8. Well! but whatever it is, gentlemen will force the colonists to take the teas. You will force them? Has seven years' struggle been yet able to force them? Oh, but it seems "we are in the right. The tax is trifling, – in effect rather an exoneration than an imposition; three-fourths of the duty formerly payable on teas exported to America is taken off, – the place of collection is only shifted; instead of the retention of a shilling from the drawback here, it is three-pence custom paid in America."

9. All this, sir, is very true. But this is the very folly and mischief of the act. Incredible as it may seem, you know that you have deliberately thrown away a large duty, which you held secure and quiet in your hands, for the vain hope of getting one three-fourths less, through every hazard, through certain litigation, and possibly through war.

10. Could anything be a subject of more just alarm to America, than to see you go out of the plain high-road of finance, and give up your most certain revenues and your clearest interest, merely for the sake of insulting the colonies? No man ever doubted that the commodity of tea could bear an imposition of three pence. But no commodity will bear three pence, or will bear a penny, when the general feelings of men are irritated, and two millions of people are resolved not to pay.

11. The feelings of the colonies were formerly the feelings of Great Britain. Theirs were formerly the feelings of Mr. Hampden, when called upon for the payment of twenty shillings. Would twenty shillings have ruined Mr. Hampden's fortune? No! but the payment of half twenty shillings, on the principle it was demanded, would have made him a slave. It is the weight of that preamble, of which you are so fond, and not the weight of the duty, that the Americans are unable and unwilling to bear.

12. It is, then, sir, upon the principle of this measure, and nothing else, that we are at issue. It is a principle of political expediency. Your act of 1767 asserts that it is expedient to raise a revenue in America; your act of 1769, which takes away that revenue, contradicts the act of 1767, and by something much stronger than words, asserts that it is not expedient. It is a reflection upon your wisdom to persist in a solemn parliamentary declaration of the expediency of any object, for which, at the same time, you make no provision.

13. And pray, sir, let not this circumstance escape you, – it is very material, – that the preamble of this act which we wish to repeal, is not declaratory of a right, as some gentlemen seem to argue it: it is only a recital of the expediency of a certain exercise of right supposed already to have been asserted; an exercise you are now contending for by ways and means which you confess, though they were obeyed, to be utterly insufficient for their purpose. You are, therefore, at this moment in the awkward situation of fighting for a phantom, – a quiddity, – a thing that wants not only a substance, but even a name, – for a thing which is neither abstract right nor profitable enjoyment.

14. They tell you, sir, that your dignity is tied to it. I know not how it happens, but this dignity of yours is a terrible incumbrance to you; for it has of late been ever at war with your interest, your equity, and every idea of your policy. Show the thing you contend for to be reason, show it to be common sense, show it to be the means of attaining some useful end, and then I am content to allow it what dignity you please. But what dignity is derived from the perseverance in absurdity is more than ever I could discern.

15. The honorable gentleman has said well, that this subject does not stand as it did formerly. Oh, certainly not! Every hour you continue on this ill-chosen ground, your difficulties thicken around you; and therefore my conclusion is, remove from a bad position as quickly as you can. The disgrace, and the necessity of yielding, both of them, grow upon you every hour of your delay.

Edmund Burke.

MY HEART LEAPS UP

My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began,So is it now I am a man,So be it when I shall grow oldOr let me die!The Child is father of the Man:And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.Wordsworth.

AS YOU LIKE IT

Act III. Scene II

Ros. [Aside to Celia.] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?

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 sighing 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? 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 prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd; 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 galop 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 fringe upon a petticoat.

Orl. Are you native of this place?

Ros. As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so remov'd a dwelling.

Ros. I have been told so of 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 touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal.

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils laid to the charge of women?

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 prithee, 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 odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, 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-shak'd: I pray you, tell me your remedy.

Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you: he taught 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 not; 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 ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe unti'd and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation; but you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

Orl. Fair youth, I would 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 dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punish'd 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, be 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 any thing, 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 cur'd 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 cote 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. Come, sister, will you go?

CHAPTER II.

VITAL SLIDE

THE RISING IN 1776

IOut of the north the wild news came,Far flashing on its wings of flame,Swift as the boreal light which fliesAt midnight through the startled skies.And there was tumult in the air,The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,And through the wide land everywhereThe answering tread of hurrying feet;While the first oath of Freedom's gunCame on the blast from Lexington;And Concord, roused, no longer tame,Forgot her old baptismal name,Made bare her patriot arm of power,And swelled the discord of the hour.IIWithin its shade of elm and oakThe church of Berkley Manor stood;There Sunday found the rural folk,And some esteemed of gentle blood.In vain their feet with loitering treadPassed 'mid the graves where rank is naught;All could not read the lesson taughtIn that republic of the dead.IIIHow sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,The vale with peace and sunshine fullWhere all the happy people walk,Decked in their homespun flax and wool!Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom,And every maid with simple art,Wears on her breast, like her own heart,A bud whose depths are all perfume;While every garment's gentle stirIs breathing rose and lavender.IVThe pastor came; his snowy locksHallowed his brow of thought and care;And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,He led into the house of prayer.The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;The psalm was warrior David's song;The text, a few short words of might, —"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"VHe spoke of wrongs too long endured,Of sacred rights to be secured;Then from his patriot tongue of flameThe startling words for Freedom came.The stirring sentences he spake,Compelled the heart to glow or quake,And, rising on his theme's broad wing,And grasping in his nervous handThe imaginary battle-brand,In face of death he dared to flingDefiance to a tyrant king.VIEven as he spoke, his frame, renewedIn eloquence of attitude,Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;Then swept his kindling glance of fireFrom startled pew to breathless choir;When suddenly his mantle wideHis hands impatient flung aside.And, lo! he met their wondering eyesComplete in all a warrior's guise.VIIA moment there was awful pause, —When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!God's temple is the house of peace!"The other shouted, "Nay, not so,When God is with our righteous cause;His holiest places then are ours,His temples are our forts and towers,That frown upon the tyrant foe;In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,There is a time to fight and pray!"VIIIAnd now before the open door —The warrior priest had ordered so —The enlisting trumpet's sudden roarRang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,Its long reverberating blow,So loud and clear, it seemed the earOf dusty death must wake and hear.And there the startling drum and fifeFired the living with fiercer life;While overhead, with wild increase,Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,The great bell swung as ne'er before:It seemed as it would never cease;And every word its ardor flungFrom off its jubilant iron tongueWas, "War! War! War!"IX"Who dares" – this was the patriot's cry,As striding from the desk he came, —"Come out with me, in Freedom's nameFor her to live, for her to die?"A hundred hands flung up reply,A hundred voices answered "I!"T. B. Read.

