V.

123. NORVAL.

Enter first GLENALVON; and soon after, NORVAL.

G

looking off at some distant object.

The latter seems

LENALVON. His port I love; he's in a proper mood
To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. [Aside.
[Aloud.] Has Norval seen the troops?

Norval.
The setting sun
With yellow radiance lightened all the vale,
And as the warriors moved, each polished helm,
Corslet, or spear, glanced back his gilded beams.
The hill they climbed, and, halting at its top,
Of more than mortal size, towering they seemed
A host angelic, clad in burning arms.

Glen. Thou talk'st it well; no leader of our host
In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war.

Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name,

My speech will be less ardent. Novelty

Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration
Vents itself freely; since no part is mine

Of praise pertaining to the great in arms.

Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir; your martial deeds Have ranked you with the great. But mark me, Norval, Lord Randolph's favor now exalts your youth

Above his veterans of famous service.

Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you.
Give them all honor: seem not to command,
Else they will hardly brook your late-sprung power,
Which nor alliance props nor birth adorns.

Norv. Sir, I have been accustomed, all my days,
To hear and speak the plain and simple truth;
And though I have been told that there are men
Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn,
Yet in such language I am little skilled;

Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel,
Although it sounded harshly. Why remind
Me of my birth obscure? Why slur my power
With such contemptuous terms?

Glen.

I did not mean

To gall your pride, which now I see is great.

Norv. My pride!

Glen.
Suppress it, as you wish to prosper;
Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake,
I will not leave you to its rash direction.

If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men,
Will high-born men endure a shepherd's scorn ?
Norv. A shepherd's scorn! [Crosses left.

Glen. [Right.]

Why yes, if you presume

To bend on soldiers those disdainful eyes
As if you took the measure of their minds,
And said in secret, You're no match for me,
What will become of you?

Nerv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self?
Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me?

Norv.

Didst thou not hear?

Glen. Unwillingly I did; a nobler foe

Had not been questioned thus; but such as thou-
Norv. Whom dost thou think me?

Glen.

Norv.

Norval.

So I am ;

And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes?

Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy;
At best no more, even if he speaks the truth.

Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my truth?
Glen. Thy truth! thou'rt all a lie; and basely false
Is the vain-glorious tale thou told'st to Randolph.
Norv. If I were chained, unarmed, or bedrid old,
Perhaps I should revile; but, as I am,

I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval

Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. [Crosses R.

Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valor,

And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword,

I'd tell thee—what thou art. I know thee well.

Glen. [L.] Dost thou not know Glenalvon born to command Ten thousand slaves like thee?

Norv.

Villain, no mōre!

Draw, and defend thy life. I did design
To have defied thee in another cause;

But heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee.
Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs!

[Both draw their swords.

Enter LORD RANDOLPH, R.

Lord Randolph. Hold! I command you both! the man that stirs Makes me his foe.

Norv. Another voice than thine

That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph.

Glen. Hear him, my lord; he's wondrous condescending! Mark the humility of shepherd Norval!

Norv. Now you may scoff in safety. [Both sheathe their swords. Lord R. [R.] Speak not thus, Taunting each other, but unfold to me

The cause of quarrel; then I judge betwixt you.

Norv. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much,
My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment.
I blush to speak; and will not, can not speak
The opprobrious words that I from him have bōrne.
To the liege lord of my dear native land
I owe a subject's homage; but even him
And his high arbitration I'd reject!
Within my bosom reigns another lord-
Honor! sole judge and umpire of itself.
If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph,
Revoke your favors, and let Norval go
Hence as he came ; ălōne-but not dishonored!

Lord R. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial voice:

The ancient foe of Caledonia's land

Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields;
Suspend your purpose till your country's arms
Repel the bold invader; then decide

Let not our variance mar the social hour,

Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph.
Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate,

Shall stain my countenance. Smooth thou thy brow;
Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame.

Norv. Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment: When we contend again, our strife is mortal.

[Exeunt GLEN., NORV.

HOME.

JOHN HOME, author of "Douglas" and various other tragedies, was born at Leith, Scotland, in 1722. He entered the Church, and succeeded Blair, author of "The Grave," as minister of Athelstaneford. After writing "Douglas," so violent a storm was raised by the fact that a Presbyterian minister had written a play, that he was obliged to resign his living. Lord Bute rewarded him with the sinecure office of conservator of Scots privileges at Campvere, and on the accession of George III., in 1760, he secured a pension for the poet of £300 per annum. With an income of some £600, and the friendship of David Hume, Blair, Robertson, and other distinguished men, Home's life was passed in happy tranquillity. He died in 1808, aged eighty-six.

VI.

124. SCENE FROM CATILINE.

[In the Senate.]

NICERO. Our long dispute must close. Take one proof mōre

CICER

this rebellion.-Lucius Catiline'

Has been commanded to attend the senate.

He dares not come.

I now demand your votes!

Is he condemned to exile?

[CATILINE comes in hastily, and flings himself on the

bench; all the senators go over to the other side. Cicero. [turning to CATILINE]. Here I repeat the charge, to gods and men,

Of treasons manifold ;-that, but this day,
He has received dispatches from the rebels;
That he has leagued with deputies from Gaul
To seize the province; nay, has levied troops,
And raised his rebel standard :-that but now

1 Lucius Sergius Catiline, the descendant of an ancient and patrician family in Rome, whose youth and manhood were stained by every vice and crime. He was prætor in B. C. 68, was governor of Africa during the following year, and returned to Rome in 66, to sue for the consulship. Disqualified for a candidate, by an impeachment for oppression in his

province, and frustrated in a conspiracy to kill the new consuls, he organized the extensive conspiracy in which the scene here given occurs. The history of this conspiracy, which ended by the death of Catiline, in a decisive battle fought early in 62, has been written by Sallust. He was a man of great mental and physical powers, without moral qualities.

A meeting of conspirators was held
Under his roof, with mystic rites, and oaths,
Pledged round the body of a murdered slave.
To these he has no answer.

Catiline. [rising calmly]. Conscript fathers!
I do not rise to waste the night in words;
Let that plebe'ian' talk; 'tis not my trade;
But here I stand for right-let him show proofs-
For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there,
Cling to your masters; judges, Romans-slaves!
His charge is false; I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer. Let my actions speak!

Cic. [interrupting him]. Deeds shall convince you! Has the traitor done?

Cat. But this I will avow, that I have scorned,
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong:
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts

The gates of honor on me,-turning out

The Roman from his birthright; and for what? [Looking round. To fling your offices to every slave e;

Vipers that creep where man disdains to climb;

And having wound their loathsome track to the top

Of this huge moldering monument of Rome,

Hang hissing at the nobler man below.

Cic. This is his answer! Must I bring more proofs ?
Fathers, you know there lives not one of us,
But lives in peril of his midnight sword.
Lists of proscription have been handed round,
In which your general properties are made
Your murderer's hire.

[A cry is heard without-" More prisoners!" An officer enters with letters for CICERO; who, after glancing at them, sends them round the Senate. CATILINE is strongly perturbed. Cic. Fathers of Rome! If man can be convinced

By proof, as clear as daylight, here it is!

1 Plebeian, (ple bè ́yan), one of the common people or lower ranks of men;-usually applied to the common people of ancient Rome.