what's the matter ? Bra. My daughter ! O, my daughter ! Sen. Dead 1 Bra. Ay, to me. She is abus'd, stol'n from me, and corrupted By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks. For nature so preposterously to err, 52 Clegg's Elocutiotiist. Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, Sans witchcraft, could not Duke. Whoe'er he be, that, in this foul proceeding. Hath thus beguil'd your daughter of herself. And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter letter. After your own sense ; yea, though our proper son Stood in your action. Bra. Humbly I thank your grace. Here is the man, this Moor ; whom now, it seems, Your special mandate, for the state affairs Hath hither brought. Duke & Sen. We are very sorry for it. Duke. What in your own part can you say to this 1 [To Othello. Bra. Nothing, but this is so. 0th. 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. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace ; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, tliey have us'd Their dearest action in the tented held ; And httle of this great world can I speak. More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; And therefore little shall I grace ray cause, In speaking for myself : Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms. What conjuration, and what mighty magfc, (For such proceeding I am charg'd withal,) I won his daughter with. Bra. A maiden never bold ; Of spirits so still and quiet, that her motion Blush"d at herself. And she, — in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, everything, — To fall in love with what she feared to look on ? desks' s Elocutionist. 53 Sii> It is a judgment maim'd, and most imperfect, That will confess — perfection so could err Against all rules of nature, and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell, Why should this be. I therefore vouch again. That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood, Or with some dram conjur'd to this effect. He wrought upon her. Duke. To vouch this, is no proof ; Without moi'e certain and more overt test, Than these thin habits, and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming, do prefer against him. \st Sen. But, Othello, speak ; — Did you by indirect or forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid's afiections ? Or came it by request, and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth ? 0th. 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 on her report. The trust, the oiEce, 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 lago, and Attendanlj 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 lov'd me ; oft invited me ; Still question'd me the story of my life. From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes. That I have pass'd. I ran it through, even from my boyish days. To the very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances. 54 Clegg's Elocutionist. Of moving accidents, by flood and field ; Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach ; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history ; Wherein of antres vast, and desarts 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, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; Which ever as she could with haste despatch. She'd 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 sufFer'd. 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 lov'd her, I should but teach him how to tell my story. And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake ; She lov'd me for the dangers I had passed ; And I loved her, that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have us'd ; Here comes the lady, let her witness it. Clegg's Elocutionist. 55 The Merchant of Venice. Scene — Yenice. A Court of Justice. Duke. What, is Antonio here 1 Ant. Ready, so please your grace. Duke. I am sorry for thee : thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch, Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. Ant. I have heard Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify His rigorous course ; but since he stands obdiirate, And that no lawful means can carry me Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am armed To suffer, with a quietness of spirit. The very tyranny and rage of his. Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. Solan. He is ready at the door : he comes, my lord. Enter Shylock. Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. — Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too. That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act ; and then, 'tis thought, Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty : We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. Shy. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose ; And by our holy sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond : If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city's freedom. You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that ; But say it is my humour : is it answered 1 Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. 56 Clegg's Elocutionist. Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love 1 Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill 1 Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first. Shy. What ! would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice ? Ant. I pray you, think you question with the Jew : You may as well go stand upon the beach, And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; You may as well use question with the wolf. Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops, and to make no noise, When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; You may as well do anything most hard, As seek to soften that — than which what's harder 1 — His Jewish heart : therefore, I do beseech you. Make no more offers, use no further means. But with all brief and plain conveniency Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. Bass. For thy three thousand ducats, here is six. Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them ; I would have my bond. Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ? Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong 1 The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine, and I will have it. If you deny me, fie upon your law ! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment : answer, shall I have it ? Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court. Unless Bellario, a learned doctor. Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here to-day. Solan. My lord, here stays without A messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua. Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger. Enter Nerissa. Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? Clegg's Elocutionist. 57 Ner. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace. \Presenting a letter. Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ? Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he ? Ner. He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. Duke. With all my heart. — Some three or four of you, Go give him courteous conduct to this place. Enter Portia. Give me your hand : Came you from old Bellario ? For. I did, my lord. Duke. You are welcome : take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court ? For. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. For. Is your name Shylock ? Shy. Shylock is my name. For. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. — You stand within his danger, do you not '? \To Antonio. Ant. Ay, so he says. For. Do you confess the bond % Ant. I do. For. Then must the Jew be merciful. Shy. On what compulsion must 1 1 tell me that. For. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath : it is twice blcss'd ; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch 1 letter than his crown ; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 58 Clegg's Elocutionist. The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this sceptr'd 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 spoken thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; Which, if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law. The penalty and forfeit of my bond. For. Is he not able to discharge the money ? Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ; Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er. On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart ; If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority ; To do a great right do a little wrong ; And curb this cruel devil of his will. For. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established : 'Twill be recorded for a precedent ; And many an error, by the same example, Will rush into the state : it cannot be. Shy. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! O wise young judge, how do I honour thee ! For. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. For. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee. Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven : Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? No, not for Venice. Clegg-'s Elocutio7iist. 59 For. Why, this bond is forfeit ; And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut ofi' Nearest the merchant's heart. — Be merciful : Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. Shy. When it is paid according to the tenour. — It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; You know the law, your exposition Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law. Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment : — by my soul, I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me : I stay here on my bond. Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment. Pot. Why then, thus it is : You must prepare your bosom for his knife — Shy. O noble judge ! O excellent young man ! For. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty. Which here appeareth due upon the bond — Shy. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge ! How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! For. Therefore lay bare your bosom. Shy. Ay, his breast : So says the bond; — doth it not, noble judge? — " Nearest his heart : " those are the very words. For. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh % Shy. I have them ready. For. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond 1 For. It is not so expressed : but what of that % 'Twere good you do so much for charity. Shy. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. For. You, merchant, have you anything to say ? Ant. But little : I am armed and well prepared. — Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well ! Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 6o Clegg's Elocutionist. For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom : it is still her use, To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye and wrinkled bi*ow An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance Of such misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable wife : Tell her the process of Antonio's end ; Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death ; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge, Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, And he repents not that he pays your debt ; For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it presently with all my heart. Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself ; But life itself, my wife, and all the woi-ld, Are not with me esteem'd above thy life : I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you. For. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, If she were by, to hear you make the offer. Gra. I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love : I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. Ner. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back ; The wish would make else an unquiet house. Shy. \Aside?^ These be the Christian husbands ! I have a daughter ; Would any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband, rather than a Christian ! [^^owrf.] We trifle time : I pray thee, pursue sentence. For. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; The court awards it, and the law doth give it. Shy. Most rightful judge ! For. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ; The law allows it, and the court awards it. Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence ; come, prepare. For. Tarry a little ; — there is something else. — CI egg's Elocutionist. 6 1 This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; The words expressly are, a pound of flesh : Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh, But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice. Gra. O upright judge ! — Mark, Jew ; O learned judge I Shy. Is that the law % For. Thyself shall see the act ; For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st. Gra. O learned judge ! — Mark, Jew ; — a learned judge I Shy. I take this ofler then, — pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go. Bass. Here is the money. Pot. Soft; The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft ; — no haste ; — He shall have nothing but the penalty. Gra. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge. For. Therefore, prepare thee to cut ofi" the flesh. Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more Or less than a just pound, — be it but so much As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, Or the di\dsion of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple : nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair, — Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. Gra. A second Daniel! a Daniel, Jew ! Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. For. Why doth the Jew pause % take thy forfeiture. Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. Ba^ss. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. For. He hath refus'd it in the open court : He shall have merely justice, and his bond. Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel ! — I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? For. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 62 Cleo^s^s Elocutionist. i3i3 To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. Shy. Why, then the devil give him good of it ! I'll stay no longer question. For. Tarry, Jew : The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — If it be prov'd against an alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; And the offender's life lies in the mercy Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st ; For it appears, by manifest proceeding, That indirectly, and directly too, Thou hast contriv'd against the very life Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd The danger formerly by me rehears 'd. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. Gra. Beg that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; The other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive into a fine. For. Ay, for the state, ^not for Antonio. Sliy. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : You take my house, when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house : you take my life. When you do take the means whereby I live. Por. What mercy can you render him, Antonio % Gra. A halter gratis ; nothing else, for Heaven's sake. Ant. So please my lord the duke, and all the court, To quit the fine for one half of his goods ; I am content, so he will let me have electors Elocntiojtist. Nbrd Cit. Let him be Caesar. ^th Cit. Caesar's better parts Shall be crowned in Brutus. bth Cit. We'll bring him to his house With shouts and clamours. Bru. My countrymen, — Ind Cit. Peace ! silence ! Brutus speaks. \st 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 Tending to Caesar's glories ; which Mark Ajitony, By our permission, is allowed to make. Clegg's Elocutionist. - 69 I do entreat you, not a man depart, Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [Exit. 1st Cit. Stay, ho ! and let us hear Mark Antony. Zrd Cit. Let him go up into the public chair ; "We'll hear him. — Noble Antony, go up. Ant. For Brutus' sake I am beholding to you. [Goes into the pulpit. Ath Cit. "What does he say of Brutus 1 Srd Cit. He says, for Brutus' sake, He finds himself beholding to us all. 4:th Cit. 'Twere best to speak no harm of Brutus here. 1st Cit. This Csesar was a tyrant. 3rd Cit. l^ay, that's certain : "We are blest that Rome is rid of him. 2nd Cit. Peace ! let us hear what Antony can say. Ant. You gentle Romans, Citizens. Peace, ho ! let us hear him. Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears : I come to bury Cfesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them ; The good is oft interred with their bones : So let it be -with Cfesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you, Cajsar was ambitious : If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, (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 Rome, "Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? "When that the poor have cried, Csesar 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, 70 Clegg's Elocutionist. 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 ? judgment ! thou art fled to brutish beasts. And men have lost their reason. Bear with me ; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. \st Git. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. 2n(i Git. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Ciesar has had great wrong. Zrd Git. Has he, masters 1 1 fear there will a worse come in his place. \th Git. Mark'd ye his words? He would not take the crown ; Tlierefore, 'tis certain he was not ambitious. \st Git. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. Ind Git. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weeping. 3rc? Git. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. 4^7i Git. 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 dispos'd to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus ^vrong, 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 Ca3sar, 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 Csesar's wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; Cleg-gs Elocutio7iist. yi Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it \vithin their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy. Unto their issue. ith Cit. We'll hear the will : read it, Mark Antony. Citizens. The ^vill, 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 Coesar 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 ! ith Cit. Read the will ; we'll hear it, Antony ; You shall read us the will ; Csesar's will. Ant. Will you be patient ? "Will you stay a while 1 I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it : I fear I wrong the honourable men. Whose daggers have stabb'd Csesar ; I do fear it. 4:th Cit. They were traitors : honourable men ! Citizens. The will ! the testament ! 2nd Cit. They were villians, murderers : the will ! read the Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will ? [will. Then make a ring about the corse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend ? and will you give me leave ? Citizens. Come down. Ind Cit. Descend. Zrd Cit. You shall have leave. [Antony comes doicn. 4:th Cit. A ring ; stand round. 1st Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. 27id Cit. Room for Antony, most noble Antony ! Ant. Kay, press not so upon me ; stand far off. Several Cit. Stand back ; room : 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 ISTervii : — Look, in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through : 72 Clegg's Elocutionist. See what a rent the envious Casca made : Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ; And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Csesar followed it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no ; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : Judge, you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him ! This was the most unkindest cut of all ; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab. Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms. Quite vanquish'd 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 Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. O, 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, marr'd, as you see, with traitors. \st Cit. O piteous spectacle ! 2nd Cit. O noble Caesar ! ?>rd Cit. woful day ! Aith Cit. O traitors, villains ! \st Cit. most bloody sight ! 2nd Cit. We will be revenged. All. Revenge ! About ! Seek ! Bum ! Fire ! Kill ! Slay ! Let not a traitor Hve ! Ant. Stay, countrymen. \st Cit. Peace there ! hear the noble Antony. 2nd 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. Clegg's Elocutionist. 73 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 : 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 Caesar's woTinds, 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 Csesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. Cit. We'll mutiny. Is^ Cit. We'll burn the house of Brutus. ?>rd Cit. Away then, come, seek the conspirators. Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me speak. Cit. Peace, ho ! Hear Antony, most noble Antony. Ant. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what : Wherein hath Csesar thus deserved your loves ? Alas ! you know not ; — I must tell you then : — You have forgot the will I told you of. Cit. Most true ; the will : — let's stay and hear the will. Ant. Here is the wiU, and under Caesar's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives. To every several man, seventy-five drachmas, Ind Cit. Most noble Caesar ! — we'll revenge his death. Zrd Cit. O royal Caesar ! Ant. Hear me with patience. Cit. 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 ? \st Cit. Never, never : — Come ; away, away ; We'll burn his body in the holy place, 74 Clegg's Elocutio7iist And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take up the body. Ind Cit. Go, fetch fire. 3rc? Cit. Pluck down benches. Ath Git. 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. Julius Caesar. Act IV., Scene III. — Near Sardis. Brutus's Tent. Enter Brutus and Cassius. Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in this : You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; Wherein my letters, praying on his side. Because I knew the man, were slighted ofi". Bru. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Cas. 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 offices for gold To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm 1 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. Remember March, the ides of March remember : Did not great Julius bleed for justice sake 1 What villain touch'd his body, that did stab. And not for justice 1 What ! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Clesrsr's Elocutionist. 7S 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 Roman. 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. Bru. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. Cas. I am. £ru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself ; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther. £ru. Away, slight man ! Cas. Is't possible ? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler 1 Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? Cas. O ye gods, ye gods ! must I endure all this ? Bru. All this ! aye, more : fret till your proud heart break ', Go show your slaves how choleric you are. And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge 1 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 abler men. Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me Brutus j I said an elder soldier, not a better : Did I say "better?" Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Csesar liv'd, he durst not thus have mov'd me. 7^ Clegg's Elocutionist. Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. Cos. I durst not ! Bru. No. Cos. What, durst not tempt him ? Bru. For your life you durst not. Cos. 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 arm'd 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 "S"ile means : By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, Aiid 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 to pay my legions. Which you denied me : was that done like Cassius ? Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so 1 When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ! — Dash him to pieces ! Cos. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cos. 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. Cos. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cos. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cos. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, c€«ne, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is Br weary of the world ; — Clegg's Elocutionist. 77 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. Oh, 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 Roman, take it forth ; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : Strike, as thou didst at Caesar ; for, I know. When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. Bru. Sheath your dagger : Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; Do what you will, dishonour shall be honour. Cassius, you are yokfed with a lamb That carries anger as the ilint bears fire ; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him 1 Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too. Cas. Do you confess so much 1 Give me your hand- Bru. And my heart too. Cas. O Brutus, — Bru. What's the matter ? Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful ? Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 78 Clegg's Elocutionist. Macbeth. Act III., Scene I. — Forres. A Room in the Palace. Enter Banquo. Ban. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promis'd ; and I fear. Thou play'dst most foully for 't : yet it was said, It should not stand in thy posterity ; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them, (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine,) Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope ? But, hush, no more. Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth, as King; Lady Maccktu, as Queen ; Lenox, Rosse, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants. Macb. Here's our chief guest. Lady M. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast. And all-thing unbecoming. Mach. To-night we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I'll request your presence. Ban. Let your highness Command upon me : to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit. Macb. Ride you this afternoon ? Ban. Ay, my good lord. Macb. We should have else desir'd your good advice (Which still hath been both grave and prosperous) In this day's council ; but we'U take to-morrow. Is 't far you ride ? Ban. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this and supper : go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night For a dark hour, or twain. Macb. Fail not our feast. Ban. My lord, I will not. Clegg's Elocutionist. 