were like the slimy ooze that stagnates in your veins, I should have remained at Rome, saved my life, and broken my oath. “If, then, you ask why I have come back to let you work your will on this poor body, which I esteem but as the rags that cover it,—enough reply for you,—it is because I am a Roman! As such, here, in your very capital, I defy you! What I have done, ye can never undo; what ye may do, I care not. Since first my young arm knew how to wield a Roman sword, have I not routed your armies, burned your towns, and dragged your generals at my chariot wheels? And do ye now expect to see me cower and whine with dread of Carthaginian vengeance? Compared to that fierce mental strife which my heart has just passed through at Rome, the piercing of this flesh, the rending of these sinews, would be but sport to me. "Venerable senators, with trembling voices and outstretched hands, besought me to return no more to Carthage. The generous people, with loud wailing, and wildlytossing gestures, bade me stay. The voice of a beloved mother, her withered hands beating her breast, her gray hairs streaming in the wind, tears flowing down her furrowed cheeks, praying me not to leave her in her lonely and helpless old age, is still sounding in my ears. Compared to anguish like this, the paltry torments you have in store is as the murmur of the meadow brook to the wild tumult of the mountain storm. Go! bring your threatened tortures! The woes I see impending over this fated city will be enough to sweeten death, though every nerve should tingle with its agony. I die, but mine shall be the triumph; yours, the untold desolation. For every drop of blood that falls from my veins, your own shall pour in torrents. Woe unto thee, O Carthage! I see thy homes and temples all in flames, thy citizens in terror, thy women wailing for the dead! Proud city, thou art doomed! The curse of Jove, a living, last ing curse is on thee! The hungry waves shall lick the golden gates of thy rich palaces, and every brook run crimson to the sea. Rome, with bloody hand, shall sweep thy heart-strings, and all thy homes shall howl in wild response of anguish to her touch. Proud mistress of the sea, disrobed, uncrowned and scourged, thus again do I devote thee to the infernal gods! "Now, bring forth your tortures! Slaves, while ye tear this quivering flesh, remember how often Regulus has beaten your armies and humbled your pride. Cut as he would have carved you! Burn deep as his curse." CLII. DESPAIR. A MAN Overboard! What matters it? The ship does not stop. The wind is blowing,-that dark ship must keep on her destined course. She passes away. The man disappears, then re-appears; he plunges, and rises again to the surface; he calls; he stretches out his hands; they hear him not. The ship, staggering under the gale, is straining every rope; the sailors and the passengers see the drowning man no longer; his miserable head is but a point in the vastness of the billows. He hurls cries of despair into the depths. What a spectacle is that disappearing sail! He looks upon it, he looks upon it with frenzy. It moves away; it grows dim; it diminishes. He was there but just now; he was one of the crew; he went and came upon the deck with the rest; he had his share of the air and of the sunlight,—he was a living man. Now, what has become of him? He slipped, he fell-and it is finished. He is in the monstrous deep. He has nothing under his feet but the yielding, fleeing element. The waves, torn and scattered by the wind, close round him hideously; the rolling of the abyss bears him along; shreds of water are flying about his head; a populace of waves spit upon him; confused openings half swallow him; when he sinks, he catches glimpses of yawning precipices full of darkness; fearful, unknown monsters seize upon him, bind his feet, and draw him to themselves; he feels that he is becoming the great deep; he makes part of the foam; the billows toss him from one to the other; he tastes the bitterness; the greedy ocean is eager to devour him; the monster plays with his agony. It seems as if all this were liquid hate. He tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he struggles; he swims. He-with that poor strength that fails so soon-he combats the unfailing. Where now is the ship? Far away yonder, hardly visible in the pallid gloom of the horizon. The wind blows in gusts; the billows overwhelm him. He raises his eyes, but sees only the livid clouds. He, in his dying agony, makes part of this immense insanity of the sea. He is tortured to death by its immeasurable madness. He hears sounds which are strange to man; sounds which seem to come, not from the earth, but from some frightful realm beyond. There are birds in the clouds, even as there are angels above human distresses, but what can they do for him? They fly, sing, and float, while he is gasping. He feels that he is buried at once by those two infinities, the ocean and the sky; the one is a tomb, the other a pall. Night descends; he has been swimming for hours,-his strength is almost exhausted; that ship, that far-off thing where there were men, is gone; he is alone in the terrible gloom of the abyss; he sinks, he strains, he struggles; he feels beneath him the shadowy monsters of the unseen; he shouts. Men are no more. Where is God? He shouts, "Help! help!" he shouts incessantly. Nothing in the horizon, nothing in the sky. He implores the blue vault, the waves, the rocks, all are deaf. He supplicates the tempest; the imperturbable tempest obeys only the Infinite. Around him are darkness, storm, solitude, wild and un conscious tumult, the ceaseless tumbling of the fierce waters; within him, horror and exhaustion; beneath him, the engulfing abyss. No resting-place. He thinks of the shadowy adventures of his lifeless body in the limitless gloom. The biting cold paralyzes him. His hands clutch spasmodically, and grasp at nothing. Winds, clouds, whirlwinds, blasts, stars, -all useless! What shall he do? He yields to despair; worn out, he seeks death; he no longer resists; he gives himself up; he abandons the contest, and is rolled away into the dismal depths of the abyss forever. Victor Hugo. CLIII. ANTONY'S ORATION OVER CÆSAR. FRIENDS, Romans, countrymen! lend me your ear If it were so, it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it! For Brutus is an honorable man! So are they all! all honorable men,— Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me,— And Brutus is an honorable man! He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept. Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?— Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And sure he is an honorable man! I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke; But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might O masters! if I were disposed to stir Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Unto their issue! If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. |