SPEECHES IN THE ROMAN SENATE.
CATO.—Fathers! we once again are
met in council.
Cæsar's approach, has
summon'd us together,
And Rome attends her fate
from our resolves.
How shall we treat this bold
aspiring man?
Success still follows him, and backs
his crimes,
Pharsalia gave him Rome. Egypt has
since
Receiv'd his yoke, and the whole Nile is
Cæsar's.
Why should I mention Juba's
overthrow,
And Scipio's death? Numidia's burning
sands
Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should
decree
What course to take. Our foe advances on
us,
And envies us ev'n Lybia's sultry
deserts.
Fathers, pronounce your thoughts. Are
they still fix'd
To hold it out and fight it to
the last?
Or, are your hearts subdu'd, at length,
and wrought;
By time and ill success, to a
submission?—
Sempronius,
speak.
SEMPRONIUS.—My voice is still for
war.
Gods! can a Roman senate long
debate
Which of the two to chuse, slav'ry or
death?
No—let us rise at once; gird on our
swords;
And, at the head of our remaining
troops,
Attack the foe; break through the thick
array
Of his throng'd legions; and charge home
upon him.
Perhaps, some arm, more lucky than the
rest,
May reach his heart, and free the world from
bondage.
Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands
your help;
Rise, and revenge her slaughter'd
citizens,
Or share their fate! The corpse of half
her senate
Manure the fields of Thessaly, while
we
Sit here, delib'rating' hi told
debates,
If we should sacrifice our lives to
honour,
Or wear them out in servitude and
chains.
Rouse up, for shame: Our brothers of
Pharsalia
Point at their wounds, and cry
aloud—to battle!
Great Pompey's shade
complains that we are flow;
And Scipio's ghost
walks unreveng'd amongst us!
CATO.—Let not a torrent of
impetuous zeal
Transport thee thus beyond the
bounds of reason.
True fortitude is seen in great
exploits,
That justice warrants, and that wisdom
guides;
All else is tow'ring frenzy and
distraction.
Are not the lives of those who draw
the sword
In Rome's defence, entrusted to our
care?
Should we thus lead them to a field of
slaughter,
Might not th' impartial world, with
reason, say
We lavish'd, at our deaths, the blood
of thousands;
To grace our fall, and make our ruin
glorious?
Lucius, we next would know what's your
opinion.
LUCIUS.—My thoughts, I must
confess, are turn'd on peace,
Already have our
quarrels fill'd the world
With widows and with
orphans. Scythia mourns
Our guilty wars, and
earth's remotest regions
Lie half unpeopled by the
feuds of Rome.
'Tis time to sheathe the sword, and
spare mankind,
It is not Cæsar, but the
gods, my fathers!
The gods declare against us, and
repel
Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to
battle,
(Prompted by a blind revenge and wild
despair)
Were, to refuse th' awards of
providence,
And not to rest in heav'n's
determination.
Already have we shewn our love to
Rome;
Now, let us shew submission to the
gods.
We took up arms not to revenge
ourselves,
But free the commonwealth. When this
end fails,
Arms have no further use. Our country's
cause,
That drew our swords, now wrests them from
our hands,
And bids us not delight in Roman
blood
Unprofitably shed. What men could
do
Is done already. Heav'n and earth will
witness,
If Rome must fall, that we are
innocent.
CATO—Let us appear, not rash, nor
diffident,
Immoderate valour swells into a
fault;
And fear, admitted into public
councils,
Betray like treason. Let us shun 'em
both.—
Father's, I cannot see that our
affairs
Are grown thus desp'rate. We have bulwarks
round us;
Within our walls, are troops inur'd to
toil
In Afric heats, and season'd to the
sun.
Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind
us,
Ready to rise at its young prince's
call.
While there is hope, do not distrust the
gods:
But wait, at least, till Cæsar's near
approach
Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too
late
To sue for chains, and own a
conqueror.
Why should Rome fall a moment ere her
time?
No—let us draw our term of freedom
out
In its full length, and spin it to the
last:
So shall we gain still one day's
liberty.