79 Mach. We hear, our bloody cousins are bestow'd In England, and in Ireland ; not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention : but of that to-morrow ; When, therewithal, we shall have cause of state. Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse : adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you ? Ban. Ay, my good lord : our time does call upon us. Mach. I wish your horses swift, and sure of foot, And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell. — \^Exit Banquo. Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night : to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper-time alone : while then, God be with you ! [^Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, Ladie.t, ttc. Sirrah, a word with you : attend those men Our pleasure? Atten. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. Macb. Bring them before us. — [Exit Attendant To be thus is nothing ; But to be safely thus : — our fears in Banquo Stick deep ; and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear'd : 'tis much he dares ; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind. He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear : and, under him. My Genius is rebuk'd ; as, it is said, Mark Antony's was by Csesar. He chid the sisters, When first tiaey put the name of king upon me. And bade them speak to him ; then, prophet-like, They hail'd him father to a line of kings : Upon my head they plac'd a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe. Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If 't be so. For Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind ; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder'd ; ^° Clegg's Elocutionist. Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them ; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings ! Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to the utterance ! — Who's there % Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers. Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. \_Exit Attendant. Was it not yesterday we spoke together % \st Mur. It was, so please your highness. Macb. Well then, now Have you consider'd of my speeches 1 Know, That it was he, in the times past, which held you So under fortune ; which, you thought, had been Our innocent self : this I made good to you In our last conference ; pass'd in probation with you, How you were borne in hand ; how cross'd ; the instruments j Who wrought with them ; and all things else, that might. To half a soul, and to a notion craz'd, Say, Thus did Banquo. \st Mur. You made it known to us. Mach. I did so ; and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature. That you can let this go ? Are you so gospell'd, To pray^for this good man, and for his issue. Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave, And beggar'd yours for ever 1 \st Mur. We are men, my liege. Mach. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men ; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves, are cleped All by the name of dogs : the valued file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hiinter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos'd ; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill Cleggs Elocutionist 8 1 That writes them all alike : and so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, Not in the worst rank of manhood, say 't ; And I will put that business in your bosoms Whose execution takes your enemy off ; Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wears our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect. Ind Mur. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incens'd, that I am reckless what I do, to spite the world. \st Mur. ■ And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune. That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it, or be rid on 't. Macb. Both of you Know, Banquo was your enemy. 2nd Mur. True, my lord. Macb. So is he mine ; and in such bloody distance, That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near'st of life : And though I could With bare-fac'd power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine. Whose loves T may not drop, but wail his fall Whom I myself struck down : and thence it is That I to your assistance do make love ; Masking the business from the common eye. For sundry weighty reasons. 2nd Mur. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us. 1st Mur. Though our lives- Macb. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour, at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves. Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time. The moment on 't ; for 't must be done to-night. And something from the palace ; always thought That I require a clearness : And with him, p 82 Clegg's Elocutionist. (To leave no rubs, nor botches, in the work,) Fleance his son that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father's, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart ; I '11 come to you anon. 2nd Mur. We are resolv'd, my lord. Mach. I '11 call upon you straight ; abide within. It is concluded : — Banquo, thy soul's flight, If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. [^Exeunt. King Henry the Fourth. Act II., Scene IV. Prince H. Welcome, 3^ck : where hast thou been 1 Falstaff. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too ! Marry, and amen ! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether 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 ? Prince H. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter 1 pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun ! If thou didst, then behold that compound. Falstaff. 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 man- hood, 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. A bad world I say ! — I would I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms, or any thing. A plague of all cowards, I say still. Prince H. How now, woolsack ! what mutter you ? Falstaff. A king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects before me like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my fac& more. You Prince of Wales ! Prince II. Why, what's the matter ? Falstaff. Are you not a coward ? Answer me to that. Clesr^'s Elocutionist. 83 Prince H. "Why, ye fat paunch, an' ye call me coward, I'll stab thee. Falstaff. I call thee coward ! I'll see thee hanged ere I call thee coward ; but I would give a thousand pounds 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 1 A plague upon such backing ! Give me them that will face me. Give me — a cup of sack ; — I'm a rogue if I have drunk to-day. Prince H. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drank'st last. Falstaff. All's one for that. A plague of all^ cowards, still say I. Prince II. What's the matter 1 Falstaff. What's the matter ! There be four of us have ta'en a thousand pounds this morning. Prince II. Where is it. Jack 1 Where is it 1 Falstaff. Where is it ! Taken from us it Ls : a hundred upon four of us. Prince II. "\Miat ! a hundred, man 1 Falstaff. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them, two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; my sword hacked like a hand-saw, ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man ! AU would not do. A plague of all cowards ! Prince II. Speak, Jack ; how was it ? Falstaff. Four of us set upon some dozen, and bound them — every man of them ; and as we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us, and unbound the rest ; and then ■came in the others. Prince U. What ! fought ye with them all ? Falstaff. 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 am I no two-legged creature. Prince H. I pray, you have not murdered some of them ? Falstaff. Nay, that's past praying for ! I have peppered two of them ;— two, I am sure I have paid — two rogues in buckram suits. I teU thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit 84 Cleg^'s Elocutionist. in rny face — call me horse. Thou know'st my old ward : — here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me Prince II. "What ! four 1 Thou said'st but two, even now. Falstaff. Pour, Hal; I told thee, four. These four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. Prince H. Seven 1 Why, there were but four, even now. Falstaff. In buckram 1 Prince H. Ay, four in buckram suits. Falstaff. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? Prince H. Ay, and mark thee too. ^ Falstaff. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of Prince H. So, two more already ! (aside.) Falstaff. Their points being broken, they began to give me ground ; but I followed them close ; came in, foot and hand ; and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid. Prince 11. O monstrous ! eleven buckram men groA\Ti out of two ! Falstaff. But, as bad luck would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal Green, came at my back, and let drive at me ; for, it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. Prince H. These lies are like the father that begets them — gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why thou clay-brained and knotty-pated fool, thou obscene, greasy tallow-keech Falstaff. What ! art thou mad ? art thou mad ? Is not the truth the truth 1 Prince H. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal-green when "it was so dark, thou couldst not see thy hand " % Come, tell us your reason. What sayst thou to this ? Come, your reason. Jack, your reason. Falstaff. What ! upon compulsion 1 No ! were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you upon compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion ! If reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason on compulsion, I ! Prince II. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin. Thou san-- Cleggs Eloaxtionist. 85 guine coward, thou bed-presser, thou horse-back-breaker, thou huge hill of flesh Falstaff. Away ! you starveling— you eel-skin — you dried neat's tongue— you stock-fish ! — O, for breath to utter what is like thee ! — you tailor's yard — you sheath — you bow-case — you vile standing tuck Prince H. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again : and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this : Poins and I saw you four set on four ; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. — Mark now, how plain a 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 mountain sides 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 find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame 1 Falstaff. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, 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 Hercules : but beware in- stinct ; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life ; myself for a valiant lion, and thee for a true prince. But I am glad you have the money. — Clap to the doors : — watch to-night, pray to-morrow. AVhat, shall we be merry 1 shall we have a play extempore ? Prince II. Content ; — and' the argument shall be, thy running away. Falstaff. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an' thou lovest me ! Henry VIII. Act III., Scene II. Enter to Wolsey, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and tJie Lord Chamberlain. Kor. Hear the King's pleasure, cardinal ; who commands To render up the great seal presently [y*^'^ ■86 Cleo-o-'s Elocutiojiist. ^>^> Into our hands ; and to confine yourself To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester's, Till you hear further from his highness. Wol. Stay : Where's your commission, lords ? words cannot carry Authority so weighty Suf. Who dare cross 'em. Bearing the king's will from his mouth expressly ? Wol. Till I find more than will or words to du it, (I mean your malice), know, officious lords, I dare and must deny it. Now I feel Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, — envy : IIow eagerly ye follow my disgraces. As if it fed ye ! and how sleek and wanton Ye Jippear in everything may bring my ruin ! Follow your envious courses, men of malice ; You have Christian warrant for them, and, no doubt, In time will find their fit rewards. That seal You ask with such a violence, the king (Mine and your master) with his own hand gave me ; Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, During my life ; and to confirm his goodness, Tied it by letters-patent : — now, who'll take it? Sur. The king, that gave it, \Vol. It must be himself, then. Sur. Thou art a proud traitor, priest. Wol. Proud lord, thou liest : Within these forty hours Surrey durst better Have burnt that tongue than said so. Sur. Thy ambition. Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land C)f noble Buckingham, my father-in-law : Tl»e heads of all thy brother cardinals (With thee and all thy best parts bound together) Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy ! You sent me deputy for Ireland ; I'^ar from his succour, from the king, from all That might have mercy on the fault thou gav'st him ; Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, Absolved him with an axe. Cleg^s Elocutionist. 87 Wol. This, and all else This talking lord can lay upon my credit, I answer is most false. The duke by law Found his deserts : how innocent I was From any private malice in his end. His noble jury and foul cause can witness. If I lov'd many words, lord, I should tell you, Ymi have as little honesty as honour ; That, in the way of loyalty and truth Toward the king, my ever royal master, Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be. And all that love his follies. Sur. By my soul, Your long coat, priest, protects you ; thou should'st feel My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. — My lords, Can ye endure to hear this arrogance % And from this fellow ? If we live thus tamely. To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet. Farewell nobility ; let his grace go forward. And dare us with his cap, like larks. Wol. All goodness Is poison to thy stomach. Sur. Yes, that goodness Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one, Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion ; The goodness of your intercepted packets You writ to the pops against the king : your goodness. Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. — My lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble. As you respect the common good, the state Of our despis'd nobility, our issues. Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen, — Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles Collected from his life : — Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, But that I am bound in charity against it ! Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the king's hands ; But, thus much, they are foul ones. Wol. So much fairer And spotless shall mine innocence arise. 88 Cleo-o-'s Elocutionist, &,i> When the king knows my truth. Sur. This cannot save you : I thank my memory I yet remember Some of these articles ; and out they shall. Now, if you can blush and cry guilty, cardinal, You'll show a little honesty. Wol. Speak on, Sir ; I dare your worst objections : if I blush. It is to see a nobleman want manners. Sur. I'd rather want those, than my head. Have at you. Pirst, that, without the king's assent or knowledge. You wrought to be a legate ; by which power You maimed the jurisdiction of all bishops. Nor. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else To foreign princes. Ego et Rex meus "Was still inscrib'd ; in which you brought the king To be your servant. Suf. Then, that, without the knowledge Either of king or council, when you went Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold To carry into Flanders the great seal. Sur. Item, you sent a large commission To Gregory de Cassado to conclude, Without the king's will, or the state's allowance, A league between his highness and Ferrara. SuJ'. That, out of mere ambition, you have caus'd Your holy hat to be stamp'd on the king's coin. Sitr. Then, that you have sent innumerable substance, (By what means got, I leave to your own conscience,) To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways ■ You have for dignities ; to the mere undoing Of all the kingdom. Many more there are ; Which, since they are of you, and odious, I will not taint my mouth with. Cham. O my lord. Press not a falling man too far ; 'tis virtue : His faults lie open to the laws ; let them. Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self. Sur, I forgive him. Cleg^s Elocutionist. 89 Suf. Lord cardinal, the king's further pleasure is, Because all those things you have done of late, By your power legatine, within this kingdom, Fall into the compass of a prcemunire, — That therefore such a writ be sued against you ; To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements. Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be Out of the king's protection : — this is my charge. If^or. And so we'll leave you to your meditations How to live better. For your stubborn answer About the giving back the great seal to us, ■^^ The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you. So fare-you-well, my little good lord cardinal. [Bxeu7it all except Wolsey. Wol. So, farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms. And bears his blushing honours thick upon him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root. And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary land old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours : There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin. More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. — Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed. Why, how now, Cromwell ? Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 90 Cleggs Elocutionist. Wol. What, amazM At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit Avonder A great man should decline ' Nay, an you weep, I am fallen indeed. Crom. How does your grace 1 Wol. Why, well ; Kever so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now ; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me, I humblv thank his grace ; and from these shoulders. These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy, too much honour : O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it. Wol. I hope I have : I am able now methinks, (Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) To endure more miseries, and greater far. Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad ? Crom. The heaviest and the worst. Is your displeasure with the king. Wol. God bless him 1 Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord chancellor in your place. Wol. That's somewhat sudden : But he's a learned man. May he continue Long in his highness' favour, and do justice For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings, jSIay have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on them. What more ? Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury. Wol. That's news indeed ! Crom. Last, that the lady Anne, Whom the king hath in secrecy long married. This day was view'd in open, as his queen, Clegg's Elocutionist. 9 1 Going to chapel ; and the voice is now Only about her coronation. Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. Crom- The king has gone beyond me : all my glories [well, In that one woman I have lost for ever : No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ; I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master : seek the king ; (That sun, I pray, may never set !) I have told him What, and how true thou art : he will advance thee ; Some little memory of me will stir him, (I know his noble nature,) not to let Thy hopeful service perish too : good Cromwell, Keglect him not ; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety. Crom. O my lord, INIust I, then, leave you ? must I needs forego So good, so noble and so true a master ?— Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, "With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his loid. — The king shall have my service ; but my prayers For ever and for ever shall be yours. Wol. Cromwell, I did not tLink to shed a tear In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, — Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour. Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then. The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 92 Clegg's Elocutionist. Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, C), Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king ; And, — prithee, lead me in : There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell ! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. Crom. Good sir, have patience. Wol. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court ; my hopes in heaven do dwell. [^Exeunt. As you like it. Act III., Scene II. — The Forest. Ros. \^Aside to Celt A.] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him. \To Aim.] Do you hear, forester 1 Orl. Very well : what would you ? Ros. I pray you, what is't o'clock ? Orl. You should ask me what time o' day : there's no clock in the forest. Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest ! else sierhinj; every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a clock. Orl. And why not the swift foot of time 1 had not that been as proper ? Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons : I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. Orl. I pr'y thee, who doth he trot withal 1 Clegg's Elocntiotiist. 93 Ros. jNIarry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized : if the interim be but a se'nnight, Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years. Orl. Who ambles Time withal ? Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout ; for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study ; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain : the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning ; the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury : these Time ambles withal. Orl. Who doth he gallop withal ? Ros. With a thief to the gallows ; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there. Orl. Who stays it still withal ? Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves. Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth ? Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like a fringe upon a petticoat. Orl. Are you a native of this place % Ros. As the coney, that you see dwell where she is kindled. Oi-l. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling. Ros. I have been told so by many : but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man ; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it ; and I thank God, I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences, as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal. Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women 1 Ros. There were none principal : they were all like one another, as half-pence are ; every one fault seeming monstrous, till his fellow-fault came to match it. Orl. I pr'ythee, recount some of them. Ros. No, I will not cast away my physic, but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving " Rosalind " on their barks ; hangs 94 Clegg-'s Elocutionist, odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles ; all, foi-sooth, deifying the name of " Rosalind " : if I could meet that fancy- monger, I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him. Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked : I pray you, tell me your remedy. Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you : he t;mght me how to know a man in love ; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner. Orl. What were his marks ? Ros. A lean cheek ; which you have not ; a blue eye, and sunken ; which you have nob ; an unquestionable spirit ; which you have not ; a beard neglected ; which you have not ; — but I pardon you for that ; for, simply, your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue : — then, your hose should be un- garter'd, your bonnet unhanded, your "sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a care- less desolation. But you are no such man ; you are rather point-de\dce in your accoutrements, as loving yourself, than seeming the lover of any other. Orl. Fair youth, I Avould I could make thee believe I love. Ros. Me believe it ! you may as soon make her that you love believe it ; which, I warrant, she is apter to do, than to confess she does : that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired ? Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak ? Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. Ros. Love is merely a madness ; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dai'k house and a whip, as madmen do : and the reason why they are not so punished and cured, is, that the lunacy is SO' ordinary, that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. ■ Orl. Did you ever cure any so ? Ros. Yes, one \ and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress ; and I set him every day to woo me : at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be C/egg's Elocutionist. 95 effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking ; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles : for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle of this colour : would now like him, now loathe him ; then entertain him, then forswear him ; now weep for him, then spit at him ; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness ; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him ; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't. Orl. I would not be cured, youth. Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cot, and woo me. Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will : tell me where it is. Ros. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you : and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go? Orl. With all my heart, good youth. Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. \Exeunt. Hamlet. Act III., Scene I. Ham. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus ; but use all gently : for in the very torrent, tempest, (and as I may say), whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a tem- perance that may give it smoothness. O ! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious pei'iwig-pated fellow, tear a pas- sion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the ground- lings ; 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 : j)ray you avoid it. 9^ Cleg^s Elocutionist. \st Play. 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 anythincj so overdone is from the pur- pose 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 over- done, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, can- not but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of which one, must, in your allowance, o'er-weigh a whole theatre of others. O ! 