Montané, Presiding judge.
Fouquer-Tinville, Prosecutor.
Chaveau-lagarde, Defending counsel.
Danton,} Leaders of the Jacobins.
Robespierre,}
Madam Evard, Marat’s friend.
Charlotte Corday.
Fouquer-Tinville, Prosecutor.
Chaveau-lagarde, Defending counsel.
Danton,} Leaders of the Jacobins.
Robespierre,}
Madam Evard, Marat’s friend.
Charlotte Corday.
Montané
Where is your home?
Charlotte
Caen.
Caen.
Montané
Why did you come to Paris?
Charlotte
To kill Marat.
Montané
Charlotte
His crimes.
Montané
What crimes?
Charlotte
The woes of France! His readiness to fire
All France with civil war.
All France with civil war.
Montané
You meant to kill
When you struck?
When you struck?
Charlotte
Yes! I meant to kill.
Montané
How old are you?
Charlotte
Twenty-four.
Montané
A woman
Young as you are could not have done this murder
Unless abetted.
Young as you are could not have done this murder
Unless abetted.
Charlotte
No! You little know
The human heart. The hatred of one’s heart
Impels the hand better than other’s hate.
The human heart. The hatred of one’s heart
Impels the hand better than other’s hate.
Montané
You hated Marat?
Charlotte
Hated! I did not kill
A man, I killed a wild beast eating up
The people and the nation.
A man, I killed a wild beast eating up
The people and the nation.
Fouquer-Tinville
She’s familiar
With crime, no doubt.
With crime, no doubt.
Charlotte
You monster! Do you take me
For just a common murderer?
For just a common murderer?
Fouquer-Tinville
Yes! Why not?
Here is your knife!
Here is your knife!
Charlotte
Oh! Yes, I recognize it.
I bought it at the cutler’s shop.
I bought it at the cutler’s shop.
Montané
What for?
Charlotte
Fouquer-Tinville
When?
Charlotte
Four days ago.
Fouquer-Tinville
That was the day you wrote Marat?
Charlotte
Same day.
Fouquer-Tinville
Saying you knew of news in Caen, knew
Means by the which Marat could render service
To the Republic!
Means by the which Marat could render service
To the Republic!
Charlotte
By his death!
Fouquer-Tinville
But yet
You gave him credit in this note for love
Of France, our France. You tricked him.
You gave him credit in this note for love
Of France, our France. You tricked him.
Charlotte
Like a viper.
He was a mad-dog, dog-leech, alley rat,
With bits of carrion festering ’twixt his teeth,
Hair glued with ordure, urine. Why not trick
By best means, so to catch a beast with fangs
As venomous as his? He was a fire
That crawled and licked its way; why not put out
The fire by water, snuffing, stamping, why
Be precious of the means?
He was a mad-dog, dog-leech, alley rat,
With bits of carrion festering ’twixt his teeth,
Hair glued with ordure, urine. Why not trick
By best means, so to catch a beast with fangs
As venomous as his? He was a fire
That crawled and licked its way; why not put out
The fire by water, snuffing, stamping, why
Be precious of the means?
Madam Evard
You know me, woman?
Charlotte
You struck me when I stabbed him. You’re his whore!
Madam Evard
Oh! Oh!
Robespierre
(To Danton)
This is enough! When fury claws at fury.
I hear the tumbril for her. Come!
This is enough! When fury claws at fury.
I hear the tumbril for her. Come!
Danton
The slut!
The slut!
(Danton and Robespierre leave the room together.)
Charlotte
Was that not Robespierre who left the room?
Fouquer-Tinville
Charlotte
I wanted him for counsel.
Fouquer-Tinville
For what? The guillotine?
Charlotte
(Shrinking) You monster! You!
Montané
Have you a lawyer?
Charlotte
No! I wrote Doulcet.
He shirks the honor, doubtless; have not heard.
I thought of Chabot and of Robespierre.
He shirks the honor, doubtless; have not heard.
I thought of Chabot and of Robespierre.
Montané
Chaveau-Lagarde shall counsel you. Proceed!
Fouquer-Tinville
Is this your letter?
Charlotte
Yes.
Fouquer-Tinville
Charlotte
No! You monster!
Fouquer-Tinville
Very well!
Is this yours: “To the French, friends of the laws,
And friends of peace.”
Is this yours: “To the French, friends of the laws,
And friends of peace.”
Charlotte
Yes! I admit what’s true.
Fouquer-Tinville
And is this yours: “To the Committee of Public Safety”?
Charlotte
I wrote it, yes.
Fouquer-Tinville
Let’s see now what’s her mind.
This letter to the friends of peace and laws:—
“O France, thy peace depends upon the laws.”
Laws! And she hastens to the cutler’s shop,
And buys a knife with which to slay Marat.
Now look! This friend of France’s peace and laws
Must dodge self-contradiction. How? That’s plain:
“I do not break the law, killing Marat.”
Why? What’s Marat? A man? Of course, a man.
But then an “out-law,” as she writes. How’s that?
Outlawed by whom? Charlotte Corday of Caen!
What else? A man! But then condemned. By whom?
“The universe.” Voila! The universe
Is swallowed by her swollen vanity.
She speaks for God, for solar systems, stars;
Adjudges laws, interprets, executes;
Is greater than the Revolution, France.
She’s a descendant of the great Corneille;
A stage imagination, actress, acts,
And quotes here in this letter from Voltaire’s
“Mort de César.” Now listen what her hate
Has used for whetrock, in the words of Brutus:
“Whether the world astonished loads my name
“And deed with horror, admiration, censure,
“I do not care, nor care to live in Time.
“I act indifferent to reproach or glory,
“A free, untrameled patriot am I.
“Duty accomplished I shall rest content.
“Think only, friends, how you may break your chains.”
So Brutus lives in her! And like disease
Loosed from the crumbling cerements and dust
Of broken tombs, the madness which slew Cæsar
Infects, makes mad this woman; and she slays
The great Marat!
She does not care for the world’s
Censure or admiration! Does not care
To live in time! She lies! Why, in this room
A man, Huer, is sketching her. Behold
He’s drawing now her face for Time to see.