And, let me perish, but, in Cato's
judgment,
A day, an hour, of virtuous
liberty,
Is worth a whole eternity of
bondage.
CATO, solus, sitting in a thoughtful posture: In his hand
Plato's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn sword on the
table by him.
It must be so—Plato, thou reason'st
well!—
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this
fond desire,
This longing after
immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and
inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks
the soul
Back on herself, and startles at
destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within
us;
'Tis heav'n itself, that points out—an
hereafter,
And intimates—eternity to
man.
Eternity!—thou pleasing—dreadful
thought!
Through what variety of untry'd
beings,
Through what new scenes and changes must
we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies
before me—
But shadows, clouds, and darkness
rest upon it.—
Here will I hold. If there's
a pow'r above us,
(And that there is all nature
cries aloud
Through all her works) he must delight
in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be
happy.
But, when! or where! this world—was
made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of
conjectures—this must end 'em.
[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and
life,
My bane and antidote are both before
me:
This, in a moment, brings me to an
end;
But this informs me I shall never
die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence,
smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its
point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun
himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in
years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal
youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wrecks of matter; and the crush of worlds.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses?
Nature oppress'd, and harrass'd out with care;
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her;
That my awaken'd soul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her strength, and fresh with life;
An offering fit for Heav'n. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest; Cato knows neither of 'em;
Indiff'rent in his choice, to sleep or die.
HAMLET'S MEDITATION ON DEATH.
To be—or not to be!—that is
the question.—
Whether 'tis nobler in the
mind, to suffer
The stings and arrows of
outrageous fortune;
Or to take arms against a
siege of troubles,
And, by opposing, end
them?—To die—to sleep—
No
more;—and, by a sleep, to say we end
The
heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That
flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die—to
sleep—
To sleep—perchance to
dream—aye, there's the rub.—
For, in
that sleep of death what dreams may come;
When we
have shuffled off this mortal coil;
Must give us
pause.—There's the respect
That makes
calamity of so long a life
For, who would bear the
whips and scorns o' th' time,
Th' oppressor's
wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of
despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of
office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the
unworthy takes;
When he himself might his quietus
make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels
bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary
life;
But that the dread of something after
death
(That undiscover'd country, from whose
bourne
No traveller returns) puzzles the
will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we
have,
Than fly to others that we know not
of;
Thus conscience does make cowards of us
all;
And thus the native hue of
resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of
thought;
And enterprizes of great pith and
moment,
With this regard, their currents turn
away,
And lose the name of
action.
SELECT PASSAGES FROM DRAMATIC WRITERS,
EXPRESSIVE OF THE PRINCIPAL EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS.
JOY.
Then is Orestes blest! My griefs are
fled!
Fled like a dream! Methinks I tread in
air!—
Surprising happiness! unlook'd for
joy!
Never let love despair! The prize is
mine!—
Be smooth, ye seas! and, ye
propitious winds,
Blow from Epirus to the Spartan
coast!
GRIEF.
I'll go; and in the anguish of my
heart—-
Weep o'er my child—If he must
die, my life
Is wrapt in his; I shall not long
survive.
'Tis for his sake that I have suffer'd
life;
Groan'd in captivity; and outliv'd
Hector.—
Yes, my Astyanax! we'll go
together;
Together—to the realms of night
we'll go.
PITY.
Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at
last,
Thy beauties, Belvidera, like a
wretch
That's doom'd to banishment, came weeping
forth,
Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she
lean'd,
Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew
sad!
E'en the lewd rabble, that were gather'd
round
To see the sight, stood mute when they
beheld her,
Govern'd their roaring
throats—and grumbled pity.
FEAR.