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 and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, and nob made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. \st Play. I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us. Ilam. O ! reform it altogether. And let those that play your clown, speak no more than is set down for them : for there be of them that will themselves 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 pitiable am- bition in the fool that uses it. [ExiL Hamlet. Act II., Scene II. Enter Hamlet, reading. Pol. How does my good lord Hamlet ? Ham. Well, heav'n-'a-mercy. Pol. Do you know me, my lord ? Ham. Excellent well ; you are a fishmonger. Pol. Not I, my lord. Ham. Then, I would you were so honest a man. Clegg's Eloaitioiiist. gy Pol. Honest, my lord ? Ham. Ay, sir : to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. Pol. That's very true, my lord. Ram. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god kissing carrion, — Have you a daughter 1 Pol. I have, my lord. Ham. Let her not walk i' the sun : friend, look to't. Pol. [Aside] How say you by that ? Still harping on my daughter : — yet he knew me not at first ; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone : and truly in my youth I sufiered much extremity for love ; very near this. I'll speak to him again. "What do you read, my lord ? Ham. Words, words, words. Pol. What is the matter, my lord ? Ham. Between whom 1 Pol. I mean the matter that you read, my lord. Ham. Slanders, sir : for the satirical rogue says here, that old men have grey beards ; that their faces are wrinkled ; their eyes purging thick amber, and plum-tree gum ; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams : all of which, sir, (though I most powerfully and potently believe,) yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down ; for you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab, you could go backward. Pol. Though this be madness, yet there is method in't. [J.sic?e.] Will you walk out of the air, my lord ? Ham. Into my grave. Pol. Indeed, that is out o' the air. How pregnant sometimes his replies are ! a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be deKvered of. I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting, between him and my daughter. My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you. Ham,. You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal ; except my life, except my life, except my life. Pol. Fare you well, my lord. [Exit. Ham,. These tedious old fouls ! Q 9S Clegg's ElocHtiofiist. Pol. [Without] You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is. Eos. Heav'n save you, sir ! Enter RosEycRAXTZ and Guildexstern. Guil. Mine honored lord ! Ros. My most dear lord ! Ham. My excellent good friends ! How dost thou, Guilden- stern 1 All, Rosencrantz ! Good lads, how do ye both ? "What news ? Bos. Kone, my lord, but that the world's grown honest. Ham. Then is dooms-day near ; but your news is not true. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore 1 Ros. To %-isit you, my lord ; no other occasion. Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks ; but I thank you : "Were you not sent for 1 Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly with me : come, come — nay, speak. Guil. "What should we say, my lord ? Ham. Why, any thing, but to the purpose. You were sent for ; and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour : I know the good king and queen have sent for you. Ros. To what end, my lord ? Ham. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent or no ? Ros. [^sifZe e> K. Rich. I do remember me, — Henry the Sixth Did prophesy that Richmond should be king, When Richmond was a Kttle peevish boy. A king ! — perhaps Buck. My lord ! K. Rich. How chance the prophet could not at that time Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him ? Buck. My lord, your promise for the earldom — K. Rich. Richmond ! When last I was at Exeter, The mayor in courtesy shew'd me the castle, And call'd it Rouge-mont : at which name I started. Because a bard of Ireland told me once I should not live loner after I saw Richmond. Buck. My lord I K. Rich. Ay, what's o'clock 1 Buck. I am thus bold to put your grace in mind Of what you promis'd me. K. Rich. Well, but what's o'clock ? Buck. Upon the stroke of ten. K. Rich. Well, let it strike. Buck. Why let it strike 1 K. Rich. Because that, like a Jack, thou keep'st the stroke Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. I am not in the giving vein to-day. Buck. Why, then resolve me whether you will or no. K. Rich. Thou troublest me ; I am not in the vein. Exeunt King Richard and train. Buck. And is it thus ? repays he my deep service With such contempt ? made I him king for this ? O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on ! ^Exit. The Merchant of Venice. Act I., Scene III. — A public place in Venice. Shy. Three thousand ducats, — well. Bass. Ay, sir, for three mouths. Clegg's Elocutionist. 103 Shy. For three months, — well. Bass. Por the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. Shy. Antonio shall become bound, — well. Bass. May you stead me ? Will you pleasure me % Shall I know your answer ? Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio bound. Bass. Your answer to that. Shy. Antonio is a good man ? Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary ? Shy. Ho, no, no, no, no ; — my meaning, in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me, that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition : he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies ; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England ; and other ventures he hath, squander'd abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men : there be land- rats, and water- rats, land-thieves, and water-thieves, — I inean, pirates ; and then, there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient ; — three thousand ducats : — I think I may take his bond. Bass. Be assured you may. Shy. I will be assured I may ; and, that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio ? Bass. If it please you to dine with us. Shy. Yes, to smell pork ; I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following ; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto ? — Who is he comes here ? Enter Antonio. Bass. This is signior Antonio. Shy. \Aside^ How like a fawning publican he looks ! I hate him for he is a Christian : But more, for that, in low simplicity, He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, T will feed fat the ancient ^rud^e I bear him. He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, Even there where merchants most do concrrefjate, 104 Ci egg's Elocutionist. On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe. If I forgive him ! Bass. Shylock, do you hear % Shy. I am debating of my present store ; And, by the near guess of my memory, I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. TVhat of that ? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, Will furnish me. But soft ! How many months Do you desire 1 Rest you fair, good signior ; [To AyTONio. Your worship was the last man in our mouths. Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow, By taking, nor by giving of excess. Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, ['11 break a custom. — Is he yet possess'd, How much you would ? Shy. Aj, ay, three thousand ducats. Alii. And for three months. Shy. I had forgot, — three months, you told me so. Well then, your bond ; and, let me see, but hear you ; Methought, you said, you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage. Ant. I do never use it. Shy. Three thousand ducats, — 'tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve, — then, let me see, the rate — Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you ? Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft, In the Rialto, you have rated me About my moneys, and my usances : Still have I borne it with a patient shrug ; For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe ; You call me — misbeliever, cut-throat dog. And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears, you need my help ; Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say, Shylock, we would have moneys. You say so ; You, that did void your rheum upon my beard. Clegg's Elocutionist. 105 And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. What should I say to you ? Should I not say, Hath a dog money ? Is it jjossible A cur can lend three thousand ducats ? Or Sliall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, With bated breath, and whispering humbleness. Say this, — Fair si?', 9/021 spit on me on Wednesday last ; You spurned me such a day ; another time You calVd me — dog ; and /or these courtesies ni lend you thus m,uch moneys. Ant. I am as like to call thee so again, To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends ; (for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend ?) But lend it rather to thine enemy ; Who, if he break, thou may'st with better face Exact the penalty. Slnj. Why, look you, how you storm ! I would be friends with you, and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with. Supply your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me : This is kind I offer. Ant. This were kindness. Shy. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport. If you repay me not on such a day, In such a place, such sum, or sums, as are Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me. Ant. Content, in faitli ; I'll seal to such a bond. And say there is much kindness in the Jew. Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me : I'll rather dwell in my necessity. io6 Cles'si's Elocutionist, 'i>i> Ant. Why, fear not, man : I will not forfeit it : "Within these two months, that's a month before This bond expires, I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond. Sliy. O father Abraham, what these Christians are. Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others ! — Pray you tell me this ; If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture ? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man. Is not so estimable, profitable neither. As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say. To buy his favour, I extend this friendship : If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; And, for my love, I pray you, wrong me not. Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's ; Give him direction for this merry bond ; And I will go and pui-se the ducats straight. See to my house (left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave), and presently I will be with you. \Exit Siiylock. Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. This Hebrew will turn Christian : he grows kind. Bass. I like not fair terms, and a villain's mind. Ant. Come on : in this there can be no dismay ; My ships come home a month before the day. \Exeunt. King Henry IV. (Part I.) Act II., Scene IV. — Tavern, Eastcheap. Characters present, Prince Henry, Poins, and others. Enter Falstaff. Fal. Hal, there 's villanous news abroad : here was Sir John Bracy from your father: you must to the court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the north, Percy, and he of Wales — what a plague call you him ? C/eggs Elocutionist. 107 Poins. O ! Glendower. Fal. Owen, Owen ; the same ; and his son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland ; and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs o' horseback up a hill perpendicular. Prince. He that rides at high speed, and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying. Fal. You have hit it. Well, he is there too, and one Mor- dake, and a thousand blue-caps more. Worcester is stolen away to-night ; thy father's beard is turned white with the news. Hal, art thou not horrible afeard 1 thou being heir apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower ? Art thou not horribly afraid ? doth not thy blood thrill at it ? Prince. Not a whit, i' faith ; I lack some of thy instinct. Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to thy father : if thou love me, practise an answer. Prince. Do thou stand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life. Fal. Shall I ? content : this chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown. Prince. Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown ! Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack to make mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept. Prince. Well, here is my knee. Fal. And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied : for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted the sooner it wears. Why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at 1 Shall the son of England prove a thief and take purses 1 a question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch : this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile ; so doth the company thou keepest ; for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink but in tears, not in pleasure but in passion, not in words only, but in woes also. 108 Clegg's Elocutionist. And yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name. Prince. What manner of man, an it like your majesty ? Fal. A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent ; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage ; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r lady, inclining to three- score ; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff : if that man should be falsely given, he deceiveth me ; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, tell me, where hast thou been this month 1 Prince. Dost thou speak like a king 1 Do thou stand for me, and I'll play my father. Fal. Depose me ? if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestic- ally, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a poulter's hare. Prince. Well, here I am set. Fal. And here I stand. Judge, my masters. Prince. Now, Harry ! whence come you ? Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap. Prince. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous. Fal. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false. Prince. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace : there is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man ; a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good but to taste sack and drink it 1 wherein neat and cleanly but to carve a capon and eat it 1 wherein cunning but in craft 1 wherein crafty but in villany ? wherein villanous but in all things 1 wherein worthy but in nothing 1 Fal. I would your grace would take me with you : whom means your grace ? Prince. That villanous abominable misleader of youth, Fal- staff, that old white-bearded Satan. Fal. My lord, the man I know. Prince. I know thou dost. Fal. But to say I know more harm in him than in myself were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more the Clegg's Elocutionist. 1 09 pity, his white hairs do witness it : but that he is, saving your reverence, iniquitous, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked ! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned : if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord ; banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins ; but for sweet Jack FalstafF, kind Jack FalstafF, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstafij banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company : banish plump Jack, and banish all the world. Prince. I do, I will. King Richard II. Act v.. Scene II. Enter York and his Duchess. Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off Of our two cousins coming into London. York. Where did I leave 1 Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands, from windows' tops, Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed. Which his aspiring rider seemed to know. With slow but stately pace kept on his course. While all tongues cried — God save thee, Bolingbroke ! You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage ; and that all the walls With painted imagery had said at once, — Jesu preserve thee ! welcome, Bolingbroke ! Whilst he, from one side to the other turning, Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck, no Clef'o-'s Elocutionist. i> K. John. Eaou^h. I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee ; Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee : Remember. King Henry V. AoT II., Scene II. — Southampton. A council-chamber. Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmoreland. Bed. 'Fore God, his grace is bold, to trust these traitors. Exe. They shall be apprehended by and by. West. How smooth and even they do bear themselves ! As if allegiance in their bosoms sat. Crowned with faith and constant loyalty. Bed. The king hath note of all that they intend. By interception which they dream not of. Exe. Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow. Whom he hath dulled and cloyed with gracious favours, That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell His sovereign's life to death and treachery ! Enter King Henry, Cambridge, Scroop, Grey, and Attendants. K. Hen. Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard. My Lord of Cambridge, my kind Lord of Mashara, And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts : Think you not that the powers we bear with us Will cut their passage through the force of France, Doing the execution and the act For which we have in head assembled them 1 Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best. K. Hen. I doubt not that ; since we are well persuaded We carry not a heart with us from hence That grows not in a fair concent with ours, Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish Success and conquest to attend on us. Cam. Never was monarch better feared and loved Cleg^s Elocutionist. 1 1 3 Than is your majesty : there's not, I think, a subject That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness Under the sweet shade of your government. Grey. True : Those that were your father's enemies Have steeped their galls in honey, and do serve you "With hearts create of duty and of zeal. K. Hen. We therefore have great cause of thankfulness ; And shall forget the oifice of our hand. Sooner than quittance of desert and merit According to their weight and worthiness. Scroop. So service shall with steeled sinews toil, And labour shall refresh itself with hope. To do your grace incessant services. K. Hen. We judge no less. — Uncle of Exeter, Enlarge the man committed yesterday, That railed against our person : we consider It was excess of wine that set him on ; And on his more advice we pardon him. Scroop. That's mercy, but too much security : Let him be punished, sovereign, lest example Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind. K. Hen. O, let us yet be merciful. Cam. So may your highness, and yet punish too. Grey. Sir, You show great mercy, if you give him life After the taste of much correction. K. Hen. Alas, your too much love and care of me Are heavy orisons 'gainst this poor wretch ! If little faults, proceeding on distemper. Shall not be winked at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chewed, swallowed, and digested, Appear before us 1 We'll yet enlarge that man. Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their dear care And tender preservation of our person, Would have him punished. — And now to our Fi-ench causes Who are the late commissioners ? Cam. I one, my lord : Your highness bade me ask for it to-day. Scroop. So did you me, my liege. Grey. And me, my royal sovereign. H 114 Ciegg's Elocutionist. K. Hen. Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is yours ; There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham ; and, sir knight, Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours : Read them ; and know, I know your worthiness. — My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter, We will aboard to-night. — Why, how now, gentlemen ? What see you in those papers that you lose So much complexion 1 — Look ye, how they change ! Their cheeks are paper. — Why, what read you there, That hath so cowarded and chased your blood Out of appearance ? Cam. I do confess my fault ; And do submit me to your highness' mercy. CI f To which we all appeal. ticroop. j ^^ K. Hen. The mercy that was quick in us but late. By your own counsel is suppressed and killed : You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy ; For your own reasons turn into your bosoms, As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. — See you, my princes and my noble peers. These English monsters ! My Lord of Cambridge here, — You know how apt our love was to accord To furnish him with all appertinents Belonging to his honour ; and this man Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspired And sworn unto the practices of France, To kill us here in Hampton : to the which This knight, no less for bounty bound to us Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, 0, What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop ? thou cruel, Ingrateful, savage and inhuman creature ! Tliou that didst bear the key of all my counsels. That knew'st the very bottom of my soul, That almost mightst have coined me into gold, Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use, — INIay it be possible, that foreign hire Could out of thee extract one spark of evil That might annoy my finger 1 'tis so strange, That, though the truth of it stands off as gross Cleg^s Elocutionist. 1 15 As black from white, my eye will scarcely see it. Treason and murder ever kept together, As two yoke-devils, sworn to either's purpose. Working so grossly in a natural cause That admiration did not whoop at them : But thou, 'gainst all proportion, didst bring in Wonder to wait on treason and on murder : And whatsoever cunning fiend it was That wrought upon thee so preposterously, Hath got the voice in hell for excellence : All other devils that suggest by treasons Do botch and bungle up damnation With patches, colours, and with forms being fetched I'rom glistering semblances of piety ; But he that tempered thee, bade thee stand up. Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor. If that same demon that has gulled thee thus Should with his lion gait walk the whole world, He might return to vasty Tartar back. And tell the legions ' I can never win A soul so easy as that Englishman's.' O, how hast thou with jealousy infected The sweetness of aifiance ! Show men dutiful 1 Why, so didst thou : seem they grave and learned ? Why, so didst thou : come they of noble family ? Why, so didst thou : seem they religious % Why, so didst thou : or are they spare in diet, Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger ; Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood ; Garnished and decked in modest complement ; Not working with the eye without the ear, And but in purged judgment trusting neither ? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem : And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot. To mark the full-fraught man and best indued With some suspicion. I will weep for thee ; For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like Another fall of man. — Their faults are open : Arrest them to the answer of the law : — ii6 Cle^s^s Elocutionist. And God acquit them of their practices ! Exe. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Richard Earl of Cambi'idge. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Henry Lord Scroop of Mashara. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland. Scroojy. Our purposes God justly hath discovered ; And I repent my fault more than my death ; Which I beseech your highness to forgive. Although my body pay the price of it. Cam. For me, — the gold of France did not seduce : Although I did admit it as a motive The sooner to effect what I intended : But God be thanked for prevention ; Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice, Beseeching God and you to pardon me. Grey. Never did faithful subject more rejoice At the discovery of most dangerous treason Than I do at this hour joy o'er myself. Prevented from a damned enterprise ; My fault, but not my body, pardon, sovereign. K. Hen. God quit you in his mercy ! Hear your sentence. You have conspired against our royal person, Joined with an enemy proclaimed, from 's coffers Received the golden earnest of our death ; Wherein you would have sold your king to slaughter, His princes and his peers to servitude, His subjects to oppression and contempt, And his whole kingdom into desolation. Touching our person, seek we no revenge ; But we our kingdom's safety must so tender. Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws We do deliver you. Get you, therefore, hence, Poor miserable wretches, to your death : To taste whereof, God of his mercy give You patience to endure, and true repentance Of all your dear offences ! Bear them hence. Cleggs Elocutionist. 117 Much Ado About Nothing. Act III., Scene III. — A Street. Enter Dogberry and Verges, tvith the Watch. Dogh. Are you good men and true 1 Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Dogh. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch. Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry. Dogh. First, who think you the most desartiess man to be constable 1 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal ; for they can write and read. Dogh. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name : to be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. 2 Watclo. Both which, master constable, — Dogh. You have : I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it ; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch ; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge : — you shall comprehend all vagrom men ; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name. 2 Watch. How, if a' will not stand ? Dogh. Why, then take no note of him, but let him go ; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects. Dogh. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects. — You shall also make no noise in the streets ; for, for the watch to babble and talk is most tolerable and not to be endured. 2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk ; we know what belongs to a watch. II 8 Cleg^'s Elocutionist. Dogb. Why you speak like an ancient and most quiet watch- man ; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend : only, have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 2 Watch. How, if they will not ? Dogh. Why, then let them alone till they are sober ; if they make you not then the better answer, you may say, they are QOt the men you took them for. 2 Watch. Well, sir. Dogh. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man ; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him ? Dogh. Truly, by your office you may ; but, I think, they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of your company. Yerg. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dogh. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him. Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse, and bid her still it. 2 Watcli. How, if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us 1 Dogh. Why, then depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying ; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats. Yerg. 'T is very true. Dogh. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, are to present the prince's own person ; if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. Yerg. Nay, by 'r lady, that, I think, a' cannot. Dogb. Five shillings to one on't, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him : marry, not without the prince be willing ; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. Yerg. By 'r lady, I think it be so. Dogh. Ha, ah-ha ? Well, masters, good night : an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me. Keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbour. Clegg's Elocutionist. 119 2 Watch. "Well, masters, we hear our charge : let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. Bogb. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato's door ; for the wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu, be vigitant, I beseech you. As You Like It. Act II., Scene V. &c. — The Forest of Arden. Enter DuKE senior, Amiens, and Lords. Duhe. I think he be transformed into a beast. For I can no where find him like a man. \st Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence ; Here Avas he merry, hearing of a song. Diike. If he, compact of jars, grow musical. We shall have shortly discord in the spheres : — Go, seek him ; tell him I would speak with him. \st Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach. Enter Jaques. Duhe. 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 basked him in the sun, And railed 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 may we see," quoth he, " how the world wags : 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine ; And after one hour more, 'twill be eleven ; 120 Cleg^s Elocutionist. And so, from hour to hour, we ripe, and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, 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. — Oh, noble fool ! A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. {All retire to the table) Enter Orlando with his sword drawn. Orlan. Forbear, and eat no more ! Jaques. Why, I have eat none yet. Orlan. Nor shalt not, till necessity be served. Jaques. Of what kind should this cock come of 1 Duke, {coming forward) Art thou thus boldened, man, by thy distress ? Or else a rude despiser of good manners, That in civility thou seem'st so empty ? Orlan. You touched 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. Di(,ke. What would you have ? Your gentleness shall force, More than your force move us to gentleness. Orlan. I almost die for food, and let me have it. Duke. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. Orlan. Speak you so gently 1 Pardon me, I pray yuu ; 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 looked on better days : If ever been where bells have knolled to church ; If ever sat at any good man's feast ; Clegg's Elocutionist. 121 If ever from your eye-lids wip'd 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 ray sword. Duke. True is it, that we have seen better days, Aud have with holy bell been knolled to church ; And sat at good men's feasts ; and wip'd our eyes Of drops that sacred pity had engendered : And therefore sit you down in gentleness. And take upon command what help we have, That to your wanting may be minister'd. Orlan. 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 suffic'd — Oppressed 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. Orlan. I thank ye ; and be blessed for your good comfort ! Exit Orlando. The Lords advance. Duke. Thou see'st, we are not all alone unhappy : This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in. Jaques. All the world's a stage, 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 ; Then, the whining school-boy, 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' eye-brow : Then, a soldier ; Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard. Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel. .122 Cleggs Elocutionist. Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth : And then, the justice ; In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd, 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 sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank : and his big manly voice, Turning again towards 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 everything. Re-enter Orlando with Adam. Duke. Welcome : set down your venerable burden. And let him feed. Orlan. I thank you most for him. Adam, {sitting) So had you need ; I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. Duke. Welcome, fall to : I will not trouble you, As yet, to question you about your fortunes : — Give us some music ; and, good cousin, sing. Song. — Amiens. Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seeu, Although thy breath be rude. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Tliough thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Duke, [comes forward) If that you were the good Sir Row- land's son — Cle^r^'s Elocutionist. \2% "isO) As you have whispered faithfully, you were ; And as mine eye doth his eiEgies witness, Most truly limn'd, and living in your face — Be truly welcome hither ; I am the Duke, That loved your father : the residue of your fortune. Go to my cave and tell me. — Good old man, Thou art right welcome, as thy master is : — Support him by the arm. — Give me your hand. And let me all your fortunes understand. The Tempest. Act IV., Scene I. Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda. Pros. If I have too austerely punish'd you, Your compensation makes amends, for I Have given you here a thrid of mine own life. Or that for which I live ; who once again I tender to thy hand : all thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test ; here, afore Heaven, I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off. For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise And make it halt behind her. Per. I do believe it Against an oracle. Pros. Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition Worthily purchased, take my daughter What, Ariel ! my industrious servant, Ariel ! Enter ^Ariel. Ari. What would my potent master ? here I am. Pros. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service Did worthily perform ; and I must use you In such another trick. Go bring the rabble. O'er whom I give thee power, here to this place : 124 Cleg^s Elocutionist. Incite them to quick motion ; for I must Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple Some vanity of mine art : it is my promise, And they expect it from me. Ari. Presently % Pros. Ay, with a twink. Ari. Before you can say ' come' and 'go,' And breathe twice and cry ' so, so,' Each one, tripping on his toe. Will be here with mop and mow. Do you love me, master ? no 1 Pros. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach Till thou dost hear me call. Ari. Well, I conceive. \_Exit. Pros. Look thou be true ; do not give dalliance Too much the rein : the strongest oaths are straw To the fire i' the blood. Fer. I warrant you, sir. Pros. Well. Now come, my Ariel ! bring a corollary. Rather than want a spirit : appear, and pertly ! No tongue ! all eyes ! be silent. [Soft music. Enter Iris. Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease ; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, A nd flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep ; Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy hest betrims. To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy broom-groves. Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipt vineyard ; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky hard. Where thou thyself dost air ; — the queen o' the sky, Whose watery arch and messenger am I, Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace, Here on this grass-plot, in this very place. To come and sport : her peacocks fly amain : Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. C/ep-ir's Elocutionist. 125 Enter Ceres. Cer. Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers. And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown My bosky acres and my unshrubb'd down, Rich scarf to my proud earth ; why hath thy queea Summoned me hither, to this short-grass'd green ? Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate ; And some donation freely to estate On the blest lovers. Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow, If Venus or her son, as thou dost know, Do now attend the queen ? Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company I have forsworn. Iris. Of her society Be not afraid : I met her deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son Dove-drawn with her. Cer. Highest queen of state, Great Juno, comes ; I know her by her gait. Enter Juno. Juno. How does my bounteous sister % Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be And honour'd in their issue. \They sing : Juno. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you ! Juno sings her blessings on you. Cer. Earth's increase, foison plenty, Barns and garners never empty. Vines with clustering bunches growing, Plants with goodly burthen bowing ; Spring come to you at the farthest In the very end of harvest ! Scarcity and want shall shun you ; Ceres' blessing so is on you. 126 Clegg's Elocutionist.^ Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and Harmonious charmingly. 3Iay I be bold To think these spirits ? Pros. Spirits, which by mine art I have from their conjS.nes call'd to enact My present fancies. Fer. Let me live here ever ; So rare a wonder'd father and a wise Makes this place Paradise. [Juxo and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment.^ Pros. Sweet, now, silence ! Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ; Thei'e's something else to do : hush, and be mute. Or else our spell is marr'd. l7-is. You nymphs, called Naiads, of the windring brooks, With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks, Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land Answer your summons ; Juno does command : Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate A contract of true love ; be not too late. Enter certain Nymplis. You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary. Come hither from the furrow and be merry : Make holiday ; your rye-straw hats put on. And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing. Enter certain reapers, properly habited : they join tvith the Xymphs in a graceful dance ; towards the end whereoj Prospero starts suddenly, and sp)eaks ; after ichicli, to a strange, holloio, and confused noise, they heavily vanish. Pros. [Asidel I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates Against my life : the minute of their plot Is almost come. [To the Spirits.] AVell done ! avoid j no more 1 Fer. This is strange : your father's in some passion That works him strongly. Jlir. Never till this day Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd. Pros. You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort, Cleg^s Elocutionist, 127 As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air : And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces. The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff -As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd ; Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled ; Be not disturb'd with my infirmity : If you be pleas'd, retire into my cell And there repose : a turn or two I'll walk, To still my beating mind. Fer. Mir. We wish your peace. King Lear. Act I., Scene I. — A Room of State in King Lear's Palace. Enter Kent and Gloster. Kent. I thought, the king had more affected the Duke of Albany, than Cornwall. Glo. It did always seem so to us : but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most ; for equalities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice of either's moiety. — The king is coming. Enter one hearing a Coronet, then Lear, then the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall, next Goneril, Regan, Cor- delia, with followers. Lear. Attend the Lords of France and Burgundy, Gloster. Glo. I shall, my liege. [Exeunt Gloster. J 28 Clegg's Elocutionist. Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know, that we have divided In three our kingdom ; and 't is our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburthened crawl toward death. — Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, "We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answered. Tell me, my daughters, — Since now we will divest us both of rule. Interest of territory, cares of state, — "Which of you, shall we say, doth love us most % That we our largest bounty may extend "Where nature doth with merit challenge it. Goneril, our eldest-born, speak first. Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter. Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty. Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare, No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour ; As much as child e'er loved, or father found : A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable, Beyond all manner of so much, I love you. Cor. \_Aside?[ "What shall Cordelia do ? Love, and be silent. Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, "With shadowy forests and with champains riched, "With plenteous rivers, and wide-skirted meads, "We make thee lady : to thine and Albany's issue Be this perpetual. — "What says our second daughter % Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall ? Speak. Reg. I am made of that self metal as my sister. And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love, Only she comes too short ; tliat I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys "Which the most precious square of sense possesses. Clc^sfs Elocutionist. 129 And find, I am alone felicitate In your dear highness' love. Cor. \Aside.'\ Then, poor Cordelia ! And yet not so ; since, I am sure, my love 's JNIore richer than my tongue. Lear. To thee and thine, hereditarv ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom ; No less in space, validity, and pleasure. Than that conferred on Goneril. — Now, our joy, Although our last, not least ; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interessed ; what can you say, to draw A third more opulent than your sisters ? Speak. Cor. Nothing, my lord. Lear. Nothing ? Cor. Nothing. Lear. Nothing will come of nothing : speak again. Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave ]\Iy heart into my mouth : I love your majesty According to my bond ; nor more, nor less. Lear. How, how, Cordelia ! mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes. Cor. Good my lord You have begot me, bred me, loved me : I Return those duties back as are risht fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. "NVhy have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all % Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care, and duty : Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all. Lear. But goes thy heart with this ? Cor. Ay, my good lord. Lear. So young, and so untender ? Cor. So young, my lord, and true. Lear. Let it be so : thy truth then be thy dower ; For, by the sacred radiance of the sun. The mysteries of Hecate and the night, By all the operation of the orbs 130 - Clegg's Elocutionist. From whom we do exist and cease to be, Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee, from this, for ever. Kent. Good my liege, — Lear. Peace, Kent ! Come not between the drasfon and his wrath. I loved her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery.- — Hence, and avoid my sight ! — So be my grave my peace, as here I give Her father's heart from her ! — Call France. Who stirs ? — Call Burgundy. Cornwall, and Albany, With my two daughters' dowers digest the third : Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly with my power, Pre-eminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights. By you to be sustained, shall our abode Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain The name and all the additions to a king ; The sway, revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours : which to confirm. This coronet part between you. Kent. Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honoured as my king. Loved as my father, as my master followed. As my great patron thought on in my prayers, — Lear. The bow is bent and drawn ; make from the shaft. Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart. Be Kent unmannerly when Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man % Think'st thou tliat duty shall have dread to speak. When power to flattery bows ? To plainness honour's bound, Wlien majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom ; And, in thy best consideration, check This hideous rashness. Answer my life my judgment, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least ; Cles's's Elocutionist. . 13^ ^iii> Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness. Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn To wase ajiainst thine enemies, nor fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive. Lear. Out of my sight ! Kent. See better, Lear ; and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye. Lear. Now, by Apollo, — Kent. Now, by Apollo, king. Thou swear'st thy gods in vain. Lear. O, vassal ! recreant ! Laying his hand upon his sword. Alb., Corn. Dear sir, forbear. Ke7it. Do ; Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift ; Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I'll tell thee, thou dost evil. Lea?: Hear me, recreant ! On thine allegiance, hear me ! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow, Which we durst never yet, and, with strained pride, To come betwixt our sentence and our power. Which nor our nature nor our place can bear. Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision To shield thee from disasters of the world ; And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom : if, on the tenth day followini:, Thy bani.shed trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away ! By Jupiter, This shall not be revoked. Kent. Fare thee well, king : since thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. — [To Cordelia.] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid. That justly think'st, and hast most rightly said ! — [To Regan and Goneril.] And your large speeches may your deeds approve. 132 Clegg's Elocutionist. That good effects may spring from words of love. — Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu ; He'll shape his old course in a country i\&v7. [Exit. Re-enter Gloster ; with France and Burgundy, Attendants. Glo. Here's France and Burgundy, my noble lord. Lear. My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivalled for our daughter. What, in the least, Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love ? Bur. Most royal majesty, I crave no more than hath your highness offered, Kor will you tender less. Lear. Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so ; But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands : If auirht within that little-seemincr substance. Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced. And nothing more, may fitly like your grace. She 's there, and she is yours. Bur. I know no ansv/er. Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she owes. Unfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dowered with our curse, and strangered with our oath, Take her, or leave her ? Bur. Pardon me, royal sir ; Election makes not up on such conditions. Lear. Then leave her, sir ; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealtli. — [To France.] For you, great king, I would not from your love make such a stray. To match you where I hate : therefore, beseech you To avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom Nature is ashamed Almost to acknowledge hers. France. This is most strange. That she who even but now was your best object. The argument of your praise, balm of your age. Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time Cleggs Elocutionist. 133 Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence Must be of such unnatural degree, Tliat monsters it, or your fore-vouched affection Fall into taint, which to believe of her, Must be a faith that i-eason without miracle Could never plant in me. Cor. I yet beseech your majesty If for I want that glib and oily art, To speak and purpose not \ since what I well intend, I'll do 't before I speak ; that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, No unchaste action, or dishonoured step. That hath deprived me of your grace and favour ; But even for want of that for which I am richer, A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue That I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking. Lpmv. Better thou Hadst not been born, than not to have pleased me better. France. Is it but this 1 a tardiness in nature, Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do 1 — My Lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady ? Love's not love. When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her ? She is herself a dowry. Bur. Royal king. Give but that portion which yourself proposed, And here I take Cordelia by the hand. Duchess of Burgundy. Lear. Nothing. I have sworn : I am firm. Bur. I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband. Cor. Peace be with Burgundy ! Since that respects of fortune are his love, I shall not be his wife. France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor ; Most choice, forsaken ; and most loved, despised ; Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon : 134 Clegg's Elocutionist. Be it lawful I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods ! 't is strange, that from their cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflamed respect. Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance, Is Queen of us, of ours, and our fair France : Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Shall buy this unprized precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind : Thou losest here, a better where to find. Lear. Thou hast her, France : let her be thine ; for we ITave no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore, be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. — Come, noble Burgundy. \Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloster, and Attendants. France. Bid farewell to your sisters. Cor. The jewels of our father, with washed eyes Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are. And, like a sister, am most loath to call Your faults as they are named. Love well our father : To your professed bosoms I commit him ; But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So farewell to you both. Reg. Prescribe not us our duty. Gon. Let your study Be, to content your lord, who hath received you At fortune's alms : you have obedience scanted. And well are worth the want that you have wanted. Cor. Time shall unfold what pleated cunning hides ; Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. Well may you prosper ! France. Come, my fair Cordelia. Clegg's Elocutionist. 135 Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Act Y., Scene II. — A Hall in the Castle. Enter Hamlet and Horatio. Ham. So much for this, sir : now let me see the other ; You do remember all the circumstance ? Uor. Remember it, my lord ? Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting, That would not let me sleep : methought, I lay Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly, And praise be rashness for it, let us know, Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, When our deep plots do pall ; and that should teach us, There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will — Hor. That is most certain. Ham. Up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark Grop'd I to find out them : had my desire ; Finger'd their packet ; and, in fine, withdrew To mine own room again : making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unseal Their grand commission ; where I found, Horatio, royal knavery ! an exact command. Larded with many several sorts of reason, Importing Denmark's health, and England's too, With, ho ! such bugs and goblins in my life, That, on the supervise, no leisure bated. No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off. Hor. Is't possible ? Ham. Here's the commission ; read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed ? Hor. Ay, 'beseech you. Ham. Being thus be-netted round with villanies, Ere I could make a prologue to my brains. They had begun the play — I sat me down ; Devised a new commission ; wrote it fair : 1 once did hold it, as our statists do, 136 Cleggs Elocutionist. A baseness to write fair, and labour'd much How to forget that learning ; but, sir, now It did me yeoman's service. Wilt thou know The effects of what T wrote % Hor. Ay, good my lord. Ham. An earnest conjuration from the king, — ■ As England was his faithful tributary ; As love between them as the palm should flourish ; As peace should still her wheaten garland wear, And stand a comma 'tween their amities : And many such like as's of great charge, — That on the view and know of these contents. Without debatement further, more or less. He should the bearers put to sudden death. Not shriving-time allow'd. Hor. How was this sealed ? Ham. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant ; I had my father's signet in my purse. Which was the model of that Danish seal : Folded the writ up in form of the other ; Subscrib'd it ; gave 't the impression ; placed it safely, The changeling never known — -Now, the next day Was our sea-fight ; and what to this was sequent Tliou know'st already. Hor. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to 't. Ham. Why, man, they did make love to this employment ; They are not near my conscience ; their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow : 'Tis dangerous, when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites. Hor. Why, what a king is this ! Ham. Does it not, think thee, stand me now upon ? He that hath kill'd my king, and wed my mother ; Popp'd in between the election and my hopes ; Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage ; is't not perfect conscience To (juit him with this arm 1 and is't not to be damn'd To let this canker of our nature come In further evil 1 Cles^s^'s Elocutionist. 137 Hor. It must be shortly known to him from England, What is the issue of the iDusiness there. Ham. It will be short : the interim is mine ; And a man's life's no more than to say, ' one.' But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself ; For by the image of my cause, I see The portraiture of his : I'll count his favours ; But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me Into a towering passion. Hor. Peace ! who comes here ? Enter OsRic. Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark. Ham. I humbly thank you, sir. — Dost know this water-fly? Hor. No, my good lord. Ham. Thy state is the more gracious ; for 'tis a vice to know him. Osr. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty. Ham. I will receive it with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use ; 'tis for the head. Osr. I thank your lordship, 'tis very hot. Ham. No, believe me, 'tis very cold ; the wind is northerly. Osr. It is indifierent cold, my lord, indeed. Ham. But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot, for my complexion. Osr. Exceedingly, my lord : it is very sultry,— as 'twere,— I cannot tell how. — But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you, that he has laid a great wager on your head : Sir, this is the matter. Ham. I beseech you, remember — [Hamlet moves him to j>ut on his hat. Osr. Nay, in good faith ; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court, Laertes : believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent difi'erences, of very soft society, and great showing : Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry, for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see. Ham. Sir, his dehnement suflers no perdition in you ; 138 Cleggs Elocutionist. though, I know, to divide him inventorially, would dizzy the arithmetic of memory ; and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article. Osr. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. Ham. The concernancy, sir ? why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath ? Osr. Sir? Hor. Is't not possible to understand in another tongue ? You will do't, sir, really. Ham. What imports the nomination of this gentleman ? Osr. Of Laertes ? Hor. His purse is empty already ; all his golden words are spent. Ham. Of him, sir. Osr. I know you are not ignorant — Ham. I would you did, sir ; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much approve me. — Well, sir. Osr. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is — Ham,. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence ; but, to know a man well, were to know himself. Osr. I mean, sir, for his weapon ; but in the imputation laid on him by them, in his meed he's unfellowed. Ham. What's his weapon ? Osr. Rapier and dagger. Ham. That's two of his weapons : but, well. Osr. The king, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses : against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, or so : Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit. Ham.. What call you the carriages 1 Hor. I knew you must be editied by the margent, ere you had done. Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers. Ham. The phrase would be more german to the matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides : I would it might be hangers till then. But, on : Six Barbary horses against Cleggs Elocutionist. 139 six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages ; that's the French bet, against the Danish. Why is this ' imponed,' as you call it ? Osr. The king, sir, hath laid, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits ; he hath laid on twelve for nine ; and that would come to immediate trial, if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer. Ham. How, if I answer ' no ' ? Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial. Ham,. Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me : let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his pur- pose, I will win for him, if I can ; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame, and the odd hits. Osr. Shall I re-deliver you e'en so % Ham. To this effect, sir ; after what flourish your nature will. Osr. I commend my duty to your lordship. \^Exit. Ham. Yours, yours. He does well to commend it himself ; there are no tongues else for's turn. Hor. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head. Ham. Thus has he (and many more of the same bevy, that, I know, the drossy age dotes on) only got the tune of the time, and outward habit of encounter ; a kind of yesty collec- tion, which carries them through and through the most fond and winnowed opinions ; and do but blow them to their trials, the bubbles are out. Enter a Lord. Lord. My lord, his majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him, that you attend him in the hall : he sends to know, if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time. Ham. I am constant to my purposes, they follow the king's pleasure ; if his fitness speaks, mine is ready ; now, or when- soever, provided I be so able as now. Lord. The king, and queen, and all are coming down. Ham. In happy time. Lord. The queen desires you to use some gentle entertain- ment to Laertes, before you go to play. 140 Clegg's Elocutionist. Ham. She well instructs me. \Exit Lord. Hot. You will lose this wager, my lord. Ham. I do not think so ; since he went into France, I have been in continual practice : I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart : but it is no matter. Hor. Nay, good my lord, — Ham,. It is but foolery ; but it is such a kijid of gaingiving as would, perhaps, trouble a woman. Hor. If your mind dislike anything, obey : I will forestall their repair hither, and say, you are not fit. Ham,. Not a whit, we defy augury ; there's a special provi- dence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come ; if it be not to come, it will be now ; if it be not now, yet it will come : the readiness is all : since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is 't to leave betimes ? SOIilLOaUIES AND SPEECHES. Queen Mab. O, 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 men's noses as they lie asleep : Her wagon-spokes made of long spinner's 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 wagoner, 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 of inind the fairies' coach-makers, And in this state she gallops night by night Cleggs Elocutionist. 141 Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love : On 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. Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, Tickling a parson as he lies asleep — Then dreams he of another benefice : Sometimes 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. Gloster's Soliloquy. l^ow is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds, that lower'd upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings ; Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visag'd war hath smootli'd his wrinkled front ; And now, — instead of mounting barbed steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, — He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, — that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty, To strut before a wanton ambling nymph ; I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of features by dissembling nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time 142 Clegg's Elocutionist. Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable, That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them ; — Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time Unless to see my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity : And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain. And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous. By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams. To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other. And, if king Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false, and treacherous. This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up. About a prophecy, which says, that G Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be. The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy. And his physicians fear him mightily. He cannot live, I hope, and must not die. Till George be pack'd with posthorse up to heaven. I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence, "With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments ; And, if I fail not in my deep intent, Clarence hath not another day to live : Which done, God take king Edward to his mercy, And leave the world for me to bustle in ! For then I'll marry AVarwick's youngest daughter. What thousfh I kill'd her husband and her father, The readiest way to make the wench- amends, Is to become her husband, and her father : The which will I \ not all so much for love, As for another secret close intent. By marrying her, which I nmst reach unto. But yet I run before my horse to market: Clai-ence still breathes ; Edward still lives and reigns When they are gone, then must I count my gains. Cleggs Elocutionist. 143 Henry V. Before the Battle of Agincourt. What's he that wishes men from England? you, cousin Westmoreland ? — No, my fair cousin : if we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss \ and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour. I pray thee, cousin, 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 : I would not lose so great an honour, as one man more, methinks would share from me, for the best hope I have ! Oh do not wish one more : rather proclaim it, West- moreland, throughout my host, that he who hath no stomach to this fight may straight depart : his passport shall be made, and crowns of convoy put into his purse : we would not die in that mans company, that fears his fellowsliip 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 friends, and say — " To-morrow is Saint Crispian : " then v/ill he strip his sleeve, and show his scars and say, — "These wounds I had on Crispin's day." Old men forget; yet shall not all forget, but they'll remember with advantages, what feats they did that day. Then shall our names, familiar in their mouths as household words, Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick, and Talbot, Salisbury, and Gloster, 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 worJd, 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, while any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. All things are ready if our minds be so. You know your places : God be with you all ! 144 Clegg's Elocutionist. MISCELLANEOUS DIALOGUES. Scene from " The Hunchback." Helen*. Modus. Helen. I'm weary wandering from room to room ; A castle after all is but a house — The dullest one when lacking company. Were I at home, I could be company Unto myself. I see not Master Walter. He's ever with his ward. I see not her. By Master Walter will she bide, alone. My father stops in town. I can't see him. My cousin makes his books his company. I'll go to bed and sleep. No — I'll stay up And plague my cousin into making love ! For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect. How dull he is, that hath not sense to see What lies before him, and he'd like to find I I'll change my treatment of him. Cross him, where Before I used to humour him. He comes, Poring upon a book. What's that you read % Enter Modus. Mod. Latin, sweet cousin. Helen. 'T is a naughty tongue, I fear, and teaches men to lie. Mod. To lie ! Helen. You study it. You call your cousin sweet, And treat her as you would a crab. As sour 'T would seem you think her, so you covet her ! Why how the monster stares, and looks about ! You construe Latin, and can't construe that ! Mod. I never studied women. Helen. No ; nor men. Else would you better know their ways ; nor read In presence of a lady. \Strikes the hook from his hand. Mod. Right you say, Clegg's Elocutionist. 145 And well you served me, cousin, so to strike The volume from my hand. I own my fault ; So please you may I pick it up again ? I'll put it in my pocket ! Helen. Pick it up. He fears me as I were his grandmother ! What is the book ? Mod. 'T is Ovid's Art of Love. Helen. That Ovid was a fool ! Mod. In what? Helen. In that ! To call that thing an art, which art is none. Mod. And is not love an art % Helen. Are you a fool As well as Ovid ? Love an art ! No art But taketh time and pains to learn. Love comes With neither ! Is't to hoard such grain as that You went to college % Better stay at home, And study homely English ! Mod. Nay, you know not The argument. Helen. I don't? I know it better Than ever Ovid did ! The face, — the form, — The heart, — the mind we fancy, cousin ! that's The argument ! Why, cousin, you know nothing ! Suppose a lady were in love with thee, Couldst thou by Ovid, cousin, find it out ? Couldst find it out, wert thou in love, thyself? Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love ? I could, that never read him ! You begin With melancholy ; then to sadness ; then To sickness ; then to dying — but not die ! She would not let thee, were she of my mind ! She'd take compassion on thee. Then for hope ; From hope to confidence ; from confidence To boldness ; — then you'd speak ; at first entreat ; Then urge ; then flout ; then argue ; then enforce ; Make prisoner of her hand ; besiege her waist ; Threaten her lips with storming ; keep thy word And carry her ! My sampler 'gainst thy Ovid ! Jv 14^ Clegg's Elocutionist. Why, cousiu, are you frighten'd, that you stand As you were stricken dumb % The case is clear, You are no soldier ! You'll ne'er win a battle, You care too much for blows ! Mod. You wrong me there. At school I was the champion of my form ; And since I went to college Helen. That for college ! Mod. Nay, hear me ! Helen. Well? What, since you went to college? You know what men are set down for, who boast Of their own bravery ? Go on, brave cousin : What, since you went to college % Was there not One Quentin Halworth there 1 You know there was. And that he was your master? Mod. He my master ? Thrice was he worsted by me ! Helen, Still was he Your master. Mod. He allow'd I had the best ! AUow'd it, mark me ! nor to me alone. But twenty I could name. Helen. And master'd you At last ! Confess it, cousin, 't is the truth ! A proctor's daughter you did both affect — Look at me and deny it ! — Of the twain She more affected you ; — I've caught you now. Bold cousin ! Mark you ! opportunity On opportunity she gave you, sir, — Deny it if you can ! — but though to others. When you discoursed of her, you were a flame, To her you were a wick that would not light. Though held in the very fire ! And so he won her — Won her, because he woo'd her like a man ; For all your cufiings, cuffing you again With most usurious interest ! Now, sir, Protest that you are valiant ! Mod. Cousin Helen ! Helen. Well, sir ? Mod. The tale is all a forgery ! Clegg's Elocutionist. 147 Helen. A forgery ! Mod. From first to last : ne'er sooke I To a proctor's daughter, while I was at college. Helen. Well, 'twas a scrivener's, then — or somebody's. But what concerns it whose % Enough, you loved her ! And, shame upon you, let another take her ! Mod. Cousin, I tell you, if you'll only hear me, I loved no woman while I was at collesre — Save one, and her I fancied ere I went there. Helen. Indeed ! Now I'll retreat, if he's advancing. Comes he not on ! O what a stock 's the man ! Well, cousin? Mod. Well ! W^hat more wouldst have me say ? I think I've said enough. Helen. And so think I. I did but jest with you. You are not angry ? Shake hands ! Why, cousin, do you squeeze me so % Mod. \Letting her 90.] I swear I squeezed you not. Helen. You did not ? Mod. No. May I die if I did ! Helen. Why then you did not, cousin. So let's shake hands again — \He takes her hand as before.^ — O go ! and now Read Ovid ! Cousin, will you tell me one thing : Wore lovers rufis in master Ovid's time ? Behoved him teach them, then, to put them on ; And that you have to learn. Hold up your head ! Why, cousin, how you blush ! Plague on the ruff! I cannot give 't a set. You're blushing still ! Why do you blush, dear cousin? So ! — 't will beat me ! I'll give it up. Mod. Nay, prithee don't — try on ! Helen. And if I do, I fear you'll think me bold. Mod. For what ? Helen. To trust my face so near to thine. Mod. I know not what you mean ! Helen. I'm glad you don't ! Cousin, I own right well-behaved you are. Most marvellously well-behaved ! They've bred 148 Clegg's Elocutionist. You well at college. With another man My lips would be in danger ! Hang the rufi' ! Mod. Nay, give it up, nor plague thyself, dear cousin. Helen. Dear fool ! [Throws the ruff on the ground.'\ I swear the ruff is good for just As little as its master ! There ! — 'T is spoil'd — You'll have to get another ! Hie for it, And wear it in the fashion of a wisp, Ere I adjust it for thee ! Farewell, cousin ! You'd need to study Ovid's Art of Love ! [Helen goes out. Mod. Went she in anger 1 I will follow her, — No, I will not ! Heigho ! I love my cousin ! O would that she loved me ! Why did she taunt me With backwardness in love 1 What could she mean ? Sees she I love her, and so laughs at me, Because I lack the front to woo her 1 Nay, I'll woo her, then ! Her lips shall be in danger. When next she trusts them near me ! Look'd she at me To-day, as never did she look before ! A bold heart, Master Modus ! 'T is a saying, A faint one never won fair lady yet ! I'll woo my cousin, come what will on 't. Yes : [Begins reading again, throws down the hook. Hang Ovid's Art of Love ! I'll woo my cousin ! ****** Enter Helen, Helen. Why, cousin Modus ? What, will you stand by And see me forced to marry 1 Cousin Modus ? Have you not got a tongue ? Have you not eyes ? Do you not see I'm very — very ill, And not a chair in all the corridor ? Mod. I'll find one in the study. Helen. Hang the study ! Mod. My room's at hand. I'll fetch one thence. Helen. You shan't ! I'd faint ere you came back ! Mod. What shall I do 1 Helen. Why don't you offer to support me 1 Well 1 Clegg's Elocutionist. I49 Give me your arm — be quick ! [Modus offers his arm. Is that the way To help a lady when she's like to faint ? I'll drop unless you catch me ! [Modus supports her. That will do. I'm better now — [Modus offers to leave her] don't leave me ! Is one well Because one's better ? Hold my hand. Keep so. I'll soon recover, so you move not. Loves he — [Aside. Which I'll be sworn he does, hell own it now. Well, cousin Modus ? Mod. Well, sweet cousin ! Helen. Well? You heard what Master Walter said 1 Mod. I did. Helen. And would you have me marry ? Can't you speak ? Say yes, or no. Mod. No, cousin ! Helen. Bravely said ! And why, my gallant cousin ? Mod. Why? Helen. Ay, why ? Women, you know, are fond of reasons — Why Would you not have me marry ? How you blush ! Is it because you do not know the reason ? You mind me of a story of a cousin Who once her cousin such a question ask'd — - He had not been to college, though — for books, Had pass'd his time in reading ladies' eyes, Which he could construe marvellously well. Though writ in language all symbolical. Thus stood they once together, on a day — As we stand now — discours'd as we discourse,— But with this difference, — fifty gentle words He spoke to her, for one she spoke to him ! — What a dear cousin ! Well, as I was saying, As now I question'd thee, she question'd him. And what was his reply ? To think of it Sets my heart beating — 'T was so kind a one ! So like a cousin's answer — a dear cousin ! 150 Clegg's Elocutionist. A gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin ! What did he say ? — A man might find it out Though never read he Ovid's Art of Love — What did he say 1 He'd marry her himself ! How stupid are you, cousin ! Let me go ! Mod. You are not well yet 1 Helen. Yes. Mod. I'm sure you're not ! Helen. I'm sure I am. Mod. Nay, let me hold you, cousin ! I like it. Helen. Do you 1 I would wager you You could not tell me why you like it. Well 1 You see how true I know you ! How you stare ! What see you in my face to wonder at 1 Mod. A pair of eyes ! Helen. At last he'll find his tongue — \_Aside. And saw you ne'er a pair of eyes before ? Mod. Not such a pair. Helen. And why? Mod. They are so bright ! You have a Grecian nose. Helen. Indeed. Mod. Indeed ! Helen. What kind of mouth have 1 1 Mod. A handsome one. I never saw so sweet a pair of lips ! I ne'er saw lips at all till now, dear cousin ! Helen. Cousin, I'm well, — You need not hold me now. Do you not hear 1 I tell you I am well ! I need your arm no longer — take 't away ! So tight it locks ine, 't is with pain I breathe ! Let me go, cousin ! Wherefore do you hold Your face so close to mine 1 What do you mean ? Mod. You've question'd me, and now I'll question you. Helen. What would you learn 1 Mod. The use of lips. Helen. To speak. Mod. Nought else 1 Helen. How bold my modest cousin grows ! Clegg's Elocutionist. 151 "Whv, other use know you % Mod. I do ! Helen. Indeed ! You're wondrous wise 1 And pray what is it ? Mod. This ! \AUempts to kiss her. Helen. Soft ! nay hand thanks you, cousin — for my lips I keep them for a husband ! — Nay, stand off ! Ill not be held in manacles again ! Why do you follow me ? Mod. I love you, cousin. 'T is out at last. [Aside. Helen. You love me ! Love me, cousin ! O cousin, mean you so ? That's passing strange ! Falls out most crossly — is a dire mishap — A thing to sigh for, weep for, languish for, And die for ! Mod. Die for ! Helen. Yes, with laughter, cousin. For, cousin, I love you ! 2fod. And you'll be mine ? Helen. I will. Mod. Your hand upon it. Helen. Hand and heart. Hie to thy dressing-room, and I'll to mine — Attire thee for the altar — so will I. Whoe'er may claim me, thou'rt the man shall have me. Away ! Despatch ! But hark you, ere you go, Xe'er brasr of readinsr Ovid's Art of Love ! Mod. And cousin ! stop — One little word with you. [-S'Ae returns — he snatches a kiss. The Rivals. Ltdia Languish. — From Act I., Scene I. Enter Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute. Mrs. Mai. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family, and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling. 152 Cleggs Eloaitionist. Lyd. Madam, I thought you once — Mrs. Mai. You thought, raiss ! I don't know any business you have to think at all — thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow — to illiterate him, I say, quite from your memory. Lyd. Ah, madam ! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget. Mrs. Mai. But I say it is, miss ; there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never existed — and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman. Sir Anth. Why sure she won't pretend to remember what she's ordered not ! — ay, this comes of her reading ! Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed to be treated thus? Mrs. Mai. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter ; you know I have proof controvertible of it. — But tell me, will you promise to do as you're bid ? Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing 1 Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no pre- ference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion. Mrs. Mai. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion ? They don't become a young woman ; and you ought to know, that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor — and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made ! — and when it pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed ! — But suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley ? Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that pro- mise, ray actions would certainly as far belie my words. Mrs. Mai. Take yourself to your room.— You are fit com- pany for nothing but your own ill-humours. Lyd. Willingly, ma'am — I cannot change for the worse. [Exit. Clegg's Elociitiojiist. 153 Mrs. Mai. There's a little intricate hussy for you ! Sir Anth. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am, — all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by Heavens ! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet ! Mrs. Mai. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy. Sir Anth. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library ! — She had a book in each hand — they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers ! — From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress I fc. Mrs. Mai. Those are vile places, indeed ! • • Sir Anth. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledije ! It blossoms through the year! — and depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last. Mrs. Mai. Fy, fy. Sir Anthony ! you surely speak la- conically. Sir Anth. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now, what would you have a woman know 1 Mrs. Mai. Observe me. Sir Anthony. I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning ; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman ; for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning — neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astro- nomical, diabolical instruments. — But, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts ; — and as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries ; — but above all, Sir Anthony, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not mis-spell, and mis-pronounce words so shamefully as girls usually do ; and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know ; — and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it. 154 Clegg's Elocutionist. Sir Anth. TVell, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with' you ; though I must confess, that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question. But, Mrs. Malaprop, to the more important point in debate — you say you have no objection to my proposal 1 Mrs. Mai. None, I assure you. I am under no positive en- gagement with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia is so obstinate against him, perhaps your son may have better success. Sir Anth. AVell, madam, I will write for the boy directly. He knows not a syllable of this yet, though I have for some time had the proposal in my head. He is at present with his regiment. Mrs. Mai. We have never seen your son. Sir Anthony ; but I hope no objection on his side. Sir Anth. Objection ! — let him object if he dare ! — No, no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knovv^s that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple — ^in their younger days, 'twas " Jack, do this ; " — if he demurred, I knocked him down — and if he grumbled at that, I always sent him out of the room. Mrs. Mai. Ay, and the properest way, o' my conscience ! — nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. — "Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations ; — and I hope you will represent her to the captain as an object not altogether illegible. Sir Anth. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. — Well, I must leave you ; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl. — Take my advice — keep a tight hand : if she rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key ; and if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about. \_Exit. Clcgg's Elocutionist. I55 She Stoops to Conquer. From Act IL, Scene I. — Hastings, Marlotv, Miss Neville. Enter Miss Haedcastle. Hast. [Introducing Marlow.'