And in this letter written to the Committee
She says: “Since I have little time to live,
“I trust you will permit me to have painted
“My portrait.” Why? If careless if she live
In memory or time? The secret’s out,
And written in her hand: “I want to leave
“A picture for remembrance to my friends.”
What friends? Her father? Barbarous? Caen,
Paris, the whole of France, the world, if Time
Writes down the people’s friend as beast, would see
The face, in such case, which destroyed Marat,
Condemned first by the “universe” and at last
By France, the world! What next? She doubts her God,
Her Brutus warrant, “universe” approval,
And writes here as a reason, in addition:
“That as men cherish memory of good men,
“So curiosity”—see her spirit flop
And smile with idiot guilt upon itself—
“So curiosity sometimes seeks out
“Memorials of criminals.” That’s her word:
“Criminals,” and by that word she stands
Self-dedicated to the guillotine.
This letter to the friends of peace and laws:—
“O France, thy peace depends upon the laws.”
Laws! And she hastens to the cutler’s shop,
And buys a knife with which to slay Marat.
Now look! This friend of France’s peace and laws
Must dodge self-contradiction. How? That’s plain:
“I do not break the law, killing Marat.”
Why? What’s Marat? A man? Of course, a man.
But then an “out-law,” as she writes. How’s that?
Outlawed by whom? Charlotte Corday of Caen!
What else? A man! But then condemned. By whom?
“The universe.” Voila! The universe
Is swallowed by her swollen vanity.
She speaks for God, for solar systems, stars;
Adjudges laws, interprets, executes;
Is greater than the Revolution, France.
She’s a descendant of the great Corneille;
A stage imagination, actress, acts,
And quotes here in this letter from Voltaire’s
“Mort de César.” Now listen what her hate
Has used for whetrock, in the words of Brutus:
“Whether the world astonished loads my name
“And deed with horror, admiration, censure,
“I do not care, nor care to live in Time.
“I act indifferent to reproach or glory,
“A free, untrameled patriot am I.
“Duty accomplished I shall rest content.
“Think only, friends, how you may break your chains.”
So Brutus lives in her! And like disease
Loosed from the crumbling cerements and dust
Of broken tombs, the madness which slew Cæsar
Infects, makes mad this woman; and she slays
The great Marat!
She does not care for the world’s
Censure or admiration! Does not care
To live in time! She lies! Why, in this room
A man, Huer, is sketching her. Behold
He’s drawing now her face for Time to see.
And in this letter written to the Committee
She says: “Since I have little time to live,
“I trust you will permit me to have painted
“My portrait.” Why? If careless if she live
In memory or time? The secret’s out,
And written in her hand: “I want to leave
“A picture for remembrance to my friends.”
What friends? Her father? Barbarous? Caen,
Paris, the whole of France, the world, if Time
Writes down the people’s friend as beast, would see
The face, in such case, which destroyed Marat,
Condemned first by the “universe” and at last
By France, the world! What next? She doubts her God,
Her Brutus warrant, “universe” approval,
And writes here as a reason, in addition:
“That as men cherish memory of good men,
“So curiosity”—see her spirit flop
And smile with idiot guilt upon itself—
“So curiosity sometimes seeks out
“Memorials of criminals.” That’s her word:
“Criminals,” and by that word she stands
Self-dedicated to the guillotine.
Charlotte
Well, am I not a criminal in the eyes
Of such a beast as you? Will nature spawn
No other beasts like you?
Of such a beast as you? Will nature spawn
No other beasts like you?
Fouquer-Tinville
Yes, in my eyes,
You are a criminal. But you mistake.
I have no curiosity about you.
When you are dead I’d have your name erased,
Your face erased, lest it corrupt the face
Of Brutus, and lead hands in years to come
To speak the “universe,” interpret “laws,”
And slay whom they would slay.
You are a criminal. But you mistake.
I have no curiosity about you.
When you are dead I’d have your name erased,
Your face erased, lest it corrupt the face
Of Brutus, and lead hands in years to come
To speak the “universe,” interpret “laws,”
And slay whom they would slay.
This is not all
About her picture, a memorial
For admiration by posterity.
She writes this Barbarous, lover or what,
It matters nothing, writes him pages here
In detail of herself, and intimate
Portrayal of her feelings: how she planned,
And killed Marat. To Barbarous she writes
About her letter to the Committee, asking
To have her portrait painted. Now, for whom?
Her friends? Not now! For the department now
Of Calvados. There! hanging on a wall,
A prize of history, is the deathless face
Of Charlotte Corday, destroyer of Marat,
Saviour of France, as Brutus struck for Rome!
Yes, I invite your thought to what she writes
To Barbarous: description of her act
In sneaking to Marat with hidden knife;
And as he sat there helpless in the tub,
And unsuspecting of her hatred, quick
She rips him like a butcher. Then, “A moi!”
He cries, “A moi!” And she’s elate, her eyes
Bright as the lightning that has struck. Look now!
How she writhes here, how passing cross her face
Are lights of ghastly fields of fire and clouds
When hurricanes descend.
About her picture, a memorial
For admiration by posterity.
She writes this Barbarous, lover or what,
It matters nothing, writes him pages here
In detail of herself, and intimate
Portrayal of her feelings: how she planned,
And killed Marat. To Barbarous she writes
About her letter to the Committee, asking
To have her portrait painted. Now, for whom?
Her friends? Not now! For the department now
Of Calvados. There! hanging on a wall,
A prize of history, is the deathless face
Of Charlotte Corday, destroyer of Marat,
Saviour of France, as Brutus struck for Rome!
Yes, I invite your thought to what she writes
To Barbarous: description of her act
In sneaking to Marat with hidden knife;
And as he sat there helpless in the tub,
And unsuspecting of her hatred, quick
She rips him like a butcher. Then, “A moi!”
He cries, “A moi!” And she’s elate, her eyes
Bright as the lightning that has struck. Look now!
How she writhes here, how passing cross her face
Are lights of ghastly fields of fire and clouds
When hurricanes descend.
Charlotte
You beast! You beast!