Come on, Sir,—here's the
place—stand still,—
How fearful 'tis
to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows and coughs,
that whig the midway air,
Shew scarce so gross as
beetles. Half way down,
Hangs one that gathers
samphire—dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems
no bigger than one's head,
The fishermen, that
walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon
tall anchoring bark
Seems lesson'd to a cock; her
cock, a buoy
Almost too small for fight. The
murmuring surge;
That on th' unnumbered idle
pebbles chases,
Cannot be heard so
high.—I'll look no more,
Lest my brain turn
and the disorder make me
Tumble down
headlong.
AWE AND FEAR.
Now, all is hush'd and still as
death—
How reverend is the face of this tall
pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble
heads,
To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous
roof,
By its own weight made stedfast and
immoveable,
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an
awe
And terror on my aking sight. The
tombs,
And monumental caves of death look
cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling
heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy
voice—
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me
hear
Thy voice—my own affrights me with its
echoes.
HORROR.
Hark!—the death-denouncing trumpet
founds
The fatal charge, and shouts proclaim the
onset.
Destruction rushes dreadful to the
field,
And bathes itself in blood. Havock, let
loose.
Now, undistinguish'd, rages all
around;
While Ruin, seated on her dreary
throne,
Sees the plain strew'd, with subjects
truly her's,
Breathless and cold.
ANGER.
Hear me, rash man; on thy allegiance hear
me,
Since thou hast striven to make us break our
vow,
Which, nor our nature, nor our place can
bear,
We banish thee forever from our
sight
And kingdom. If, when three days are
expir'd,
Thy hated trunk be found in our
dominions,
That moment is thy
death—-Away!
REVENGE.
If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath
disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million; laughed at my
losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his
reason—I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands,
organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Is he not fed
with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same
diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same
winter and summer, as a Christian is? if you prick us do we not
bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we
not die? And, if you wrong us—shall we not revenge? If we are
like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong
a Christian, what is his humility?—Revenge. If a Christian
wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian
example?—Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will
execute; and it shall go hard, but I will better the
instruction.
ADMIRATION.
What find I here?
Fair
Portia's counterfeit?—What demi-god
Hath
come so near creation! Move these eyes!
Or,
whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in
motion?—Here are sever'd lips,
Parted with
sugar breath: so sweet a bar
Should sunder such
sweet friends.—Here, in her hair,
The
painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden
mesh, t' entrap the hearts of men
Falter than
gnats in cobwebs.—But her eyes—
How
could he see to do them! having made one,
Methinks
it should have power to steal both his,
And leave
itself unfinish'd!
HAUGHTINESS.
Make thy demands to those that own thy
power!
Know, I am still beyond thee. And tho'
fortune
Has strip'd me of this train, this pomp of
greatness;
This outside of a king, yet still my
soul,
Fix'd high, and on herself alone
dependant,
Is ever free and royal: and, even
now,
As at the head of battle—does defy
thee!
CONTEMPT.
Away! no woman could descend so
low,
A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you
are;
Fit only for yourselves. You herd
together;
And when the circling glass warms your
vain hearts,
You talk of beauties that you never
saw,
And fancy raptures that you never
knew.
RESIGNATION.
Yet, yet endure—nor murmur, O my
foul!
For, are not thy transgressions great and
numberless?
Do they not cover thee, like rising
floods?
And press then, like a weight of waters,
down?
Does not the hand of righteousness afflict
thee?
And who shall plead against it? who shall
say
To Pow'r Almighty, Thou hast done
enough;
Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance it
stay?—
Wait, then, with patience, till the
circling hours
Shall bring the time of thy
appointed rest
And lay thee down in
death.
IMPATIENCE.
Oh! rid me of this torture, quickly
there,
My Madam, with the everlasting
voice.
The bells, in time of pestilence, ne'er
made
Like noise, or were in that perpetual
motion.
————————————All
my house,
But now, steam'd like a bath, with her
thick breath,
A lawyer could not have been heard,
nor scarce
Another woman, such a hail of
words
She has let fall.
REMORSE AND DESPAIR.
Henceforth, let no man trust the first
false step
Of guilt. It hangs upon a
precipice,
Whose deep descent in last perdition
ends.
