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PART EIGHTH.

RHETORICAL AND DRAMATIC.

1. ROME AND CARTHAGE.-Victor Hugo. Original Translation.

ROME and Carthage!-behold them drawing near for the struggle that is to shake the world! Carthage, the metropolis of Africa, is the mistress of oceans, of kingdoms, and of Nations; a magnificent city, burthened with opulence, radiant with the strange arts and trophies of the East. She is at the acme of her civilization. She can mount no higher. Any change now must be a decline. Rome is comparatively poor. She has seized all within her grasp, but rather from the lust of conquest than to fill her own coffers. She is demi-barbarous, and has her education and her fortune both to make. All is before her, nothing behind. For a time, these two Nations exist in view of each other. The one reposes in the noontide of her splendor; the other waxes strong in the shade. But, little by little, air and space are wanting to each for her development. Rome begins to perplex Carthage, and Carthage is an eyesore to Rome. Seated on opposite banks of the Mediterranean, the two cities look each other in the face. The sea no longer keeps them apart. Europe and Africa weigh upon each other. Like two clouds surcharged with electricity they impend. With their contact must come the thunder-shock.

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The catastrophe of this stupendous drama is at hand. What actors are met! Two races, that of merchants and mariners, that of laborers and soldiers; two Nations, the one dominant by gold, the other by steel; two Republics, the one theocratic, the other aristocratic. Rome and Carthage! Rome with her army, Carthage with her fleet; Carthage, old, rich and crafty, Rome, young, poor, and robust; the past and the future; the spirit of discovery, and the spirit of conquest; the genius of commerce, the demon of war; the East and the South on one side, the West and the North on the other; in short, two worlds, - the civilization of Africa, and the civilization of Europe. They measure each other from head to foot. They gather all their forces. Gradually the war kindles. The world takes fire. These colossal powers are locked in deadly strife. Carthage has crossed the Alps; Rome, the seas. The two Nations, personified in two men, Hannibal and Scipio, close with each other, wrestle, and grow infuriate. The duel is desperate. It is a struggle

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of anguish cry collects all her strength for one last,

She utters that at the gates! But she rallies,

appalling effort, throws herself upon Carthage, and sweeps her from

the face of the earth!

2. THE DRONES OF THE COMMUNITY.-Percy Bysshe Shelley.

THOSE gilded flies

That, basking in the sunshine of a Court,
Fatten on its corruption- what are they?
The drones of the community! they feed
On the mechanic's labor; the starved hind
For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield
Its unshared harvests; and yon squalid form,
Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes
A sunless life in the unwholesome mine,
Drags out in labor a protracted death,

To glut their grandeur. Many faint with toil,
That few may know the cares and woe of sloth.
Whence, think'st thou, kings and parasites arose?
Whence that unnatural line of drones, who heap
Toil and unvanquishable penury

On those who build their palaces, and bring

Their daily bread?- From vice, black, loathsome vice;
From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong;
From all that genders misery, and makes

Of earth this thorny wilderness; from lust,
Revenge, and murder. And, when Reason's voice.
Loud as the voice of nature, shall have waked
The Nations; and mankind perceive that vice
Is discord, war, and misery, - that virtue
Is peace, and happiness, and harmony;
When man's maturer nature shall disdain

The playthings of its childhood;-kingly glare
Will lose its power to dazzle; its authority
Will silently pass by; the gorgeous throne
Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall,
Fast falling to decay; whilst falsehood's trade
Shall be as hateful and unprofitable

As that of truth is now.

Where is the fame

Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth
Seek to eternize? O! the faintest sound
From time's light foot-fall, the minutest wave
That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing
The unsubstantial bubble. Ay! to-day
Stern is the tyrant's mandate,

red the gaze

That scatters multitudes. To-morrow comes!

That mandate is a thunder-peal that died
In ages past; that gaze, a transient flash
On which the midnight closed; and on that arm
The worm has made his meal.