Fouquer-Tinville
I am a beast, eh? You are what? I’ll tell.
From Caen, as ’tis known. She’s being sketched,
I’ll sketch her too. You see, she’s strongly built,
Large eyes of blue, large features, handsome though;
Nose shapely, and good teeth; equipped to play
In dramas of Corneille, her ancestor.
She needs a man. A husband would have drawn
Innocuously the electric passion, which
Collected in a bolt to loose and lurch
Against Marat. All women should be farmed.
She has her schooling in a convent, reads;
Lives with her thoughts and dreams. I’ll sketch her soul:
Has not enough of living to consume
The forces of her dreams. She reads Rousseau,
And Plutarch’s heroes, Brutus most of all.
Thrills at the words “Republic,” “Liberty.”
Thinks the Girondists only can set up
A real republic. Ideas are the stuff
Of history. Kill ideas or be killed
By ideas is the fate of man. Republic,
Liberty, Brutus are ideas. Ideas
Are dangerous, being truths, more so as lies.
And lies destroyed Marat.
From Caen, as ’tis known. She’s being sketched,
I’ll sketch her too. You see, she’s strongly built,
Large eyes of blue, large features, handsome though;
Nose shapely, and good teeth; equipped to play
In dramas of Corneille, her ancestor.
She needs a man. A husband would have drawn
Innocuously the electric passion, which
Collected in a bolt to loose and lurch
Against Marat. All women should be farmed.
She has her schooling in a convent, reads;
Lives with her thoughts and dreams. I’ll sketch her soul:
Has not enough of living to consume
The forces of her dreams. She reads Rousseau,
And Plutarch’s heroes, Brutus most of all.
Thrills at the words “Republic,” “Liberty.”
Thinks the Girondists only can set up
A real republic. Ideas are the stuff
Of history. Kill ideas or be killed
By ideas is the fate of man. Republic,
Liberty, Brutus are ideas. Ideas
Are dangerous, being truths, more so as lies.
And lies destroyed Marat.
Who was Marat?
A man of study, learning. Physicist,
Admired of Franklin, Göethe for his works
On heat and light; a doctor, having won
An honorary title at St. Andrew’s
In England. Linguist, speaking Spanish, German,
Italian, English. Versed in Governments:—
You know his work on England’s constitution
Whereby he sought to clear the mind of France—
This Charlotte Corday’s with the rest—that England
Is free, her systems free; stop the Girondists
From that re-iterated lie; stop France
From taking on the English system.
A man of study, learning. Physicist,
Admired of Franklin, Göethe for his works
On heat and light; a doctor, having won
An honorary title at St. Andrew’s
In England. Linguist, speaking Spanish, German,
Italian, English. Versed in Governments:—
You know his work on England’s constitution
Whereby he sought to clear the mind of France—
This Charlotte Corday’s with the rest—that England
Is free, her systems free; stop the Girondists
From that re-iterated lie; stop France
From taking on the English system.
So
True ideas of Marat, evolved from life,
Living and study must combat, destroy
False ideas of Girondists, will succeed;
But cannot bar the door to the idea
That enters at his bathroom with a knife.
How was it that no valet and no guard
Preserved him? Why? Lovers of liberty
Starve in her service!
True ideas of Marat, evolved from life,
Living and study must combat, destroy
False ideas of Girondists, will succeed;
But cannot bar the door to the idea
That enters at his bathroom with a knife.
How was it that no valet and no guard
Preserved him? Why? Lovers of liberty
Starve in her service!
But there was a time
When he knew elegance and privacy.
But Liberty and Wisdom would be served.
He went to rags, was hunted, had to hide
In sewers for the cause of Liberty;
And there took loathsome trouble, eased at times
By steam, hot tubs. And thus our people’s friend
Is found accessible to this female lie,
Girondist lie, possessing her, and stabbed.
Or at the best ideas of Liberty
Conduct her to his bath-room, where Marat
Is tubbed in sequence and in punishment
Of his idea of Liberty. Gods can laugh,
But men must weep. O worthless, rotten world!
It is most pitiful, most tragic, lifts
Man’s heart to spit at heaven, that these friends
Of peoples must be slain, starved, hunted first,
Then butchered for their service and their love.
Saved not by truth; destroyed by lies, a lie
That he was evil, by the maniac lie
Of her mad vision that she knew what Freedom,
Liberty, Republic mean. Slain by the lie
Of this Girondist dream, this milk and water,
Emasculated, luke-warm craft of states:
Girondists: patches on the robes of kings;
Girondists: autogamists; mating sisters,
The past, and in the mating without child
Of truth or progress. Neither hot nor cold,
Spewed, therefore, from the mouth of Time. Betrayers,
Waylayers of the brave, the clear of eye;
Girondists: ’twixt republicans and kings,
And holding hands of each to make them friends.
Workers and owners of the new foaled mule
Bred of the royal stallion and an ass.
Girondists! loving wealth and ease, the church
Which loves them too. Girondists picking steps
Of moderate reform. Girondists hating
The Revolution, which must kill the foes
Of Liberty, as criminals are killed
For robbery, yet rejoice to see the blood
Of dead Marat. They’re lofty! They are pure!
They love the laws, love peace! Yes, as this woman
Loves law and peace.
When he knew elegance and privacy.
But Liberty and Wisdom would be served.
He went to rags, was hunted, had to hide
In sewers for the cause of Liberty;
And there took loathsome trouble, eased at times
By steam, hot tubs. And thus our people’s friend
Is found accessible to this female lie,
Girondist lie, possessing her, and stabbed.
Or at the best ideas of Liberty
Conduct her to his bath-room, where Marat
Is tubbed in sequence and in punishment
Of his idea of Liberty. Gods can laugh,
But men must weep. O worthless, rotten world!
It is most pitiful, most tragic, lifts
Man’s heart to spit at heaven, that these friends
Of peoples must be slain, starved, hunted first,
Then butchered for their service and their love.