How far am I plung'd down, beyond all
thought
Which I this evening
fram'd—
Consummate horror! guilt beyond, a
name!—
Dare not, my soul, repent. In thee,
repentance
Were second guilt; and 'twere
blaspheming Heav'n
To hope for mercy. My pain can
only cease
When gods want power to
punish.—Ha!—the dawn—
Rise never
more, O fun!—let night prevail:
Eternal
darkness close the world's wide scene—
And
hide me from myself.
DISTRACTION.
Mercy!—I know it not—for I am
miserable.
I'll give thee misery—for here
she dwells,
This is her house—where the sun
never dawns:
The bird of night sits screaming o'er
the roof;
Grim spectres sweep along the horrid
gloom;
And nought in heard, but wailings and
lamenting.
Hark!—something cracks
above;—it shakes—it totters!
And
see—the nodding ruin falls to crush me!—
'Tis fallen—'Tis here!—I feel it on my
brain!
A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er
me!
And now 'tis out—and I am drown'd in
blood.—
Ha! what art thou? thou horrid
headless trunk!—
It is my
Hastings—See, he wafts me on!
Away I
go!—I fly!—I follow thee!
GRATITUDE.
My Father! Oh! let me unlade my
breast;
Pour out the fullness of my soul before
you;
Shew ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful
thought,
This wond'rous goodness stirs. But 'tis
impossible,
And utt'rance all is vile; since I can
only
Swear you reign here, but never tell how
much.
INTREATY.
Reward him for the noble deed, just
Heavens!
For this one action, guard him, and
distinguish him
With signal mercies, and with
great deliverance,
Save him from wrong, adversity,
and shame,
Let never-fading honours flourish round
him;
And consecrate his name; ev'n to time's
end.
Let him know nothing else, but good on
earth
And everlasting blessedness
hereafter.
COMMANDING.
Silence, ye winds!
That
make outrageous war upon the ocean:
And then, old
ocean? lull thy boist'rous waves.
Ye warring
elements! be hush'd as death,
While I impose my
dread commands on hell.
And thou, profoundest
hell! whose dreary sway,
Is given to me by fate
and demogorgon—
Hear, hear my powerful
voice, through all thy regions
And from thy gloomy
caverns thunder the reply.
COURAGE.
A generous few, the vet'ran hardy
gleanings
Of many a hapless fight, with a,
fierce
Heroic fire, inspirited each
other:
Resolv'd on death, disdaining to
survive
Their dearest country. "If we fall," I
cry'd,
"Let us not tamely fall, like passive
cowards!
No—let us live, or let us
die—like men!
Come on, my friends. To Alfred
we will cut
Our glorious way: or as we nobly
perish,
Will offer to the genius of our
country—
Whole hecatombs of Danes." As if
one soul
Have mov'd them all, around their heads
they flash'd
Their flaming falchions—"lead
us to those Danes!
Our Country!—Vengeance!"
was the general cry.
BOASTING.
I will tell you, Sir, by the way of private, and under seal. I
am a gentleman; and live here, obscure, and to myself; but, were I
known to his Majesty, and the Lords, observe me, I would undertake,
upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit or the state,
not only to spare the entire lives of his subjects in general, but
to save the one half, nay three parts of his yearly charge, in
holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it,
think you? Why thus, Sir. I would select nineteen more to myself,
throughout the land; gentlemen they should be; of good spirit,
strong and able constitution. I would chuse them by an instinct
that I have. And I would teach these nineteen, the special rules;
as your Punto, your Reverso, your Stoccaio, your Imbroccato, your
Passada, your Montonto; till they could all play very near, or
altogether, as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty
thousand strong. We twenty, would come into the field the tenth of
March or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy;
they could not, in their honour refuse us: Well, we would kill
them; challenge twenty more, kill them: twenty more, kill them:
twenty more, kill them too. And thus, would we kill, every man, his
twenty a day; that's twenty score; twenty score; that's two
hundred; two hundred a day; five days, a thousand: forty
thousand—forty times five—five times forty—two
hundred days kill them all up by computation. And this I will
venture my poor gentleman-like carcase to perform (provided there
by no treason practised upon) by fair and discreet manhood; that
is, civilly by the sword.