\ Miss Hardcastle — Mr. Marlow. I'm proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem each other. Jliss Hard. [Aside.'\ Now, for meeting my modest gentle- man with a demure face, and quite in his own manner. [After a pause, in which he ap2}ears to be very uneasy and disconcerted.^ I'm glad of your safe arrival, sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way. Marl. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, a good many accidents ; but should be sorry — madam — or rather glad of any accidents — that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! Hast. \To him.'\ You never spoke better in your whole life. Keep it up, and I'll ensure you the victory. Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You, that have seen so much of the finest company, can find little entertain- ment in an obscure corner of the Country. Marl. [Gathering courage.~\ I have lived, indeed, in the world, madam ; but I have Icept very little company. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last. Hast. [To hiin.'] Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. Marl. [To him.'\ Hem ! Stand by me, then; and when I'm down, throw in a word or two, to set me up again. Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon life, were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must have had much more to censure than to approve. ^[arl. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. Hast. [To him.'\ Bravo, bravo ! Never spoke so well in 156 Cleggs Elocutionist. your whole life. Well ! \To Miss Hard.] Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very good company. I believe our being here will but embarrass the interview. Marl. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. "We like your com- pany of all things. \To himl\ Zounds ! George, sure you won't go — how can you leave us % Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we'll retire to the next room. \To Aim.] You don't consider, man, that we are to manasje a little tete-a-tete of our own. \_Exeunt.^ Hiss Hard. [^After a pause.'\ But you have not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir : the ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your addresses. Marl. [^Relaiising into thnidity^ Pardon me, madam, I — I — I as yet have studied — only — to — deserve them. Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them. Marl. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more grave and sensible part of the sex. But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. Miss Hard. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I like so much as grave conversation myself ; I could hear it for ever. In- deed, I have often been surprised how a man of sentimejit could ever admire those light, airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. Marl. It's — a disease — of the mind, madam. In the variety of tastes there must be some, who, wanting a relish — for — um-a-um. Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must be some, who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of tasting. Marl. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can't help observing — a Miss Hard. \^To Aim.] You were going to observe, sir — - — Marl. I was observing, madam — I protest, madam, I forget what I was going to observe. Miss Hard. \_Aside.^ I vow, and so do I. [To Aim.] You were observing, sir, that in this age of hypocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. Clegg's Elocutionist. 157 Marl. Yes, madam ; in this age of hypocrisy there are few who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — a — a Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. Marl. [Aside.'\ Indeed ! and that's more than 1 do myself. Miss Hard. You mean that, in this hypocritical age, there are few that do not condemn in public what they practise in private. Marl. True, madam ; those who have most virtue in their mouths have least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir ; there's something so agreeable, and spirited, in your manner ; such life and force — pray, sir, go on. Marl. Yes, madam ; I was saying — that there are some occasions — when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the — and puts us — upon a — a — a Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely ; a want of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. Marl. Yes, madam ; morally speaking, madam — But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. Marl. Yes, madam ; I was — but she beckons us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honour to attend you 1 Miss Hard. Well then, I'll follow. Marl. [Aside.^ This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. \_Hxit. Miss Hardcastle. Miss Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever such a sober, sentimental interview 1 I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unac- countable bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good sense ; but then so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a little confi- dence, it would be doing somebody, that I know of, a piece of service. But who is that somebody? — that is a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. 158 Clegg's Eloaitionisi. Bubbles of the Day. Adapted for Recital. Sir Phenix Clearcahe. I come with a petition to you — a petition, not parliamentary, but charitable. We propose, my lord, a fancy fair in Guildhall ; its object so benevolent, and more than that, so respectable. Lord Skindeep. Benevolence and respectability ! Of course, I'm with you. Well, the precise object ? Sir P. It is to remove a stain — a very great stain — from the city ; to give an air of maiden beauty to a most venerable institution ; to exercise a renovating taste at a most incon- siderable outlay ; to call up, as it were, the snowy beauty of Greece in the coal-smoke atmosphere of London; in a word, my lord — but as yet 'tis a profound secret — it is to paint St. Paul's ! To give it a virgin outside — to make it so truly respectable. Lord S. A gigantic effort ! Sir P. The fancy fair will be on a most comprehensive and philanthropic scale. Every alderman takes a stall ; and to give you an idea of the enthusiasm of the city — but this also is a secret — the Lady Mayoress has been up three nights making pincushions. Lord S. But you don't want me to take a stall — to sell pin- cushions 1 Sir P. Certainly not, my lord. And yet your philanthropic speeches in the House, my lord, convince me that, to obtain a certain good, you would sell anything. Lord S. Well, well ; command me in any way ; benevolence is my foible. {Enter Capt. Smoke.) Captain Smoke. We are about to start a company to take on lease Mount Vesuvius for the manufacture of lucifer matches. Sir P. A stupendous speculation ! I should say that, when its countless advantages are duly numbered, it will be found a certain wheel of fortune to the enlightened capitalist. Smoke. Now, sir, if you would but take the chair at the first meeting — (Aside to Chatham : We shall make it all right about Clegg's Elocutionist. 159 the shares) — if you would but speak for two or three hours on the social improvement conferred by the lucifer-match, with the monopoly of sulphur secured to the company — a monopoly which will suffer no man, woman, or child to strike a light without our permission. Cliatham. Truly, sir, in such a cause, to such an auditory — I fear my eloquence. Smoke. Sir, if you would speak well anywhere, there's nothing like first grinding your eloquence on a mixed meeting. Depend upon it, if you can only manage a little humbug with a mob, it gives you great confidence for another place. Lord Skill. Smoke, never say humbug ; it's coarse. Sir P. And not respectable. Smoke. Pardon me, my lord, it was coarse. But the fact is, humbug has received such high patronage, that now it's quite classic. Chat. But why not embark his lordship in the lucifer question 1 Smoke. I can't ; I have his lordship in three companies already. Three. First, there's a company — half a million capital — for extracting civet from assafoetida. The second is a company for a trip all round the world. We propose to hire a three-decker of the lords of the Admiralty, and fit her up with every accommodation for families. We've already adver- tised for nurses and maids-of-all-work. Sir P. A magnificent project ! And then the fittings up will be so respectable. A delightful billiard-table in the ward- room ; with, for the humbler classes, skittles on the orlop-deck. Swings and archery for the ladies, trap-ball and cricket for the childi'en, whilst the marine sportsman will find the stock of gulls unlimited. Weippert's quadrille band is engaged, and — Sm,oke. For the convenience of lovers, the ship will carry a parson. Chat. And the object ? Smoke. Pleasure and education. At every new country we shall drop anchor for at least a week, that the children may go to school and learn the language. The trip must answer : 'twill occupy only three years, and we've forgotten nothing to make it delightful — nothing from hot rolls to cork jackets. Broivn. And now, sir, the third venture? i6o Cle^or's Elocutionist. i}£> Smoke. That, sir, is a company to buy the Serpentine River for a Grand Junction Temperance Cemetery. Brown. Wliat ! so many watery graves ? Smoke. Yes, sir, with floating tombstones. Here's the pro- spectus. Look here ; surmounted by a hyacinths — the very emblem of temperance — a hyacinth flowering in the limpid flood. Now, if you don't feel equal to the lucifers — I know his lordship's goodness— he'll give you up the cemetery. (Aside to Chatham : A family vault as a bonus to the chairman.) Sir P. What a beautiful subject for a speech ! Water-lilies and aquatic plants gemming the translucent crystal, shells of rainbow brightness, a constant supply of gold and silver fish, with the rifrht of ansrlins: secured to shareholders. The extent of the river being necessarily limited, will render lying there so select, so very respectable. NARRATIVE (POETRY). Little Golden-Hair. Little Golden-hair was watching, in the window broad and high, For the coming of her father, who had gone the foe to fight : He had left her in the morning, and had told her not to cry. But to have a kiss all ready when he came to her at night. She had wandered all the day. In her simple childish way. And had asked, as time went on, Where her father could have gone : She had heard the muskets firing, she had counted every one. Till the number grew so many that it was too great a load ; Then the evening fell upon her, clear of sound of shot or gun. And she gazed with wistful waiting down the dusty Concord road. Little Golden-hair had listened, not a single week before. While the heavy sand was falling on her mother's coffin-lid ; And she loved her father better for the loss that then she bore. And thought of him, and yearned for him, whatever else she did. Cle°!;s's Elocutiojiist. i6l ^i>i> So she wondered all the day What cuuld make her father stay, And she cried a little too, As he told her not to do ; And the sun sank slowly downward, and went grandly out of sight, And she had the kiss all ready on his lips to be bestowed ; But the shadows made one shadow, and the twilight grew to night, And she looked, and looked, and listened, down the dusty Concord road. Then the night grew lighter and lighter, and the moon rose full and round, in the little sad face peering, looking piteously and mild ; Still upon the walks of gravel there was heard no welcome sound. And no father came there, eager for the kisses of his child. Long and sadly did she wait. Listening at the cottage gate ; Then she felt a quick alarm. Lest he might have come to harm. With no bonnet but her tresses, no companion but her fears. And no guide except the moonbeams that the pathway dimly showed. With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw away her tears, And alone she bravely started down the dusty Concord road. And for many a mile she struggled, full of weariness and pain, Calling loudly for her father, that her voice he might not miss ; Till at last, among a number of the wounded and the slain, Was the white face of the soldier, waiting for his daughter's kiss. Softly to his lips she crept, Not to wake him as he slept ; Then, with her young heart at rest. Laid her head upon his breast. L 1 62 Cieoro-'s Elocutiojiist. i3i3 And upon the dead face smiling, with the living one near by, All the night a golden streamlet of the moonbeams gently flowed ; One to live a lonely orphan, one beneath the sod to lie — They found them in the morning on the dusty Concord road. A Legend of Bregenz. (Verse -printed as Prose.) Girt round with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance lies ; in her blue heart reflected, shine back the starry skies. Midnight is there ; and Silence, enthroned in heaven, looks down upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town : for Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore, has stood above Lake Constance a thousand years and more. Mountain and lake and vallev a sacred lesjend 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. And so she dwelt : the valley more peaceful year by year ; when suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed near. One day, out in the meadow, with strangers from the town some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down. 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 niijht is growinjr darker ; ere one more day is flown, Bregenz, our foeman's stronghold, 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. 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 trem- bling haste and breathless, with noiseless step, she sped ; Clegg's Elocutionist. 163 horses and wearv cattle were standinij in the shed ; she loosed the strong, white charger, that fed from out her hand ; she mounted, and she turned his head towards her native land. Out — out into the darkness — faster, and still more fast — the smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is passed. ' Faster ! ' she cries, ' oh, faster ! ' Eleven the church-bells chime. ' Oh God,' she cries, ' help Bregenz, and bring me there in time ! ' But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine, grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine. 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 ' They reach the gates 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 man- ned ; defiance greets the army that marches on the land. Three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill an old stone gateway rises to do her honour still. And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning in the shade, they see in quaint old carving the charger and the maid. And when, to guard old Bregenz by gateway, street, and tower, the warder paces all night long and calls each passing hour ; ' Nine,' ' ten,' 'eleven,' he cries aloud. And then (oh, crown of fame!), when midnight pauses in the skies, he calls the maiden's name ! Grace Darling. All night the storm had raged, nor ceased, nor paused, When, as day broke, the Maid, through misty air, Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf. Beating on one of those disastrous isles — Half of a Vessel, half — no more ; the rest Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there Had for the common safety striven in vain, Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick glance Daughter and Sire through optic-glass discern, 164 Cleggs Elocutionist. Clinging about the remnant of this Ship, Creatures — how precious in the Maiden's sight ^ For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still more Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed Where every parting agony is hushed, And hope and fear mix not in further strife. " But courage. Father ! let us out to sea — A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's words, Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith, Dispel the Father's doubts : nor do they lack The noble-minded Mother's helping hand To launch the boat ; and with her blessing cheered, And inwardly sustained by silent prayer Together they put forth. Father and Child ! Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go — Rivals in effort ; and, alike intent Here to elude and there surmount, they watch The billows lengthening, mutually crossed And shattered, and re-gathering their might ; As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolonged, That woman's fortitude — so tried, so proved — May brighten more and more ! True to the mark, They stem the current of that perilous gorge. Their arms still strenfjthenincr with the strengthening heart. Though danger, as the Wreck is near'd, becomes More imminent. IS^ot unseen do they approach ; And rapture, with varieties of fear Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames Of those who, in that dauntless energy, Foretaste deliverance ; but the least perturbed Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives That of the pair — tossed on the waves to bring Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister, Or, be the Visitant other than she seems, A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven, In woman's shape. But why prolong the tale, Cleggs Elocutionist. 165 Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts Armed to repel them 1 Every hazard faced And difficulty mastered, with resolve That no one breathing should be left to perish, This last remainder of the crew are all Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep Are safely borne, landed upon the beach And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged Within the sheltering Lighthouse. Bishop Hatto. The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet ; — 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rottinsj on the sfround. Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, — For he had a plentiful last year's store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnished well. At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay ; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there. Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near ; The great barn was full, as it could hold — Of women and children, and young and old. Then when he saw it could hold no more. Bishop Hatto he made fast the door ; And while for mercy on Christ they call. He set fire to the barn and burnt them all. "I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire," quoth he, "And the country is greatly obliged to me. For I'idding it in these times forlorn Of rats, that only consume the corn." 1 66 Cles's's Elocutionist. i>i> So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man ; But Bishop Hatto never slept again. In the morning, as he entered the hall. Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came. For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. i^s he looked there came a man from the farm, He had a countenance white with alarm ; " My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn." Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be, "Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he, " Ten thousand rats are coming this way — And the Lord forgive you for yesterday !" "I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he, " 'Tis the safest place in Germany ; The walls are high, and the shores are steep. And the stream is strong, and the water deep." Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay. And reached his tower, and barred with care All the windows, doors, and loopholes there. He laid him down, and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise ; — He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow from whence the screaming came. He listened and looked ; it was only the cat ; But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that was drawing near. For they have swum over the river so deep. And they have climbed the shores so steep, And up the tower their way is bent To do the work for which they were sent. Clegg's Elocutionist. 167 They are not to be told by the dozen or score, By thousands they come, and by myriads and more ; Such numbers have never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore. Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder drawing near The 2;nawinfj of their teeth he could hear. And in at the windows, and in at the door. And through the walls helter-skelter they pour. And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the Bishop they go. Sir Richard Grenville's Last Fight. Our second Richard Grenville In days of great Queen Bess, He did this deed, he played this part With true old nobleness And wrath heroic that was nursed To bear the fiercest battle-burst, "When maddened foes should wreak their worst. Signalled the English Admiral, " Weigh or cut anchors." For A Spanish fleet bore down, in all The majesty of war Athwart our tack for many a mile As there we lay ofi" Florez Isle, With crews half sick, all tired of toil. Eleven of our twelve ships escaped ; Sir Richard stood alone ! Though there were three and fifty sail — A hundred men to one — The old Sea-Rover would not run. So long as he had man or gun ; But he could die when all was done. 1 68 Cleo-o's Elocutionist. c>i3 " The Demon 's broken loose, my lads, He comes from swarthy Spain ; And we must sink him in the sea, Or hound him home again. Now, you old War-dogs, show your paws ! Have at them tooth and nail and claws !" And then his long, bright blade he draws, " Push home ; my hardy pikemen, For we play a desperate part ; To-day, my gunners, let them feel The pulse of England's heart ! They shall remember long that we Once lived ; and think how shamefully ■\Ve shook them ! — One to fifty-three." With face of one who cheerily goes To meet his doom that day. Sir Richard sprang upon his foes The foremost gave him way : His round shot smashed them through and througl At every flash white splinters flew : And madder grew his fighting few. They clasp the little ship Revenge As in the arms of fire ; They run aboard her, six at once. Hearts beat, hot guns leap higher ; Through gory gaps the boarders swarm, But still our Englisli stay the storm. The bulwark in their breast is firm. Ship after ship, like broken waves That wash up on a rock. Those mighty galleons fall back foiled. And shattered from the shock. With fires she answers all their blows ; Again, again, in pieces strews The girdle round her as they close. Some know not they are wounded till 'Tis slippery where they stand \ Then each one tighter grips his steel As 'twere Salvation's hand. r' Clco-crs Elocutionist. 169 "^iiO Grim faces glow through lurid night With sweat of spirit shining bright : Only the dead on deck turn white. At daybreak the flame-picture fades In blackness and in blood ; There, after fifteen hours of fight, The unconquered Sea-king stood Defying all the powers of Spain : Fifteen armadas hurled in vain, And fifteen hundred foemen slain. About that little bark Revenge The bafiled Spaniards ride At distance. Two of their good ships Were sunken at her side ; The rest lie round her in a ring As round the dying Lion-kiag, The dogs, afraid of his death-spring. Our pikes all broken, powder spent, Sails, masts, to shivers blown. And with her dead and wounded crew The ship was going down ! Sir Richard's wounds were hot and deep ; Then cried he with a proud pale lip, " Ho ! Master Gunner, sink the ship ! "Make ready now, my Mariners, To go aloft with me. That nothing to the Spaniard May remain of victory. They cannot take us, nor we yield ; So let us leave our battle-field. Under the shelter of God's shield." They had not heart to dare fulfil The stern Commander's word : With swelling liearts, and welling eyes. They carried him aboard The Spaniard's ship ; and round him stand The warriors of his wasted band : Then said he, feeling death at hand : 170 Clegg's Elocutionist. " Here die I, Richard Grenville, With a joyful and quiet mind ; I reach a Soldier's end, I leave A Soldier's fame behind, Who for his Queen and Country fought, For Honour and Religion wrought. And died as a true Soldier ought." Old heroes who could grandly do, As they could greatly dare, A vesture, very glorious. Their shining spirits wear Of noble deeds ! God give us grace, That we may see such face to face, In our great day that comes apace. The Singing of the Magnificat. {By permission of the Author.) In midst of wide green pasture lands, cut through By lines of alders bordering deep-banked streams. Where bulrushes and yellow iris grew, And rest, and peace, and all the flower of dreams, The Abbey stood — so still, it seemed a part *" Of the marsh country's almost pulseless hearET Where grey-green willows fringed the stream and pool, The lazy meek-faced cattle strayed to graze ; Sheep in the meadows cropped the grasses cool. And silver fish shone through the watery ways ; And many a load of fruit and load of corn Into the Abbey storehouses was borne. Yet though so much they had of life's good things, The monks but held them as a sacred trust, Lent from the storehouse of the King of kings Till they, his stewards, should crumble back to dust. " Not as our own," they said, " but as the Lord's, All that the stream yields, or the land aflbrds." And all the villages and hamlets near Knew the monk.s' wealth, and how that wealth was spent. Cleg^s Elocutiofiist. 171 In tribulation, sickness, want, or fear. First to the Abbey all the peasants went, Certain to find a welcome, and to be Helped in the hour of their extremity. When plague or sickness smote the people sore, The Brothers prayed beside the dying bed. And nursed the sick back into health once more, And through the horror and the danger said : " How good is God, Who has such love for us. He lets us tend His suffering children thus." They in their simple ways and works were glad : Yet all men must have sorrows of their own. And so a bitter grief the Brothers had. Nor mourned for others' heaviness alone. This was the secret of their sorrowing. That not a monk in all the house could sing ! Was it the damp air from the lovely marsh. Or strain of scarcely intermitted prayer. That made their voices, when they sang, as harsh As any frog's that croaks in evening air — That made less music in their hymns to lie Than in the hoarsest wildfowl's lioarsest cry ? If love could sweeten voice to sing a song, Theirs had been sweetest song was ever sung : But their hearts' music reached their lips all wrong, The soul's intent foiled by the traitorous tongue That marred the chapel's peace, and seemed to scare The rapt devotion lingering in the air. The birds that in the chapel built their nests, And in the stone-work found their small lives fair. Flew thence with hurried winos and fluttering breasts When rang the bell to call the monks to prayer. "Why will they sing," they twittered, " Why at all ? In heaven their silence must be festival ! " The Brothers prayed with penance and with tears, That God would let them give some little part Out for the solace of their own sad ears Of all the music crowded in their heart. 