Saved not by truth; destroyed by lies, a lie
That he was evil, by the maniac lie
Of her mad vision that she knew what Freedom,
Liberty, Republic mean. Slain by the lie
Of this Girondist dream, this milk and water,
Emasculated, luke-warm craft of states:
Girondists: patches on the robes of kings;
Girondists: autogamists; mating sisters,
The past, and in the mating without child
Of truth or progress. Neither hot nor cold,
Spewed, therefore, from the mouth of Time. Betrayers,
Waylayers of the brave, the clear of eye;
Girondists: ’twixt republicans and kings,
And holding hands of each to make them friends.
Workers and owners of the new foaled mule
Bred of the royal stallion and an ass.
Girondists! loving wealth and ease, the church
Which loves them too. Girondists picking steps
Of moderate reform. Girondists hating
The Revolution, which must kill the foes
Of Liberty, as criminals are killed
For robbery, yet rejoice to see the blood
Of dead Marat. They’re lofty! They are pure!
They love the laws, love peace! Yes, as this woman
Loves law and peace.
What is it like? A play
Where all is mimicked. Do we talk of facts?
Are these not fautocinni? Where’s the hand
That plays this coarse and bloody joke to eyes
Of men that crave reality? I mean this:
A woman with lovers who suggest, abet;
A woman with no man, who dreams and reads,
Lives in the stench of these Girondist lies;
Ghosts float on fogs of her miasmic soul.
She hears Marat’s a monster, dabbling blood,
A rabid ignoramus running foul
Of liberty and order, nihilist,
And sanguinary madman, dragon slimed
In back-wash of all hatred, envy, lust
Of the dispossessed, malformed, misborn; and then
She dreams of Brutus, who struck down—there now
I nail a lie that will be always truth
To Charlotte Cordays. Cæsar? Tyrant? No.
No man is tyrant who sees truth and rules
For truth’s sake. For the ruled must share the truth
Where Cæsars rule.
Where all is mimicked. Do we talk of facts?
Are these not fautocinni? Where’s the hand
That plays this coarse and bloody joke to eyes
Of men that crave reality? I mean this:
A woman with lovers who suggest, abet;
A woman with no man, who dreams and reads,
Lives in the stench of these Girondist lies;
Ghosts float on fogs of her miasmic soul.
She hears Marat’s a monster, dabbling blood,
A rabid ignoramus running foul
Of liberty and order, nihilist,
And sanguinary madman, dragon slimed
In back-wash of all hatred, envy, lust
Of the dispossessed, malformed, misborn; and then
She dreams of Brutus, who struck down—there now
I nail a lie that will be always truth
To Charlotte Cordays. Cæsar? Tyrant? No.
No man is tyrant who sees truth and rules
For truth’s sake. For the ruled must share the truth
Where Cæsars rule.
So much for her. She stands
Watchful and envious in the wings, and sees
Marat, not as we see him; not as Time
Will see Marat. L’Ami du Peuple to her
Is enemy of France, of Liberty.
This man most rare, most pure of soul, most clear
Of vision that the contest lies between
The rich and poor, has always lain between
The rich and poor, and not between the people
And kings; that poverty’s the thing, is seen
By Charlotte Corday from the wings, as nothing
But hatred, murder.
Watchful and envious in the wings, and sees
Marat, not as we see him; not as Time
Will see Marat. L’Ami du Peuple to her
Is enemy of France, of Liberty.
This man most rare, most pure of soul, most clear
Of vision that the contest lies between
The rich and poor, has always lain between
The rich and poor, and not between the people
And kings; that poverty’s the thing, is seen
By Charlotte Corday from the wings, as nothing
But hatred, murder.
Well, my girl, you’ll get
Your picture in the galleries of history.
You’ll get it; and to choke you with your words:
“So curiosity would have memorials
Of criminals, which serve to keep alive
Horror for their crimes.”
Your picture in the galleries of history.
You’ll get it; and to choke you with your words:
“So curiosity would have memorials
Of criminals, which serve to keep alive
Horror for their crimes.”
Your picture’s up
Already. Horror stares! You killed Marat.
That is your place in Time: you killed Marat!
You sneaked upon a great man, true man, weak
From torture of disease, contracted serving
Democracy, and slew him like a beast.
Charlotte Corday, assassin! That’s your place,
And character in history.
Already. Horror stares! You killed Marat.
That is your place in Time: you killed Marat!
You sneaked upon a great man, true man, weak
From torture of disease, contracted serving
Democracy, and slew him like a beast.
Charlotte Corday, assassin! That’s your place,
And character in history.
Charlotte
Let it be.
Assassin. Well, assassins kill assassins:
The words repel, destroy each other, sir.
If any grieve for me I beg of them
To think of me in the Elysian Fields
With Brutus and the heroes.
Assassin. Well, assassins kill assassins:
The words repel, destroy each other, sir.
If any grieve for me I beg of them
To think of me in the Elysian Fields
With Brutus and the heroes.
Chaveau-Lagarde
Gentlemen!
The deed’s admitted. What to say, but ask
Your clemency? The girl’s fanatical.
The prosecutor argues well for me
In saying that a lie corrupted her,
And maddened her to act; which is to say
If that lie were a truth, she had the right
To slay Marat. With this regard Voltaire,
Great minds before him, painted Brutus great
Because he slew a tyrant. But if Cæsar
Was not a tyrant, how does Brutus stand
But mad-man who believed, was honest, slew
In honesty of heart? Then what’s the case?
To punish for ill-judging of the facts,
Or mercy show for human frailty
Of judgment and of vision? Great Marat
Has done his work, and left his legacy.
We cannot help him, meting death for death.
And would his noble spirit ask her death?
Think of it! You will answer no, I think.
He would say: kill the ideas of Caen,
The world which fires these Charlottes with a lie.
Smallpox is deadly as a butcher knife,
He had to die. The syllabus is death
In this our human logic: what’s the odds
What premises produce conclusions? Knives,
Consumptions, fevers, wars? We may be gods
Withholding death where we have power to kill;
Withhold it saying: She mistook, believed
A lie, was faultless for believing it,
And slew believing. Were it truth and all
Believed we would applaud, as nations war,
Bound in a common vision of one truth.