THE TENT-SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND CASSIUS

Cassius. 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 off.Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case.Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meetThat every nice offence should bear its comment.Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourselfAre much condemned to have an itching palm;To sell and mart your offices for gold,To undeservers.Cas. I an itching palm?You know that you are Brutus that speak this,Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.Cas. Chastisement?Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember!Did not great Julius bleed for justice's sake?What villain touched his body, that did stab,And not for justice? – What! shall one of us,That struck the foremost man of all this world,But for supporting robbers; – shall we nowContaminate our fingers with base bribes?And sell the mighty space of our large honorsFor 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 yourselfTo make conditions.Bru. Go to; you're not, Cassius.Cas. I am.Bru. I say you are not.Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself:Have mind upon your health: tempt me no further.Bru. Away, slight man!Cas. Is't possible!Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.Must I give way and room to your rash choler?Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?Cas. Must I endure all this?Bru. All this? Ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break.Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouchUnder your testy humor?You shall digest the venom of your spleen,Though it do split you: for, from this day forth,I'll use you for my mirth; yea, for my laughter,When you are waspish.Cas. Is it come to this?Bru. You say you are a better soldier;Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,And it shall please me well. For mine own part,I shall be glad to learn of noble men.Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;I said an elder soldier, not a better.Did I say better?Bru. If you did I care not.Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him!Cas. I durst not?Bru. No.Cas. What! Durst not tempt him?Bru. For your life you durst not.Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;I may do that I shall be sorry for.Bru. You have done that which you should be sorry for.There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats!For I am armed so strong in honesty,That they pass by me as the idle wind,Which I respect not. I did send to youFor certain sums of gold, which you denied me: —For I can raise no money by vile means:I had rather coin my heart,And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wringFrom the hard hands of peasants their vile trashBy any indirection. I did sendTo you for gold to pay my legions;Which you denied me.Was that done like Cassius?Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,To lock such rascal counters from his friends,Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;Dash him to pieces!Cas. I denied you not.Bru. You did.Cas. I did not: He was but a foolThat brought my answer back. – Brutus hath rived my heart,A friend should bear a friend's infirmities;But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me.Cas. You love me not.Bru. I do not like your faults.Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appearAs huge as high Olympus.Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come!Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius:For Cassius is a-weary of the world —Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote,To cast into my teeth.O, I could weepMy spirit from my eyes! – There is my dagger,And here my naked breast; within, a heartDearer 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 Cæsar; for I know,Then thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him betterThan ever thou lovedst Cassius.Bru. Sheath your dagger;Be angry when you will, it shall have scope:Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb,That carries anger, as the flint bears fire;Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,And straight is cold again.Cas. Hath Cassius livedTo be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him?Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your handBru. And my heart, too.Cas. O Brutus!Bru. What's the matter?Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,When that rash humor 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.Shakespeare.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR

ICome, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now;The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's browThe little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound;And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare;Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.IIThe windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe;It rises, roars, rends all outright – O Vulcan, what a glow!'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so:The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show;IIIThe roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid rowOf smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe;As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slowSinks on the anvil – all about the faces fiery grow —"Hurrah!" they shout – "leap out! – leap out!" bang, bang, the sledges go.IVLeap out, leap out, my masters! leap out and lay on load!Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broadFor a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road;The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean pouredFrom stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by the board;VThe bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains;But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains,And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high.Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing – here am I!"VISwing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time,Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime;But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the burden be,The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we.VIIStrike in, strike in; the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped;Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery, rich array,For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here,For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave away, and the sighing seaman's cheer.VIIIIn livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last,A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou had'st life like me,What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea!IXO deep-sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere nowTo go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the whales,And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails!Then deep in tanglewoods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn;To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn,And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn.XO broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play;But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave;A fisher's joy is to destroy – thine office is to save.XIO lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understandWhose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band,Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend;O couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap within the sea!XIIGive honor to their memories, who left the pleasant strandTo shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland —Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard graveSo freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave —O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!S. Ferguson.

SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS

1. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. But there's a divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the Declaration?

2. Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and his own honor? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both already the prescribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws?

3. If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on or give up the war? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston Port Bill, and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust?

4. I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives?

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