172 Clegg's Elocutionist. Their nature and the marsh-air had their way, And still they sang more vilely every day. And all their prayers and fasts availing not To give them voices sweet, their souls' desire, The Abbot said, '"Gifts He did not allot God at our hands will not again require. The love He gives us He will ask again In love to Him and to our fellow-men. " Praise Him we must, and since we cannot praise As we would choose, we praise Him as we can. In heaven we shall be taucrht the angels' wavs Of singing — we aflbrd to wait a span. In singing, as in toil, do ye your best ; God will adjust the balance- — ^do the rest ! " But one good Brother, anxious to remove This, the reproach now laid on them so long. Rejected counsel, and for very love Besought a Brother, skilled in art of song, To come to them — his cloister far to leave — - And sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve. So when each brown monk duly sought his place, By two and two, slow pacing to the choir. Shrined in his dark oak stall, the strange monk's face Shone with a light as of devotion's fire. Good, young and fair, his seemed a form wherein Pure beauty left no room at all for sin. And when the time for singing it had come, ' Magnificat,' face raised, and voice, he sang : Each in his stall the monks stood glad and dumb, As through the chancel's dusk his voice outran" Pure, clear, and perfect — as the thrushes sing Their first impulsive welcome of the spring. At the first notes the Abbot's heart spoke low : " O God, accept this singing, seeing we. Had we the power, would ever praise Thee so — "Would ever. Lord, Thou know'st, sing thus for Thee ; Thus in our hearts Thy hymns are ever sung. As he Thou blessest sings them with his tonfrue." Cleg^s Elocutio7iist. i73 But as the voice rose higher and more sweet, The Abbot's heart said, " Thou hast heard us grieve, And sent an angel from beside Tiiy feet, To sing Magnificat on Christmas Eve ; To ease our ache of soul and let us see How we some day in heaven shall sing to Thee." Through the cold Christmas night the hymn rang out, In perfect cadence, clear as sunlit rain- Such heavenly music that the birds without Beat their warm wings against the window pane, Scattering the frosted crystal snow outspread Upon the stone-lace and the window-lead. The white moon through the window seemed to gaze On the pure face and eyes the singer raised ; Tlie storm-wind hushed the clamour of its ways, God seemed to stoop to hear Himself thus praised, And breathless all the Brothers stood, and still Reached lonsrins; souls out to the music's thrill. Old years came back, and half remembered hours. Dreams of delisrht that never was to be, Mothers' remembered kiss, the funei-al flowers Laid on the grave of life's felicity ; An infinite dear passion of regret Swept through their hearts, and left their eyelids wet. The birds beat ever at the window, till — - They broke the pane, and so could entrance win ; Their slender feet clung to the window-sill, And though with them the bitter air came in, The monks were glad that the birds too should hear, Since to God's creatures all. His praise is dear. The lovely music waxed and waned, and sank. And brought less conscious sadness in its train, Unrecognized despair that thinks to thank God for a joy renounced, a chosen pain — And deems that peace which is but stifled life Dulled by a too-prolonged unfruitful strife. "When, service done, the Brothers gathered round To thank the singer — modest-eyed, said he : 174 Clegg's Elocutionist. " Not mine the grace, if grace indeed abound ; God gave the power, if any power there be ; If I in hymn or psahn clear voice can raise, As His the gift, so His be all the praise ! " That night — the Abbot, lying on his bed — A sudden flood of radiance on him fell, Poured from the crucifix above his head. And cast a stream of ii£:ht across his cell — And in tlie fullest fervour of the licfht An Angel stood, glittering, and great, and white. His wings of thousand rainbow clouds seemed made, A thousand lamps of love shone in his eyes, The light of dawn upon his brows was laid. Odours of thousand flowers of Paradise Filled all the cell, and through the heart there stirred A sense of music that could not be heard. The Angel spoke — his voice was low and sweet As the sea's murmur on low-lying shore — Or whisper of the wind in ripened wheat : " Brother," he said, " the God we both adore Has sent me down to ask, is all not right ? — Why was Magnificat not sung to-night % " Tranced in the joy the Angel's presence brought, The Abbot answered : " All these weary years "We have sung our best — but always have we thought Our voices were unworthy heavenly ears ; And so to-night we found a clearer tongue. And by it the Magnificat was sung." The Angel answered, " All these happy years In heaven has your Magnificat been heard \ This night alone, the Angels' listening ears Of all its music caught no single word. Say, who is he whose goodness is not strong Enough to bear the burden of his song ? " The Abbot named his name. " Ah, why," he cried, " Have angels heard not what we found so dear ? " " Only pure hearts," the Angel's voice replied, " Can carry human songs up to God's ear ; Clegg's Elocutionist. 175 To-night in heaven was missed the sweetest praise That ever rises from earth's mud-stained maze. " The monk who sang 2Iagnificat is filled With lust of praise, and with hypocrisy ; He sings for earth — in heaven his notes are stilled By muffling weight of deadening vanity ; His heart is chained to earth, and cannot bear His singing higher than the listening air ! " From purest hearts most perfect music springs, And while you mourned your voices were not sweet, Marred by the accident of earthly things, — In heaven, God, listening, judged your song complete. The sweetest of earth's music came from you, The music of a noble life and true ! " The Story of the Faithful SouL The fettered Spirits linger In purgatorial pain, With penal fires effacing Their last faint earthly stain, Which life's imperfect sorrow Had tried to cleanse in vain. Yet, on each feast of Mary Their sorrow finds release. For the o;reat Archangel Michael Comes down and bids it cease ; And the name of these brief respites Is called " Our Lady's Peace." Yet once — so runs the Legend — When the Archangel came, And all these holy spirits Rejoiced at Mary's name ; One voice alone was wailing, Still wailins; on the same. And thoufrh a great Te Deum The happy echoes woke, This (me discordant wailing Through the sweet voices broke ; 176 C^^SS'^ Elocutionist. So when St. Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke : — " I am not cold or thankless, Although I still complain ; I prize our Lady's blessing, Although it comes in vain To still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain. " On earth a heart that loved me Still lives and mourns me there, And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear ; All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair. " The evening of my bridal Death took my Life away ; Not all Love's passionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay; And he I left has suffered A whole year since that day. •' If I could only see him, — If I could only go And speak one word of comfort And solace, — then, I know He would endure with patience, And strive against his woe." Thus the Archangel answered : — " Your time of pain is brief. And soon the peace of Heaven Will give you full relief ; Yet if his earthly comfort So much outweighs your grief, " Then through a special mercy I offer you this grace, — You may seek him who mourns you And look upon his face, And speak to him of comfort For one short minute's space. Cleggs Elocutionist. 177 " But when, that time is ended, Return here, and remain A thousand years in torment, A thousand years in pain : Thus dearly must you purchase The comfort he will gain." The Lime-trees' shade at evening Is spreading broad and wide ; Beneath their fragrant arches, Pace slowly, side by side. In low and tender converse, A Bridegroom and his Bride. The night is calm and stilly, No other sound is there Except their happy voices : What is that cold bleak air That passes through the Lime-trees And stirs the Bridegroom's hair % "While one low cry of anguish, Like the last dying wail Of some dumb, hunted creature, Is borne upon the gale : — Why does the Bridegroom shudder ^ And turn so deathly pale 1 Near Purgatory's entrance The radiant Angels wait ; It was the great St. Michael Who closed that gloomy gate When the poor wandering spirit Came back to meet her fate. " Pass on," thus spoke the Angel : " Heaven's joy is deep and vast ; Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit, For Heaven is yours at last ; In that one minute's anguish Your thousand years have passed." 178 . Clegg's Elocutionist. Paul Revere's Ride. ( Verse 'printed as Prose. ) Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, on the eighteenth of April, in 'Seventy-five ; hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year He said to his friend, " If the British march by land or sea from the town to-night, hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch of the North Church tower as a signal light, — one, if by land, and two, if by sea ; and I on the opposite shore will be, ready to ride and spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm, for the country-folk to be up and to arm." Then he said, " Good night ! " and, with muffled oar, silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, just as the moon rose over the bay, where swinging wide at her moorings lay the Somerset, British man-of-war ; a phantom- ship, with each mast and spar across the moon like a prison bar, and a huge black hulk, that was magnified by its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, wanders and watches with eager ears, till in the silence around him he hears the muster of men at the barrack-door, the sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, and the measured tread of the grenadiers marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the Old North Church, up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, to the belfry-chamber over- head, and startled the pigeons from their perch on the sombre rafters, that round him made masses and moving shapes of shade, — up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, to the highest window in the wall, where he paused to listen and look down a moment on the roofs of the town, and the raoonliwht flowinor over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, in their night-encampment on the hill, wrapped in silence so deep and still that he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, the watchful night-wind as it went creeping along from tent to tent, and seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " A moment only he feels the spell of the place and the hour, and the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead ; for suddenly all his thoughts are bent on a shadowy something far away, where the river widens to meet the bay, — a line of black that bends and floats on the risin" tide, like a bridi^e of boats. Clegg's Elocutionist. lyg Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, booted and spurred, with a heavy stride on the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. !N'ow he patted his horse's side, now gazed at the landscape far and near, then, impetuous, stamped the earth, and turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; but mostly he watched with eager search the belfry tower of the Old North Church, as it rose above the graves on the hill, lonely and spectral, and sombre and still. And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height a glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, but lingers and gazes, till full on his sight a second lamp in the belfry burns ! .... A hurry of hoofs in a village street, a shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, and beneath, from the jDebbles, in passing, a spark struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet ; that was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light, the fate of a nation was riding that night ; and the spark struck out by that steed in his flight, kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was twelve by the village clock when he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock and the barking of the farmer's dog, and felt the damp of the river fosr, that rises after the sun goes down It was one by the village clock when he galloped into Lexington. He saw the "ilded weathercock swim in the moonlight as he passed, and the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, gaze at him with a spectral glare, as if they already stood aghast at the bloody work they would look upon It was two by the village clock when he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock and the twitter of birds among the trees, and felt the breath of the mornino; breeze blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed who at the bridge would be first to fall, who that day would be lying dead, pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read how the British Rearulars fired and fled.^how the farmers gave them ball for ball, from behind each fence and farmyard wall, chasin" the i-ed-coats down the lane, then crossinfj the field to emerge again under the trees at the turn of the road, and •only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode l8o Clesrs:'s Elocutionist. - floor, tremble for terror when the thunders roar ? Are we not gods ? have we not fought with God ? and shall we shiver at a robber's nod ? No I — let them batter till the brazen bars ring merry mocking of their idle wars ; their fall is fated for to- morrow's sun ; the lion rouses when his feast is done : — crown me a cup — and fill the bowls we brought from Judah's temple when the fiafht was fought : — -drink, till the merry madness fills the soul, to Salem's conqueror, in Salem's bowl !" His eager lips are on the jewelled brink — hath the cup poison that he doubts to drink ? is there a spell upon the sparkling gold, that so his fevered fingers quit their hold 1 Whom sees he where he fjazes ? What is there — freezing his vision into fearful stare ? . . . There cometh forth a Hand ! — upon the stone graving the symbols of a speech unknown; fingers like mortal fingers ! — leaving there the blank wall flashing characters of fear ; — and still it glideth silently and slow, and still beneath the spectral letters grow I — now the scroll endeth — now, the seal is set — • the Hand is gone ! — the record tarries yet. With wand of ebony and sable stole, Chaldsea's wisest scan the spectral scroll : strong in the lessons of a lying art, each comes to gaze, but gazes to depart ; and still, for mystic sign and muttered spell, the graven letters guard their secret well ; gleam they for warning ? — glare they to condemn % — God speaketh, — but He speaketh not for them. Oh ! ever : when the happy laugh is dumb, all the joy gone, and all the anguish come : — when strong adversity and subtle pain wiring the sad soul and rack the throbbing brain ; — when friends once faithful, hearts once all our own, leave us to weep, to bleed, and die alone : — when fears and cares the lonely thought employ, and clouds of sorrow hide the sun of joy ; — when weary life, breathing reluctant breath, hath no hope sweeter than the hope of death ; — then, the best counsel and the best relief to cheer the spirit or to cheat the grief, — the only calm, the only comfort heard, comes in tlie music of a Woman's word : — like beacon-bell, on some wild island-shore, silvery ringing in the tempest's roar, whose sound, borne ship- ward through the midnight gloom, tells of the path, and turns her from her doom. 1 82 Clegs;' s Elocutionist. 'i3ii So, in the silence of that awful hour, when baffled magic mourned its parted power — ^when Kings were pale and Satraps shook for fear — a Woman speaketh — and the wisest hear. She — the high daughter of a thousand thrones, telling, with trembling lip and timid tones, of him — the Captive, — in the feast forgot, who readeth visions — him, whose wondrous lot sends him to lighten doubt and lessen gloom, and gaze un- dazzled on the days to come — Daniel the Hebrew, — such his name and race, held by a monarch highest in his grace, lie may declare — oh ! — bid them quickly send ! — so may the mystery have happy end ! Calmly and silent — as the fair full moon comes sailing upward in the sky of June — so through the hall the Prophet passed along, so from before him fell the festal throng. His lip was steady and his accent clear, "The King hath needed me, and I am here." " Art thou the Prophet 1 read me yonder scroll whose undeciphered horror daunts my soul : — there shall be guerdon for the grateful task, fitted for me to give, for thee to ask ; — a chain to deck thee, and a robe to grace, — thine the third throne, and thou the third in place." " Keep for thyself the guerdon and tlie gold — what God hath graved, God's Prophet shall unfold ! Could not thy father's crime, thy fatlier's fate, teach thee this terror thou hast learnt too late ? Hast thou not read the lesson of his life, 'Who wars with God shall strive a losing strife f Ay ! when his heart was hard, his spirit high, God drove him from his kingly majesty, far from tlie brotherhood of fellow-men, to seek for dwelling in the desert den : where bitter-biting frost and dews of night schooled him in sorrow, till he knew the right — that God is ruler of the rulers still, and setting up as sovereiscn whom He will. Oh ! hadst thou treasured, in re- pentant breast, thy father's pride, fall, penitence and rest, and bowed submissive to Jehovah's will, then had thy sceptre been a sceptre still. But thou hast mocked the majesty of heaven, and shamed the vessels to its service given ; and thou hast fashioned idols of thine own — idols of gold, of silver, and of stone : to them hast bowed the knee, and breathed the breath, and they must help thee in the hour of death. Woe for the sign unseen, the sin forgot ! God was among ye, and ye knew Clegg's Elocutionist. 183 it not ! Hear what He writeth there : — ' Thy race is run ; thy years are numbered, and thy days are done : thy soul hatli mounted in the scale of fate ; the Lord hath weighed thee, and thou lackest weight ! Now, in thy palace-porch, the spoilers stand, to seize thy sceptre, to divide thy land.' " That night they slew him on his father's throne, the deed unnoticed, and the hand unknown : — crownless and sceptre- less, Belshazzar lay — a robe of purple round a form of clay ! Baby in Church. Aunt Nellie had fashioned a dainty thing. Of hamburg and ribbon and lace. And Mamma had said, as she settled it 'round Our beautiful Baby's face. Where the dimples play and the laughter lies Like sunbeams hid in her violet eyes : " If the day is pleasant and Baby is good. She may go to church and wear her new hood." Then Ben, aged six, began to tell, In elder-brotherly way. How very, very good she must be If she went to church next day. He told of the church, the choir and the crowd, And the man up in front who talked so loud ; But she must not talk nor laugh nor sing, But just sit as quiet as anything. And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May, When the fruit-buds burst into flowers (There wasn't a blossom on bush or tree So fair as this blossom of ours), All in her white dress, dainty and new. Our Baby sat in the family pew. The grand, sweet music, the reverent air. The solemn hush and the voice of prayer, Filled all her baby soul with awe, As she sat in her little place, 184 Clegg's Elocutionist. And the holy look that the angels wear Seemed pictured upon her face. And the sweet words uttered so long ago Came into my mind with a rhythmic flow : " Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven," said He, And I knew that He spake of such as she. The sweet-voiced organ pealed forth again, The collection-box came round, And Baby dropped her penny in, And smiled at the chinking sound. Alone in the choir Aunt Nellie stood, Waiting the close of the soft prelude. To begin her solo. High and strong She struck the hrst note, clear and long. She held it, and all were charmed but one, Who, with all the might she had. Sprang to her little feet and cried : '■'■ Aunt Nellie, you's being had ! " The audience smiled, the minister coughed, The little boys in the corner laughed, The tenor-man shook like an aspen leaf And hid his face in his handkerchief. And poor Aunt Nellie never could tell How she finished that terrible strain, But says that nothing on earth would tempt Her to go through the scene again. So, we have decided, perliaps 'tis best, For her sake, ours, and all the rest. That we wait, maybe for a year or two. Ere our Baby re-enter the family pew. Mary Queen of Scots. I look'd 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. And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls ; Clegg's Elocutionist. 185 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 holy shrine. Of roval blood and hiirh 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, And 'neath 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 : — But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide, Eflulgent 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 was changed. It was a bark 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 Upon 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 : 1 86 Cles:s:'s Elocutionist. vbe> It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends, — - It was the land where she had found for all her ^rriefs amends, — The land where her dead husband slept — the land where she had known The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne : No marvel that the Lady wept — -it was the land of France — The chosen home of chivalry — the garden of romance ! The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark ; 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 unconscious sea ! The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood. And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood 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. The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow ; And traitors to her councils came, and I'ebels 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 Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play The songs she loved in early years — the songs of gay Navarre, The songs perchance tliat 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 armM men ! the Douglas' battle-cry ! They come — they come ! — and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye ! Clegg's Elocutionist. 187 And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and ■words are vain — 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, witliin 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 her 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 remorseless foes ! " A red spot burned upon her cheek — streamed her rich tresses down. She wrote the words — she stood erect — a queen without a crown I The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore, And the faithful of the land stood round 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 strown, and flying far, defenceless and undone ; — Alas ! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won ! — Away ! away ! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part; Yet vain his speed — for thou dost bear the arrow in thv heart ! The scene was changed. Beside tlie block a sullen headsman stood. And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood. 1 88 Clegg's Elocutionist. With slow and steady step there came a Lady through the hall, And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched the hearts of all. I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom, — I 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 ! The little dog that licks her hand — the last of all the crowd Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bowed ! — 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 ! — a solemn text ! — Go, think of it alone ; Then wei A soul that masters wind and wave, and towers above a sinking deck ; A bridge across the gaping wave, a rainbow rising o'er the wreck. Others he saved ; he saved the name unsullied that he gave his wife : And dying with so pure an aim, he had no need to save his life I Lord, how they shame the life we live, these sailors of our sea- girt isle. Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give, and go down with a heavenward smile ! The men who sow their lives to yield a glorious crop in lives to be : Who turn to England's harvest-field the unfruitful furi'ows of the sea. With such a breed of men so brave, the Old Land has not had her day ; But long her strength, with crested wave, shall ride the Seas the proud old way. The Maids of Attitash. In sky and wave the white clouds swam, And the blue hills of Nottingham Through gaps of leafy green Across the lake were seen, — When, in the shadow of the ash. That dreams its dream in Attitash, In the warm summer weather. Two maidens sat together. They sat and watched in idle mood The gleam and shade of lake and wood, — The beach the keen light smote, The white sail of a boat, — Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying, — Hardback, and virgin's-bower. And white-spiked clethra-flower. With careless ears they heard the plash And breezy wash of Attitash, Clegg^s Elocutionist. 207 The wood-bird's plaintive cry, The locust's sharp reply. And teased the while, with playful hand, The shaggy dog of Newfoundland, Whose uncouth frolic spilled Their baskets berry-filled. Then one, the beauty of whose eyes Was evermore a great surprise, Tossed back her queenly head, And, lightly laughing, said, — " No brideirroom's hand be mine to hold That is not lined with yellow gold ; I tread no cottage-floor ; I own no lover poor. " My love must come on silken wings, With bridal lights of diamond rings, — Not foul wdth kitchen smirch, With tallow-dip for torch." The other, on whose modest head Was lesser dower of beauty shed, With look for home-hearths meet, And voice exceeding sweet. Answered, — "We will not rivals be; Take thou the gold, leave love to me; Mine be the cottage small. And thine the rich man's hall. " I know, indeed, that wealth is good ; But lowly roof and simple food. With love that hath no doubt. Are more than gold without." Hard by a farmer hale and young His cradle in the rye-field swung, Tracking the yellow plain With windrows of ripe grain. And still, whene'er he paused to whet His scythe, the sidelong glance he met Of large dark eyes, where strove False pride and secret love. 208 Clegg's Elocutionist. Be strons^, vounc' mower of the arrain : That love shall overmatch disdain, Its instincts soon or late The heart shall vindicate. In blouse of grey, with fishing-rod. Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod The margin of the pond. Watching the group beyond. The supreme hours unnoted come ; Unfelt the turning tides of doom ; And so the maids laughed on, Nor dreamed what Fate had done, — Nor knew the step was Destiny's That rustled in the birchen trees. As, wdth their lives forecast, Fisher and mower passed. Erelong by lake and rivulet side The summer roses paled and died, And Autumn's fingers shed The maple's leaves of red. Through the long gold-hazed afternoon, Alone, but for the diving loon, Tlie partridge in the brake. The black duck on the lake. Beneath the shadow of the ash Sat man and maid by Attitash ; And earth and air made room For human hearts to bloom. Soft spread the carpets of the sod And scarlet-oak and golden-rod With blushes and with smiles Lit up the forest aisles. The mellow light the lake aslant. The pebbled margin's ripple-chant Attempered and low-toned, The tender mystery owned. Clegg's Elocutionist. 209 And through the dream the lovers dreamed Sweet sounds stole in and soft lights streamed ; The sunshine seemed to bless, The air was a caress. Not she who lightly laughed is there, With scornful toss of midnight hair. Her dark, disdainful eyes, And proud lip worldly-wise. Her haughty vow is still unsaid. But all she dreamed and coveted Wears, half to her surprise, The youthful farmer's guise ! With more than all her old-time pride She walks the rye-held at his side, Careless of cot or hall, Since love transfifrures all. Rich beyond dreams, the vantage-ground Of life is gained ; her hands have found The talisman of old That changes all to gold. While she who could for love dispense, With all its glittering accidents, And trust her heart alone, Finds love and gold her own. What wealth can buy or art can build Awaits her ; but her cup is filled Even now unto the brim ; Her world is love and him ! The Lost Found. From " Evangeline." In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters. Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penu the apostle, Stands ou the l)anks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, 2IO Clegg's Elocutionist. And the s^treets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest. As if they fahi would appease the Dryads whose haunts tney molested. There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. There old Ren^ Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, Saw at his side only one of all his huucbed descendants. Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger : And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. So, when the fruitless search, the disaj^pointed endeavour. Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining. Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her. Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence and absence. Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, but transfigured; He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others. This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices. Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, "V^Tiere distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated Loud, through tlie gusty streets, that all was well in the city. High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. Day after day, in the grey of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits of the market, Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchiugs. Clci^s^'s Eloaitionist. 2 1 1 c>^5 Theu it came to pass that a pestilence fell ou the city, Presaged by wondi-ous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beaiity to charm, the oppressor ; But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and wood- lands ] — Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket Meek, in the midst of splendour, its humble walls seem to echo Softly the words of the Lord — " The poor ye always have with you." Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendour, Such as the artLst paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial. Into whose shining gates ere long their spu'its would enter. Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. Sweet on the summer air was the odour of flowers in the garden ; And she paused ou her way to gather the fairest among them. That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragi-ance and beauty. Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind. Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their Church at Wicaco. Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit ; Something within her said — "At length thy trials are ended ;" And, witli^ light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces. Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road-side. ]\Iany a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, Turned ou its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence 212 Cleo^sfs Elocutionist. ^>^> Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever. Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder. Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flow'rets dropped from her fingers, And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish. That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. Long, and thin, and grey were the locks that shaded his temples ; But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besj^riukled its portals, That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness, Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sinking. Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "Gabriel ! my beloved !" and died away into sileufe. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood ; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under their shadow. As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him. Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into darkness. As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow. All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied louLiing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to lior l^osom, Mi'clcly she bowed her own, and murmured, '" Father, I thank thee !" CI egg's Elocutionist. 213 The Song of the Camp. "Give us a song !" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan in silent scoff Lay grim and threatening under — The tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause — the guardsman said, " We storm the forts to-morrow ; Sing while we may; another day Will brino; enous;h of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon — Brave hearts from Severn, and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love and not of fame, Forgot was Britain's glory ; Each heart recalled a different name, But all san" "Annie Laurie." Voice after voice caught up the song. Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong — Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl ! her name he dared not speak ; Yet as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stain of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bhjody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learn'd How English love remembers. And once a^rain a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell. And bellowing of the mortars. 214 Clesrsi's Elocutionist. £>£> Sweet Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory : And English IMary mourns for him "Who sang of " Annie Laurie." Oh, soldiers ! to your honoured rest Your truth and valour bearing: — o The bravest are the tenderest, The loving are the darinfj." The Forlorn. The night is dark, the stinging sleet, Swept by the bitter gusts of air, Drives whistling down the lonely street, And glazes on the pavement bare. The street-lamps flare and struggle dim Through the gray sleet-clouds as they pass. Or, governed by a boisterous whim. Drop down and rustle on the glass. One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Faces the east-wind's searching flaws. And, as about her heart they whirl, Her tattered cloak more tightly draws. The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze ; Yet dares she not a shelter seek, Though faint with hunger and disease. The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, And, piercing through her garments thin, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there Makes colder the cold heart witliin. She lingers where a ruddy glow Streams outward through an open shutter. Adding more bitterness to woe, More loneness to desertion utter. One half the cold she had not felt Until she saw this crush of liiiht Cleggs Elocutionist. 215 Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt Its slow way through the deadening night. She hears a woman's voice within, Singing sweet words her childhood knew, And years of misery and sin Furl off, and leave her heaven blue. Her freezing heart, like one who sinks Outwearied in the drifting snow. Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks No longer of its hopeless woe : Old fields, and clear blue summer days, Old meadows, green with grass, and trees That shimmer through the trembling haze And whiten in the western breeze, Old faces, all the friendly past Rises within her heart again, And sunshine from her childhood cast Makes summer of the icy rain. Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow. From man's humanity apart. She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of the heart. Outside the porch before the door. Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone. She lies, no longer foul and poor, No longer dreary and alone. Next morning something heavily Against the opening door did weigh, And there, from sin and sorrow free, A woman on the threshold lay, A smile upon the wan lips told That she had found a calm release. And that, from out the want and cold, The song had borne her soul in peace. For, whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in. And fences them all round about With silence mid tlie world s loud din ; 2l6 Clegg's Elocutionist. And one of His great charities Is Music, and it doth not scorn To close the lids upon the eyes Of the polluted and forlorn ; Far was she from her childhood's horoe, Farther in guilt had wandered thence, Yet thither it had bid her come To die in maiden innocence. The First Snow-fall, The snow had begun in the gloaming. And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Eeery pine and fir and hemlock "Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree "Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow. The stiff rails were so.'^tened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the Avindow The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds. Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn, Where a little headstone stood ; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?'' And I told of the good All-Father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall. And thought of the leaden sky Clegg's Elocutionist. 217 That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe. And again to the child I whispered, " The snow that husheth all. Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall !" Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister. Folded close under deepening snow. " Rock of Ages." " Rock of Ages cleft for me," Thoughtlessly the maiden sung. Fell the words unconsciously From her "irlish gleeful tonofue, Sang as little children sing, Sang as do the birds in June, Fell the words like light leaves down On the current of the tune. " Rock of ages cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." " Let me hide myself in Thee " — Felt her soul no need to hide ; Sweet the sons: as sonfj could be, And she had no thought beside ; All the words unheedingly Fell from lips untouclied by care, Dreaming not that each might be On some other lips a prayer. "Rock of Ages cleft for me. Let me hide myself in Thee." 2i8 Clegg's Elocutionist. " Rock of Aires cleft for me " — 'Twas a woman sang them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully, Every word her heart did know ; Rose the song, as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air. Every note by sorrow stirred, Every syllable a prayer. " Rock of Ages cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." " Rock of Ages cleft for me," Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly, Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim ; " Let me hide myself in Thee," Trembling tho' the voice and low, Ran the sweet strain peacefully, Like a river in its flow ; Sung as only they can sing Who life's thorny paths have pressed, Sung as only they can sing Who behold the promised rest. " Rock of Ages cleft for me. Let me hide myself in Thee." " Rock of Ages cleft for me," Sung above a coffin lid, Underneath all restfully. All life's joys and sorrows hid. Never more, oh ! storm-tossed soul, Never more from wind and tide. Never more from billows' roll, Wilt thou need thyself to hide ; Could those sightless sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair Could those mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer. Still, aye still the words would be, "Let me hide mvself in Thee." Cleo^^s Elocutionist. 2ig \b<:> At Last. When on my day of life the night is falling, And, in the Avinds from unsunned spaces blown, I hear far voices out of darkness calling My feet to paths unknown, Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant. Leave not its tenant when its walls decay ; Love Divine, O Helper ever present, Be Thou my strength and stay ! Be near me when all else is from me drifting: Earth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and shine, And kindly faces to my own uplifting The love which answers mine. 1 have but Thee, my Father ! let Thy spirit Be with me then to comfort and uphold ; No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit, Nor street of shining gold. Suffice it if — my good and ill unreckoned. And both forgiven through Thy abounding grace — I find myself by hands familiar beckoned Unto my fitting place. Some humble door among Thy many mansions. Some sheltering shade where sin and striving cease, And flows for ever through heaven's green expansions The river of Thy peace. There, from the music round about me stealing, I fain would learn the new and holy song. And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing. The life for which I lonir. In School-Days. Still sits the school-house by the roacl, A ragged beggar sunninij ; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen. Deep scarred by raps official ; 220 Clegg's Elocutionist. The warping-floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial \ The charcoal frescoes on its wall ; Its door's woi'n sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school. Went storming out to playing ! Long years ago a winter sun fehone over it at setting ; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls. And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed AVhen all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favour singled : His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered ; — As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice. As if a fault confessing. " I'm sorry that I spelt the word : I hate to go above you. Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — " Because, you see, I love you ! " Still memory to a grey-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing ! He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her, — because they love him. Clezs^s Elocutionist. 221 "£>{:> The Minister's Daughter. In the minister's morning sermon He had told of the primal fall, And how thenceforth the wrath of God Rested on each and all. And how, of His will and pleasure. All souls, save a chosen few, Were doomed to the quenchless burning, And held in the way thereto. Yet never by faith's unreason A saintlier soul was tried, And never the harsh old lesson A tenderer heart belied. And, after the painful service On that pleasant Sabbath day, He walked with his little daughter Through the apple-bloom of May. Sweet in the fresh green meadows Sparrow and blackbird sung ; Above him their tinted petals The blossoming orchards hung. Around on the wonderful glory The minister looked and smiled ; " How good is the Lord who gives us These gifts from His hand, my child. " Behold in the bloom of apples And the violets in the sward A hint of the old, lost beauty Of the Garden of the Lord ! " Then up spake the little maiden. Treading on snow and pink : " O father ! these pretty blossoms Are very wicked, I think. " Had there been no Garden of Eden There never had been a fall ; And if never a tree had blossomed God would have loved us all." 222 Cles:s:'s Elocutionist. i3i> " Hush, child ! " the father aaswered, " By His decree man fell ; His ways are in clouds and darkness, But He doeth all thincjs well. " And whether by His ordaining To us cometh good or ill, Joy or pain, or light or shadow. We must fear and love Him still." " Oh, I fear Him ! " said the daughter, " And I try to love Him, too ; But I wish He was good and gentle. Kind and loving as you." Tlie minister groaned in spirit As the tremulous lips of pain And wide, wet eyes uplifted Questioned his own in vain. Bowing his head he pondered The words of the little one ; Had he erred in his life-lonfj teaching ? Had he wrong to his Master done ? To what grim and dreadful idol Had he lent the holiest name ? Did his own heart, loving and human, The God of his worship shame ? ' And lo ! from the bloom and greenness, From the tender skies above, And the face of his little daughter, He read a lesson of love. No more as the cloudy terror Of Sinai's mount of law, But as Christ in the Syrian lilies The vision of God he saw. And, as when, in the clefts of Horeb, Of old was His presence known. The dread Ineffable Glory Was Infinite Goodness alone. Clcggs Elocutionist. 223 Thereafter his hearers noted In his prayers a tenderer strain, And never the gospel of hatred Burned on his lips again. And the scoffing tongue was prayerful, And the blinded eyes found sight. And hearts, as flint aforetime, Grew soft in his warmth and lifjht. The Bivouac Fire. (Verse 2>rinted as Prose.) Round the bivouac fire, at midnight, lay the weary soldier- band ; bloody were their spears with slaughter, gory was each hwo's hand, for the ghastly strife was ended : From each soul a whisper came — " God of battles, we have triumphed ; hal- lowed be Thy holy name !" It was beautiful, at midnight, when the bloody war was done, when the battle clashed no lonf^er, and no longer blazed the sun, calmly, in the balmy starlight, to repose outwearied limbs ; not a sound to stir the stillness, save the sound of holy hymns: "Thou hast given us the glory : Thou hast bade our troubles cease : Thou art great as God of battles : Thou art best as God of peace ! " Pensive, by the gleaming firelight, mute one lonely Soldier stood ; in his hand he grasped a paper, scrawled in letters large and crude — in his gory hands he grasped it ; and the tender childlike tear, from his manful bosom welling, bathed the blood upon his spear ! Then the gory paper oped he, scrawled in letters crude and wild — "Little news from England, comrades ; 'tis a letter from my child ! " " my father ! what hath kept you ? You are nigh three years away ; it was snowtime when you left us — this is morn oi new year's day. ' Good- bye, baby, until summer, vr till Christmas-time,' you said : my father ! what hath kept you ? siunmer, Christmas, twice have fled. Mother says your war is holy— that you bear a noble name — that you fight for God and honour, and to shield our home from shame ; yet I often hear her praying : 'Make all war, God, to cease : Thou art great as God of battles : Thou art best as God of peace.' Night and morn I pray for father ; in the sunny morning hours I am often in the garden ; I have sown your name in flowers— lilce your coat, in flowers of scarlet, all in tulips soldier-red. Come, before the flowers are faded— come, before your name is dead ! 224 Clegg's Elocutionist. Little brother died at Christmas — mother told me not to tell — but I think it better, father, for you said, ' Tlie dead are well.' He was buried side o' Mary ; mother since has never smiled. Till we meet, good-bye, dear father . . . from your lovixg little child." Silent wore the nio'ht to morninsr — silent, at their soul's desire, lay the soldiers, lost in dreaming, round the dying bivouac fire : home were they again in England ! miles were they from war's alarms ! . . Hark ! the sudden bugle sounding ! hark ! the cry, " To arms ! to arms ! " Out from ambush, out from thicket, charged the foemen through the plain ; " Up, my warriors ! arm, my heroes ! strike for God and home again ! — for our homes, our babes, our country ! " and the ruddy morning light flared on brandished falchions, bloody still with gore of yesternight. Purple grew the plain with slaughter, steed and rider side by side ; and the crimson day of carnage in a crimson sunset died : shuddering on the field of battle glimpsed the starlight overhead ; and the moonlight, ghostlike, glimmered on the dying and the dead. Faint and few around the firelight were the laid outwearied limbs — faint and few the hero-voices that uprose in holy hymns ; few the warriors left to whisper, " Thou hast cast our foes to shame : God of battles, we have triumphed ; hallowed be Thy mighty name ! " On the purple plain of slaughter, who is this that smiles in rest, with a shred of gory paper lying on his mangled breast ? nought remaining save a fragment, scrawled in letters crude and wild — " Till we meet, good-bye, dear father, from your loving little child ! " Eaise him softly, lift him gently ; staunch his life-blood ebbing slow ; he is breathing ! he is whispering ! What is this he mutters low ? " Saved ! my child — my home — my country ! Father, give my pangs release : Thou art great as God of battles : Thou art best as God of peace." The Three Preachers. (Verse printed as Prose.) There are Three Preachers, ever preaching, filled with eloquence and power : — one is old, with locks of white, skinny as an anchorite : and he preaches, every hour, with a Ciegg's Elocutionist. 225 shrill fanatic voice, and a bigot's fiery scorn : — "Backward ! ye presumptuous nations ; man to misery is born ! born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer — born to labour and to pray ! Backward, ye presumptuous nations — back ! be humble, and obey ! " The Second is a milder Preacher ; soft he talks, as if he sung ; sleek and slothful in his look, and his words, as from a book, issue glibly from his tongue. With an air of self- content high he lifts his fair white hands : " Stand ye still, ye restless nations, and be happy, all ye lands ! Pate is law, and law is perfect ; if ye meddle, ye will mar ; change is rash, and ever was so : we are happy as we are !" Mightier is the Younger Preacher ; genxus flashes from his eyes ; and the crowds who hear his voice give him, while their souls rejoice, throbbing bosoms for replies. Awed they listen, yet elated, while his stirring accents call : " Forward ! ye deluded nations ; Progress is the rule of all : Man was made for healthful efibrt ; Tyranny has crushed him long : he shall march from good to better, and do battle with the wrong. " Standing still is childish folly, going backward is a crime : none should patiently endure any ill that he can cure. On- ward ! keep the march of Time ! Onward ! While a wrong remains to be conquered by the right ; while Oppression lifts a finger to afi'ront us by his might ; while an error clouds the leason of the universal heart, or a slave awaits his freedom — action is the wise man's part. " Lo ! the world is rich in blessings ; Earth and Ocean, Flame and Wind, have unnumbered secrets still, to be ran sacked, when you will, for the service of mankind : Science is a child, as yet ; but her power and scope shall grow, and her triumphs in the future shall diminish toil and woe ; shall extend the bounds of pleasure with an ever-widening ken ; and, of woods and wildernesses, make the homes of happy men. " Onward ! — there are ills to conquer ; daily, wickedness is wrought ; Tyranny is swoln with Pride, Bigotry is deified. Error intertwined with Thought ; Vice and Misery ramp and crawl : root them out, their day has passed ; Goodness is alone immortal. Evil was not made to last : Onward ! and all Earth shall aid us ere our peaceful flag be furled I " — And the preaching of this Preacher stirs the pulses of the world. 226 Cleo-o's Elocutionist. The Red Thread of Honour. Eleven men of England A breast-work charged in vain ; Eleven men of England Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. Slain ; but of foes that guarded Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been mastered, When the last soldier fell. Whilst Xapier piloted his wondrous way Across the sand-waves of the desert sea, Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay, Lord of their wild Truckee. These missed the glen to which their steps were bent, Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, And, in that glorious error, calmly went To death without a word. The robber chief mused deeply. Above those daring dead ; " Bring here," at length he shouted, " Bring quick, the battle thread. Let El:)lis blast for ever Their souls, if Allah will : But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill. " Before the Ghiznee tiger Leapt forth to burn and slay , Before the holy Prophet Taught our grim tribes to pray ; Before Secunder's lances Pierced through each Indian glen : The mountain laws of honour Were framed for fearless men. " Still when a cliief dies bravely. We bind with green one wrist — Green for the brave, for heroes One crimson thread we twist. Clegg's Elocutionist. 227 Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen, For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting colour, The green one, or the red ? " " Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear Their green reward," each noble savage said ; " To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red ? " Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right. Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came ; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim. Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead ; Fi'om his irood sword their hearts' blood Crept to that crimson thread. Once more he cried, " The judgment, Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given, Have we not more to do % " These were not stirred by anger, Xor yet by lust made bold ; Renown they thought above them, Nor did they look for gold. To them their leaders signal Was as the voice of God : "Unmoved, and uncomplaining. The path it showed they trod. "As, v.'ithout suund or struirgle. The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch. These Franks, sublimely silent, AVithout a quickened breath. Went, in the strength of duty, Straight to their goal of death. *' If I were now to ask you To name our bravest man 228 Clesis's Elocutionist. '