The Revolution, France, will lose not, rather
Gain by this clemency; ’twill lift a light,
First in the world, of reason, justice purged
Of hatred’s refuse: vengeance, fear, all passions
Of bitterness of soul. We worship Reason,
And this is Reason.
The deed’s admitted. What to say, but ask
Your clemency? The girl’s fanatical.
The prosecutor argues well for me
In saying that a lie corrupted her,
And maddened her to act; which is to say
If that lie were a truth, she had the right
To slay Marat. With this regard Voltaire,
Great minds before him, painted Brutus great
Because he slew a tyrant. But if Cæsar
Was not a tyrant, how does Brutus stand
But mad-man who believed, was honest, slew
In honesty of heart? Then what’s the case?
To punish for ill-judging of the facts,
Or mercy show for human frailty
Of judgment and of vision? Great Marat
Has done his work, and left his legacy.
We cannot help him, meting death for death.
And would his noble spirit ask her death?
Think of it! You will answer no, I think.
He would say: kill the ideas of Caen,
The world which fires these Charlottes with a lie.
Smallpox is deadly as a butcher knife,
He had to die. The syllabus is death
In this our human logic: what’s the odds
What premises produce conclusions? Knives,
Consumptions, fevers, wars? We may be gods
Withholding death where we have power to kill;
Withhold it saying: She mistook, believed
A lie, was faultless for believing it,
And slew believing. Were it truth and all
Believed we would applaud, as nations war,
Bound in a common vision of one truth.
The Revolution, France, will lose not, rather
Gain by this clemency; ’twill lift a light,
First in the world, of reason, justice purged
Of hatred’s refuse: vengeance, fear, all passions
Of bitterness of soul. We worship Reason,
And this is Reason.
Charlotte
The Jury
Let her join
Brutus in the Elysian Fields. We say:
The guillotine!
Brutus in the Elysian Fields. We say:
The guillotine!
The Mob
(Outside) To the guillotine! To the guillotine!
Charlotte
I am content.
A MAN CHILD IS BORN
(February 12th, 1809. Log Hut near Hodgenville, Ky.)
(A neighbor woman is talking)
The wind blows through the chinks—it’s snowing too,
Tom piles the logs on, but that door is loose.
An earthen floor is always cold. You’re warm.
I’m glad I brought a kiverlid along,
An extra one comes handy at this time.
You are all right—you had an easy time,
Considering this baby, big and long.
He’s very long, will be a tall man, too,
A hunter and a chopper, Indian fighter,
Lord, who knows what, a big man in the country,
A preacher, congressman or senator,
A president—who knows? God blesses you
To give you such a son. He nurses well.
Don’t let him have too much at first. You see
That single window gives too little light
To show you what he’s like. He looks a little
Like Nancy Shipley Hanks, your mother, perhaps
A little like your aunt, old Mary Lincoln.
Since you and Tom are cousins, it may be
This boy will be a mixture, but if folks
Resemble animals, the traits of you
Will be made stronger in this child, because
You two are cousins.
Tom piles the logs on, but that door is loose.
An earthen floor is always cold. You’re warm.
I’m glad I brought a kiverlid along,
An extra one comes handy at this time.
You are all right—you had an easy time,
Considering this baby, big and long.
He’s very long, will be a tall man, too,
A hunter and a chopper, Indian fighter,
Lord, who knows what, a big man in the country,
A preacher, congressman or senator,
A president—who knows? God blesses you
To give you such a son. He nurses well.
Don’t let him have too much at first. You see
That single window gives too little light
To show you what he’s like. He looks a little
Like Nancy Shipley Hanks, your mother, perhaps
A little like your aunt, old Mary Lincoln.
Since you and Tom are cousins, it may be
This boy will be a mixture, but if folks
Resemble animals, the traits of you
Will be made stronger in this child, because
You two are cousins.
You will be up to see
What he looks like, in just a week or so.
Perhaps when next the flames mount in the fire-place
The light will show you. Have you named him yet—
Tom likes the name of Abraham—well, that’s good—
You’ve chosen that!
What he looks like, in just a week or so.
Perhaps when next the flames mount in the fire-place
The light will show you. Have you named him yet—
Tom likes the name of Abraham—well, that’s good—
You’ve chosen that!
I thought I heard a step—
Who do you think is coming? Dennis Hanks!
He’s come to see his cousin Abraham.
Who do you think is coming? Dennis Hanks!
He’s come to see his cousin Abraham.
Good mornin’, Dennis! come into the fire—
I’ll you see your cousin Abraham—
A big, long baby—quick! and shut the door,
The room is none too warm, the wind is blowing—
Tom’s gone for logs again! Here, I’ll raise up
The kiverlid and let you see—look here!
You think he’s homely! Pretty is, you know,
As pretty does—but see how big and long!
In fifteen years he’ll make you up and come
To beat him wrestling, I will bet a coon’s skin.
Now you may kiss him; in a little bit
I’ll let you hold him by the fire. The pot
Is on for dinner, we are having squirrel
And hominy for dinner—you can stay.
Now clear out, Dennis—I must do some things—
Open the door for Tom, he’s coming there
With logs to mend the fire!
I’ll you see your cousin Abraham—
A big, long baby—quick! and shut the door,
The room is none too warm, the wind is blowing—
Tom’s gone for logs again! Here, I’ll raise up
The kiverlid and let you see—look here!
You think he’s homely! Pretty is, you know,
As pretty does—but see how big and long!
In fifteen years he’ll make you up and come
To beat him wrestling, I will bet a coon’s skin.
Now you may kiss him; in a little bit
I’ll let you hold him by the fire. The pot
Is on for dinner, we are having squirrel
And hominy for dinner—you can stay.
Now clear out, Dennis—I must do some things—
Open the door for Tom, he’s coming there
With logs to mend the fire!
RICHARD BOOTH TO HIS SON JUNIUS BRUTUS
(London, December 13th, 1813.)
So you’re to play Campillo, all in spite
Of my commands, at Deptford? Here’s the bill
Found in your pocket. You are seventeen,
Too young for this adventure in the world.