PERPLEXITY.
—Let me think—
What can this mean—Is it to me aversion?
Or is it, as I feared, she loves another?
Ha! yes—perhaps the king, the young count
Tancred?
They were bred up together—surely
that,
That cannot be—Has he not given his
hand,
In the most solemn manner, to
Constantia?
Does not his crown depend upon the
deed?
No—if they lov'd, and this old
statesman knew it,
He could not to a king prefer a
subject.
His virtues I esteem—nay more, I
trust them—
So far as virtue goes—but
could he place
His daughter on the throne of
Sicily—
O! 'tis a glorious bribe; too much
for man!
What is it then!—I care not what it
is.
SUSPICION.
Would he were fatter—but I fear him
not.
Yes, if my name were liable to
fear,
I do not know the man I should
avoid,
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads
much—
He is a great observer—and he
looks
Quite through the deeds of men.
He loves no plays: he hears no music.
Seldom
he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he
mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit,
That could
be moved to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be
never at heart's ease,
Whilst they behold a
greater than themselves—
And, therefore, are
they very dangerous.
WIT AND HUMOUR.
A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in it. It ascends
me into the brain. Dries me there, all-the foolish, dull, and crudy
vapours which environ it: makes it apprehensive, quick, inventive;
full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes, which, delivered over
to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent
wit—The second property of your excellent sherris, is, the
warming of the blood; which, before, cold and settled, left the
liver white and pale: which is the badge of pusillanimity and
cowardice. But the sherris warms it, and makes its course from the
inwards to the parts extreme. It illuminateth the face, which, as a
beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man,
to arm; and then, the vital commoners, and inland petty spirits,
muster me all to their captain, the heart; who, great, and puffed
up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage—and this value
comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon, is nothing without
sack; for that sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold
kept by a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in act and
use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold
blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean,
steril, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, with
drinking good, and good store of fertile sherris—If I had a
thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them, should
be—to foreswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to
sack.
A plague on 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 socks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague on
all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue
extant?
[Drinks.
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—-Go thy ways, old Jack!
die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon
the face of the earth, then a'nt I a shotten herring. There lives
not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat, and
grows old, God help the while!—A plague on all cowards, I say
still!—-Give me a cup of sack.
[Drinks.
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. All would not do. A plague on all
cowards!—But I have peppered two of them; two, I am sure I
have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, if I tell
thee a lie, spit in my face; call me a horse.—Thou knowest my
old ward. Here I lay; and thus I bore my point.—Four rogues
in buckram let drive at me. 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. Then, these nine in buckram, that I told thee
of, began to give me ground. But I followed them close; came in
foot and hand; and, with a thought—seven of these eleven I
paid.—A plague on all cowards, say I!—Give me a cup of
sack.
[Drinks.
RIDICULE.
I can as well be hanged, as tell the manner of it; it was mere
foolery.—I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; and, as I told
you, he put it by once—but, for all that, to my thinking, he
would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then, he
put it by again—but, to my thinking, he was very loth to lay
his fingers off it. And then he offered it a third time; he put it
the third time by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement
shouted, and clapt their chopt hands, and threw by their sweaty
night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath, because
Cæsar refused the crown, that it had almost choaked
Cæsar, for he swooned, and, fell down at it; and for mine own
part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips, and receiving
the bad air.
Before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd were
glad, he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, and
offered them his throat to cut: an' I had been a man of any
occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I
might go to hell among the rogues!—and so he fell. When he
came to himself again, he said, "if he had done, or said any thing
amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity."
Three or four wenches where I stood, cried, Alas, good
soul!—and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no
heed to be taken of them: if Cæsar had stabbed their mothers
they would have done no less.
PERTURBATION.
Vengeance! death! plague!
confusion!
Fiery! what quality?—-Why,
Gloster, Gloster!