3. CÆSAR'S PASSAGE OF THE RUBICON.-James Sheridan Knowles.

A GENTLEMAN, Mr. Chairman, speaking of Cæsar's benevolent disposition, and of the reluctance with which he entered into the civil war, observes, "How long did he pause upon the brink of the Rubicon!" How came he to the brink of that river? How dared he cross it? Shall private men respect the boundaries of private property, and shall a man pay no respect to the boundaries of his country's rights? How dared he cross that river? O! but he paused upon the brink. He should have perished upon the brink ere he had crossed it! Why did he pause? Why does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing an unlawful deed? Why does the very murderer, his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye taking the measure of the blow, strike wide of the mortal part? Because of conscience! "T was that made Cæsar pause upon the brink of the Rubicon. Compassion! What compassion? The compassion of an assassin, that feels a momentary shudder, as his weapon begins to cut! Cæsar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon! What was the Rubicon? The boundary of Cæsar's province. From what did it separate his province? From his country. Was that country a desert? No: it was cultivated and fertile, rich and populous! Its sons were men of genius, spirit, and generosity! Its daughters were lovely, susceptible, and chaste! Friendship was its inhabitant! Love was its inhabitant! Domestic affection was its inhabitant! Liberty was its inhabitant! All bounded by the stream of the Rubicon! What was Cæsar, that stood upon the bank of that stream? A traitor, bringing war and pestilence into the heart of that country! No wonder that he paused, no wonder if, his imagination wrought upon by his conscience, he had beheld blood instead of water, and heard groans instead of murmurs! No wonder, if some gorgon horror had turned him into stone upon the spot! But no! he cried, "The die is cast! He plunged! - he crossed! - and Rome was free no more!

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4. ROLLA'S ADDRESS TO THE PERUVIANS. - Sheridan.

My brave associates, - partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame!- can Rolla's words add vigor to the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts? No! You have judged, as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude you Your generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours. They

by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule: we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate: we serve a monarch whom we love a God whom we adore. Whene'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress! Whene'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship. They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error! Yes: they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride! They offer us their protection: yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring them! They call on us to barter all of good we have enhanced and proved, for the desperate chance of something better which they promise. Be our plain answer this-The throne we honor is the People's choice; the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy; the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this; and tell them, too, we seek no change, — and, least of all, such change as they would bring us!

5. RICHELIEU AND FRANCE. — Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.

My liege, your anger can recall your trust,
Annul my office, spoil me of my lands,
Rifle my coffers; but my name,

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my deeds,

Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre.
Pass sentence on me, if you will; from Kings,
Lo, I appeal to time! Be just, my liege.

I found your Kingdom rent with heresies,
And bristling with rebellion; - lawless nobles
And breadless serfs; England fomenting discord;
Austria, her clutch on your dominion; Spain
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind

To armed thunderbolts. The Arts lay dead;
Trade rotted in your marts; your Armies mutinous,
Your Treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke
Your trust, so be it! and I leave you, sole,
Supremest Monarch of the mightiest realm,
From Ganges to the Icebergs. Look without,-
No foe not humbled! Look within, - the Arts
Quit, for our schools, their old Hesperides,
The golden Italy! while throughout the veins
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides T
Trade, the calm health of Nations! Sire, I know
That men have called me cruel;

I am not; - I am just! I found France rent asunder
The rich men despots, and the poor banditti;
Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple;

Brawls festering to rebellion; and weak laws
Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths.
I have re-created France; and, from the ashes
Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass,
Civilization, on her luminous wings,

Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove! What was my art?
Genius, some say; some, Fortune; Witchcraft, some.
- my art was JUSTICE!

Not so;

CROMWELL ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES THE FIRST. — Original adaptation from Sir E. Bulwer Lytton.

By what law fell King Charles? By all the laws
He left us! And I, Cromwell, here proclaim it.
Sirs, let us, with a calm and sober eye,

Look on the spectre of this ghastly deed.
Who spills man's blood, his shall by man be shed!
'Tis Heaven's first law; to that law we had come, -
None other left us. Who, then, caused the strife
That crimsoned Naseby's field, and Marston's moor 2
It was the Stuart; - so the Stuart fell!

A victim, in the pit himself had digged!

He died not, Sirs, as hated Kings have died,
In secret and in shade, no eye to trace
The one step from their prison to their pall;
He died i' the eyes of Europe, - in the face

Of the broad Heaven; amidst the sons of England,
Whom he had outraged; by a solemn sentence,
Passed by a solemn Court. Does this seem guilt?
You pity Charles! 't is well; but pity more
The tens of thousand honest humble men,
Who, by the tyranny of Charles compelled
To draw the sword, fell butchered in the field!
Good Lord! when one man dies who wears a Crown,
How the earth trembles, how the Nations gape,

Amazed and awed! but when that one man's victims,
Poor worms, unclothed in purple, daily die,

In the grim cell, or on the groaning gibbet,
Or on the civil field, ye pitying souls

Drop not one tear from your indifferent eyes!
He would have stretched his will

O'er the unlimited empire of men's souls,
Fettered the Earth's pure air,

for freedom is

That air, to honest lips, and here he lies,

In dust most eloquent, to after time

A never-silent oracle for Kings!

Was this the hand that strained within its grasp

So haught a sceptre? ·

Majesty like a garment?

this the shape that wore

Spurn that clay,

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