What will you be, a strolling vagabond,
Smelling of grease, impoverished, set apart
From stable folk by this, your wandering art?
And just to think I named you Junius Brutus,
After the great republican who slew
The Roman tyrant Cæsar—I myself
A worshipper of Liberty all my life,
And choosing such a patronym for you
To dedicate you to the faith in me.
Now you would leave this dignity to speak
Mimetic words, and act. I beg of you,
Listen, my boy, before it is too late,
And let me tell my story to you now,
That you may profit by the things I’ve lived....
Of my commands, at Deptford? Here’s the bill
Found in your pocket. You are seventeen,
Too young for this adventure in the world.
What will you be, a strolling vagabond,
Smelling of grease, impoverished, set apart
From stable folk by this, your wandering art?
And just to think I named you Junius Brutus,
After the great republican who slew
The Roman tyrant Cæsar—I myself
A worshipper of Liberty all my life,
And choosing such a patronym for you
To dedicate you to the faith in me.
Now you would leave this dignity to speak
Mimetic words, and act. I beg of you,
Listen, my boy, before it is too late,
And let me tell my story to you now,
That you may profit by the things I’ve lived....
You see that face of Washington, hung up
There on the wall where every entering eye
Must mark it? You remember that I ask,
Enforce respect to Washington and make
The passer bow his head—well, listen now:
There on the wall where every entering eye
Must mark it? You remember that I ask,
Enforce respect to Washington and make
The passer bow his head—well, listen now:
It’s seventeen seventy-seven, I’m fourteen.
Burgoyne’s surrender fires my tender heart.
We hear Lord George Germain forgets to take
A letter from a pigeon hole containing
Instructions to Burgoyne that touches on
The campaign on the Hudson. Anyway,
Burgoyne gets tangled in the wilderness
Around Champlain. He faces broken bridges,
And trees felled in his way. His horses fail,
Provisions are exhausted. Then he sends
A thousand men to Bennington to get
More horses and provisions. There he’s stumped:
A veteran of Bunker Hill is there,
A Colonel Stark, whose wife is Mollie Stark,
Who says we beat the British here to-day,
Or Mollie Stark’s a widow. August 16th
They whipped the British soundly—and Burgoyne
Was driven to defeat.
Burgoyne’s surrender fires my tender heart.
We hear Lord George Germain forgets to take
A letter from a pigeon hole containing
Instructions to Burgoyne that touches on
The campaign on the Hudson. Anyway,
Burgoyne gets tangled in the wilderness
Around Champlain. He faces broken bridges,
And trees felled in his way. His horses fail,
Provisions are exhausted. Then he sends
A thousand men to Bennington to get
More horses and provisions. There he’s stumped:
A veteran of Bunker Hill is there,
A Colonel Stark, whose wife is Mollie Stark,
Who says we beat the British here to-day,
Or Mollie Stark’s a widow. August 16th
They whipped the British soundly—and Burgoyne
Was driven to defeat.
That made us flame!
I was a hot republican. Slipped away
To Paris with a cousin to set sail
For America and help the Americans,
And wrote from there a letter to John Wilkes,
And asked his help to get me in the army
Of Washington. As Englishmen, I wrote,
It may be said we are not justified
In taking arms against the English cause.
That argument with you could have no weight,
You, who have fought for Liberty so long.
And England, what is she? All human rights
Are lost in England under tyrant rule.
It is the duty of an English heart
To help those whom this lawless tyranny
Oppresses in America. So I wrote,
And sent to London. What do you suppose?
John Wilkes went to my father with this letter.
They caught me, brought me home, and here I am,
A lawyer to this day. You think it strange!
Who was John Wilkes, that he should thus betray?—
I wonder, even now.
I was a hot republican. Slipped away
To Paris with a cousin to set sail
For America and help the Americans,
And wrote from there a letter to John Wilkes,
And asked his help to get me in the army
Of Washington. As Englishmen, I wrote,
It may be said we are not justified
In taking arms against the English cause.
That argument with you could have no weight,
You, who have fought for Liberty so long.
And England, what is she? All human rights
Are lost in England under tyrant rule.
It is the duty of an English heart
To help those whom this lawless tyranny
Oppresses in America. So I wrote,
And sent to London. What do you suppose?
John Wilkes went to my father with this letter.
They caught me, brought me home, and here I am,
A lawyer to this day. You think it strange!
Who was John Wilkes, that he should thus betray?—
I wonder, even now.
For he had been
A rebel spirit from his boyhood up,
Born here in London seventeen twenty-seven;
Was sent to Parliament when he was thirty.
Attacked the king in writing, was arrested;
Refused to answer questions, then they chucked
Our rebel in the Tower; he got out,
Saying he had a privilege as a member
Of Parliament. They passed a special law
To warrant prosecution, ousted him
From Parliament, and then he went to France,
Was outlawed, but returned, again was sent
To Parliament, before he took his seat.
Was sent to prison on the sentences
Passed on the old conviction, and expelled
From Parliament again for libeling
The minister of war. Three times again
They elected him to Parliament, but they kept
Our rebel out. He now became the people’s
Idol for his sufferings and his courage.
They let him out of prison, made him mayor
Of London, and in seventeen seventy-four
He goes from Middlesex to Parliament
And takes his seat at last, and there he was
When I wrote to him, seventeen seventy-seven.
Why did he tell my father, send my father
The letter which I wrote?
A rebel spirit from his boyhood up,
Born here in London seventeen twenty-seven;
Was sent to Parliament when he was thirty.
Attacked the king in writing, was arrested;
Refused to answer questions, then they chucked
Our rebel in the Tower; he got out,
Saying he had a privilege as a member
Of Parliament. They passed a special law
To warrant prosecution, ousted him
From Parliament, and then he went to France,
Was outlawed, but returned, again was sent
To Parliament, before he took his seat.
Was sent to prison on the sentences
Passed on the old conviction, and expelled
From Parliament again for libeling
The minister of war. Three times again
They elected him to Parliament, but they kept
Our rebel out. He now became the people’s
Idol for his sufferings and his courage.