I'd speak with the Duke of
Cornwall and his wife:
The King would speak with
Cornwall—-the dear father
Would with his
daughter speak; commands her service.
Are they
inform'd of this?—-My breath and blood!
Fiery! the fiery Duke! Tell the hot Duke—
No' but not yet: may be he is not well:
I
beg his pardon: and I'll chide my rashness,
That
took the indisposed and sickly fit.
For the sound
man,—-But wherefore sits he there?—
Death on my state! this act convinces me,
That this retiredness of the Duke and her
Is
plain contempt—Give me my servant forth—
Go tell the Duke and's wife I'd speak with 'em:
Now: instantly—Bid 'em come forth and hear
me;
Or, at their chamber-door, I'll beat the
drum—
'Till it cry—Sleep to
death.
Elements of Gesture.
SECTION I.
On the Speaking of Speeches at Schools.
Elocution has, for some years past, been an object of attention
in the most respectable schools in this country. A laudable
ambition of instructing youth in the pronunciation and delivery of
their native language, has made English speeches a very conspicuous
part of those exhibitions of oratory which do them so much
credit.
This attention to English pronunciation has induced several
ingenious men to compile Exercises in Elocution for the use of
schools, which have answered very useful purposes; but none, so far
as I have seen, have attempted to give us a regular system of
gesture suited to the wants and capacities of school-boys. Mr.
Burgh, in his Art of Speaking, has given us a system of the
passions, and has shewn us how they appear in the countenance, and
operate on the body; but this system, however useful to people of
riper years, is too delicate and complicated to be taught in
schools. Indeed, the exact adaptation of the action to the word,
and the word to the action, as Shakespear calls it, is the most
difficult part of delivery, and therefore can never be taught
perfectly to children; to say nothing of distracting their
attention with two difficult things at the same time. But that boys
should stand motionless, while they are pronouncing the most
impassioned language, is extremely absurd and unnatural; and that
they should sprawl into an aukward, ungain, and desultory action,
is still more offensive and disgusting. What then remains, but that
such a general style of action be adopted, as shall be easily
conceived and easily executed, which, though not expressive of any
particular passion, shall not be inconsistent with the expression
of any passion; which shall always keep the body in a graceful
position, and shall so vary its motions; at proper intervals, as to
seem the subject operating on the speaker, and not the speaker on
the subject. This, it will be confessed, is a great desideratum;
and an attempt to do this, is the principal object of the present
publication.
The difficulty of describing action by words, will be allowed by
every one; and if we were never to give any instructions but such
as should completely answer our wishes, this difficulty would be a
good reason for not attempting to give any description of it. But
there are many degrees between conveying a precise idea of a thing,
and no idea at all. Besides, in this part of delivery, instruction
may be conveyed by the eye; and this organ is a much more rapid
vehicle of knowledge than the ear. This vehicle is addressed on the
present, occasion, and plates, representing the attitudes which are
described, are annexed to the several descriptions, which it is not
doubted will greatly facilitate the reader's conception.
The first plate represents the attitude in which a boy should
always place himself when he begins to speak. He should rest the
whole weight of his body on the right leg; the other, just touching
the ground, at the distance at which it would naturally fall, if
lifted up to shew that the body does not bear upon it. The knees
should be strait and braced, and the body, though perfectly strait,
not perpendicular, but inclining as far to the right as a firm
position on the right leg will permit. The right arm must then be
held out with the palm open, the fingers straight and close, the
thumb almost as distant from them as it will go, and the flat of
the hand neither horizontal nor vertical, but exactly between both.
The position of the arm perhaps will be best described by supposing
an oblong hollow square, formed by the measure of four arms, as in
plate the first, where the arm in its true position forms the
diagonal of such an imaginary figure. So that, if lines were drawn
at right angles from the shoulder, extending downwards, forwards,
and sideways, the arm will form a& angle of forty-five degrees
every way.
PLATE I.
When the pupil has pronounced one sentence in the position thus
described, the hand, as if lifeless, must drop down to the side,
the very moment the last accepted word is pronounced; and the body,
without altering the place of the feet, poise itself on the left
leg, while the left hand rises itself into exactly the same
position as the right was before, and continues in this position
till tine end of the next sentence, when it drops down on the side,
as if dead; and the body poizing itself on the right leg as before,
continues with the right arm extended, till the end of the
succeeding sentence, and so on from right to left, and from left to
right alternately, till the speech is ended.
PLATE II.
Great care must he taken that the pupil end one sentence
completely, before he begin another. He must let the arm drop to
the side, and continue for a moment in that posture in which he
concluded, before he poizes his body on the other leg, and raises
the other arm into the diagonal position before described; both
which should be done before he begins to pronounce the next
sentence. Care must also he taken in shifting the body from one leg
to the other, that the feet do not alter their distance. In
altering the position of the body, the feet will necessarily alter
their position a little; but this change must be made by turning
the toes in a somewhat different direction, without suffering them
to shift their ground. The heels, in this transition, change their
place, but not the toes. The toes may be considered as pivots, on
which the body turns from side to side.
If the pupil's knees are not well formed, or incline inwards, he
must be taught to keep his legs at as great a distance as possible,
and to incline his body so much to that side, on which the arm is
extended, as to oblige him to rest the opposite leg upon the toe;
and this will, in a great measure, hide the defect of his make. In
the same manner, if the arm be too long, or the elbow incline
inwards, it will be proper to make him turn the palm of his hand
downwards, so as to make it perfectly horizontal. This will
infallibly incline the elbow outwards, and prevent the worst
position the arm can possibly fall into, which is that of inclining
the elbow to the body. This position of the hand so necessarily
keeps the elbow out, that it would not be improper to make the
pupil sometimes practice it, though he may have no defect in his
make; as an occasional alteration of the former position to this,
may often be necessary both for the sake of justness and variety.
These two last positions of the legs and arms, are described in
plate second.
When the pupil has got the habit of holding his hand and arm
properly, he may be taught to move it. In this motion he must be
careful to keep the arm from the body. He must neither draw the
elbow backwards, nor suffer it to approach to the side, bur, while
the hand and lower joint of the arm are curving towards the
shoulder, the whole arm, with the elbow forming nearly an angle of
a square, should move upwards from the shoulder, in the same
position as when gracefully taking off the hat; that is, with the
elbow extended from the side, and the upper joint of the arm nearly
on a line with the shoulder, and forming an angle of a square with
the body—(see plate III.) This motion of the arm will
naturally bring the hand with the palm downwards, into an
horizontal position, and when it approaches to the head, the arm
should with a jerk be suddenly straitened into its first position,
at the very moment the emphatical word is pronounced. This
coincidence of the hand and voice, will greatly enforce the
pronunciation; and if they keep time, they will be in tune as it
were to each other, and to force and energy add harmony and
variety.
As this motion of the arm is somewhat complicated, and may be
found difficult to execute, it would be adviseable to let the pupil
at first speak without any motion of the arm at all. After some
time he will naturally fall into a small curvature of the elbow, to
beat time, as it were, to the emphatic word; and if, in doing this,
he is constantly urged to raise the elbow, and to keep it at a
distance from the body, the action of the arm will naturally grow
up into that we have just described. So the diagonal position of
the arm, though the most graceful and easy when the body is at
rest, may he too difficult for boys to fall into at first; and
therefore it may be necessary, in order to avoid the worse extreme,
for some time to make them extend the arm as far from the body as
they can, in a somewhat similar direction, but higher from the
ground, and inclining more to the back. Great care must be taken to
keep the hand open, and the thumb at some distance from the
fingers; and particular attention must be paid to keeping the hand
in the exact line with the lower part of the arm, so as not to bend
at the wrist, either when it is held out without motion, or when it
gives the emphatic stroke. And above all, the body must be kept in
a straight line with the leg on which it bears, and not suffered to
bend to the opposite side.
PLATE III.