They let him out of prison, made him mayor
Of London, and in seventeen seventy-four
He goes from Middlesex to Parliament
And takes his seat at last, and there he was
When I wrote to him, seventeen seventy-seven.
Why did he tell my father, send my father
The letter which I wrote?
I know, I think:
He knew the dangers, agonies ahead,
For a boy who sets his feet along the path
Of Liberty and working for the world
To free the world—and did not know my stuff;
Whether I had the will to fight and die
With no regrets. He knew what he had suffered,
And had a tenderness for the youth who flames
And beats his wings for freedom, would release
From tyranny and wrong.
He knew the dangers, agonies ahead,
For a boy who sets his feet along the path
Of Liberty and working for the world
To free the world—and did not know my stuff;
Whether I had the will to fight and die
With no regrets. He knew what he had suffered,
And had a tenderness for the youth who flames
And beats his wings for freedom, would release
From tyranny and wrong.
And so they caught me,
And brought me home and set me to the law.
And here I am, who never lost the dream
And named you Junius Brutus. Oh, my son,
Leave off this actor calling, stay with me,
I who was nipped would see you grow to flower,
Fulfill my vision. What, you promise me,
If I will let you act this time, to come
And let me mould you, teach you what I know,
Fill full your spirit with the hope I had,
That you may do what I have failed to do?
You promise that? Well, Junius Brutus, go
And may you fail at acting and return.
And brought me home and set me to the law.
And here I am, who never lost the dream
And named you Junius Brutus. Oh, my son,
Leave off this actor calling, stay with me,
I who was nipped would see you grow to flower,
Fulfill my vision. What, you promise me,
If I will let you act this time, to come
And let me mould you, teach you what I know,
Fill full your spirit with the hope I had,
That you may do what I have failed to do?
You promise that? Well, Junius Brutus, go
And may you fail at acting and return.
A MAN CHILD IS BORN
(July 14th, 1839. The Farm.)
(Mrs. Booth is speaking.)
After such pain this child against my breast!
Oh what a cunning head and little face!
What coal black hair! You have begun to feed!
Look, doctor, how he feeds—why look at him,
He is a little man! Is not God good
To give me such a baby? Well, I think
You will be something noble in this world,
And something great, you precious little man!
His daddy wants to name him John Wilkes. I
Would name him Junius Brutus to hand down
His father’s glory and perhaps his art.
Look, doctor, is it not a miracle
That God performs, this little life from mine,
This beauty out of love! I pray to God
To bless you, little John, if that’s your name.
A colored mammy read the coffee grounds,
And says he will be famous, rich and great—
He may be so. I know he will be good.
Look at that darling face—it must be so!
Oh what a cunning head and little face!
What coal black hair! You have begun to feed!
Look, doctor, how he feeds—why look at him,
He is a little man! Is not God good
To give me such a baby? Well, I think
You will be something noble in this world,
And something great, you precious little man!
His daddy wants to name him John Wilkes. I
Would name him Junius Brutus to hand down
His father’s glory and perhaps his art.
Look, doctor, is it not a miracle
That God performs, this little life from mine,
This beauty out of love! I pray to God
To bless you, little John, if that’s your name.
A colored mammy read the coffee grounds,
And says he will be famous, rich and great—
He may be so. I know he will be good.
Look at that darling face—it must be so!
SQUIRE BOWLING GREEN
(Rutledge’s Tavern, New Salem, July 14th, 1839.)
You missed it—case all over! Lincoln’s gone.
He’s just had time about to reach the mill.
He couldn’t wait until the stage arrived.
Had business in the courts of Springfield—well,
You can believe he has become a lawyer.
He borrowed Mentor Graham’s horse to ride.
John Yoakum is in Springfield and to-morrow
Will bring it back.
He’s just had time about to reach the mill.
He couldn’t wait until the stage arrived.
Had business in the courts of Springfield—well,
You can believe he has become a lawyer.
He borrowed Mentor Graham’s horse to ride.
John Yoakum is in Springfield and to-morrow
Will bring it back.
Who won the case? Why, Abe.
He won it by his horse-sense and his wit.
You must have met the jury down the road.
What were they laughing at? About the case.
We started yesterday on the evidence
And finished up this morning. An appeal?
The verdict satisfies both parties, and
My judgment stands.
He won it by his horse-sense and his wit.
You must have met the jury down the road.
What were they laughing at? About the case.
We started yesterday on the evidence
And finished up this morning. An appeal?
The verdict satisfies both parties, and
My judgment stands.
Abe is a natural lawyer,
Knows things that can’t be found in books, although
He knows the books. And why not? You recall
When he was boarding with me how he studied?
It’s just four years ago or so, that he
Came home one night with Blackstone. Well, I’ve noticed
A man attracts what’s his, just like a magnet
Draws bits of steel. You can’t make me believe
That Blackstone came to him unless ’twas meant
That he should be a lawyer. Don’t you know?
He read this Blackstone in his store all day
And half the night as well. He said to me
Not Volney’s “Ruins,” Shakespeare, Burns, had taken
His interest like this Blackstone. Yes, he took it
When he went fishing with Jack Kelso, read,
And let jack row the boat and bait the hooks....
Knows things that can’t be found in books, although
He knows the books. And why not? You recall
When he was boarding with me how he studied?
It’s just four years ago or so, that he
Came home one night with Blackstone. Well, I’ve noticed
A man attracts what’s his, just like a magnet
Draws bits of steel. You can’t make me believe
That Blackstone came to him unless ’twas meant
That he should be a lawyer. Don’t you know?
He read this Blackstone in his store all day
And half the night as well. He said to me
Not Volney’s “Ruins,” Shakespeare, Burns, had taken
His interest like this Blackstone. Yes, he took it
When he went fishing with Jack Kelso, read,
And let jack row the boat and bait the hooks....
I think he knows this Blackstone all by heart.
But anyway, he knows the human heart.
Well, now here is the case: Here is a colt.
George Cameron says the colt is his—John Spears
Says no, the colt is mine, and Cameron sues,
And Spears defends, and sixty witnesses
Come here to testify, on my word it’s true,
On my judicial oath it is the fact.
The thirty swear the colt is Cameron’s;
And thirty swear the colt belongs to Spears;
And not a man impeached, these witnesses
Are everyone good men, and most of them
I know as I know you. Well, what’s to do?
The scales are balanced. And besides all this,
Here’s Cameron who swears the colt is his,
And Spears who swears the opposite, and both
Are credible, I know them both. So I
Sit like a fellow trying to decide
What happens when a thing impenetrable
Is struck by something irresistible—
I’m stumped, that’s all.
But anyway, he knows the human heart.
Well, now here is the case: Here is a colt.
George Cameron says the colt is his—John Spears
Says no, the colt is mine, and Cameron sues,
And Spears defends, and sixty witnesses
Come here to testify, on my word it’s true,
On my judicial oath it is the fact.
The thirty swear the colt is Cameron’s;
And thirty swear the colt belongs to Spears;
And not a man impeached, these witnesses
Are everyone good men, and most of them
I know as I know you. Well, what’s to do?
The scales are balanced. And besides all this,
Here’s Cameron who swears the colt is his,
And Spears who swears the opposite, and both
Are credible, I know them both. So I
Sit like a fellow trying to decide
What happens when a thing impenetrable
Is struck by something irresistible—
I’m stumped, that’s all.
You see the facts were these:
Each of these fellows owns a mare, the mares
Look pretty much alike, each had a colt
In April. But the other day one colt—
Which colt, that is the question—strayed away
And can’t be found. George Cameron has a colt—
These men are neighbors—but John Spears comes over
And sees the colt at Cameron’s in the field;
And says, “That is my colt.” “Not on your life,”
George Cameron replies, “The colt is mine—
Your colt has strayed, not mine.” They come to law.
John Spears gets Lincoln, and they come to court
With sixty witnesses; and here this noon
With all the evidence put in, I sit
And eye the jury, know the jury’s stumped,
As I am stumped.
Each of these fellows owns a mare, the mares
Look pretty much alike, each had a colt
In April. But the other day one colt—
Which colt, that is the question—strayed away
And can’t be found. George Cameron has a colt—
These men are neighbors—but John Spears comes over
And sees the colt at Cameron’s in the field;
And says, “That is my colt.” “Not on your life,”
George Cameron replies, “The colt is mine—
Your colt has strayed, not mine.” They come to law.
John Spears gets Lincoln, and they come to court
With sixty witnesses; and here this noon
With all the evidence put in, I sit
And eye the jury, know the jury’s stumped,
As I am stumped.
Then Lincoln says: “Your honor,
Let’s have a trial on view.” I’d heard of that,
But never sat on such a trial before.
“Let’s bring the colt, the two mares over here,
And let the jury see which mare the colt
Resembles, let the jury use their eyes
As witnesses use theirs.”
Let’s have a trial on view.” I’d heard of that,
But never sat on such a trial before.
“Let’s bring the colt, the two mares over here,
And let the jury see which mare the colt
Resembles, let the jury use their eyes
As witnesses use theirs.”
That seemed fair.
And so we sent one fellow for the mares,
Another for the colt. For Lincoln said:
“Your honor, bring them separate, so the jury
Can have the sudden flash of seeing them
Separate, to study them.”
And so we sent one fellow for the mares,
Another for the colt. For Lincoln said:
“Your honor, bring them separate, so the jury
Can have the sudden flash of seeing them
Separate, to study them.”
For an hour
Abe sat here in the shade and told us stories.
And pretty soon we heard the horses whinney,
And heard the colt. And Lincoln said, “Your honor,
Let’s have the mares led past the jury, trotting,
Let’s see their pace.” And so they trotted them.
“Now trot the colt,” said Lincoln—we did that.
The jury watched to see the look of legs,
And movement, if you please, to catch a likeness.
But nothing came of this. Then Lincoln said:
“Now turn the colt loose”—and they turned it loose.
It galloped to the mare of Spears and sucked!
Well, now it’s true a colt’s a silly thing,
And may mistake its mother, but a mare
Will never let a colt that’s not her own
Put under flanks its nose. Of course the jury,
And all of us know that—and so did Abe.
The jury yelled and all the witnesses
Began to whoop. And when I rapped for order
And got things quiet—Lincoln rose and said,
“I rest, your honor.”
Abe sat here in the shade and told us stories.
And pretty soon we heard the horses whinney,
And heard the colt. And Lincoln said, “Your honor,
Let’s have the mares led past the jury, trotting,
Let’s see their pace.” And so they trotted them.
“Now trot the colt,” said Lincoln—we did that.
The jury watched to see the look of legs,
And movement, if you please, to catch a likeness.
But nothing came of this. Then Lincoln said:
“Now turn the colt loose”—and they turned it loose.
It galloped to the mare of Spears and sucked!
Well, now it’s true a colt’s a silly thing,
And may mistake its mother, but a mare
Will never let a colt that’s not her own
Put under flanks its nose. Of course the jury,
And all of us know that—and so did Abe.
The jury yelled and all the witnesses
Began to whoop. And when I rapped for order
And got things quiet—Lincoln rose and said,
“I rest, your honor.”
So I entered judgment
For Spears. They went to Berry’s for the drinks—
There! hear them laughing.
For Spears. They went to Berry’s for the drinks—
There! hear them laughing.
Lincoln took his fee,
Ten dollars, I believe, and went to Springfield.
Ten dollars, I believe, and went to Springfield.
LINCOLN SPEAKING IN CONGRESS
(January 12th, 1848.)
“Any people anywhere being inclined and having the power have the right to rise up and shake off the existing government and form a new one that suits them better. This is a most valuable, a sacred right. A right which we hope and believe is to liberate the world. Nor is this right confined to cases in which the whole people of an existing government may choose to exercise it. Any portion of such people that can, may revolutionize, and may make their own of so much of the territory as they inhabit. More than this, a majority of any portion of such people may revolutionize, putting down a minority, intermingled with, or near about them, who may oppose their movement. Such minority was precisely the case of the Tories of our own revolution. It is a quality of revolutions not to go by old lines, or old laws, but to break up both and make new ones.”