University of Virginia Library

DRAMATIC PIECES.

THE CANDID CRITIC.

There is something quite comical in the accounts that have come down to us of the characteristic traits of the elder Dionysius. His ruling ambition was to be esteemed a poet; and his mode of dealing with individuals who refused to praise his verses was original indeed: his literary opponents were in danger of being confined in the quarries, as the common prison of Syracuse was called. On two occasions, he transmitted poems to be recited at the Olympic games; but, much to his chagrin, they were dreadfully hissed. The Athenians were more indulgent; and, when the news reached him that they had awarded the prize to a tragedy from his pen, he was almost beside himself with joy.

Various versions of his quarrel with Philoxenus, the poet, are given by ancient historians. As the story is told in the Ποικιλη Ιστορια of Ælian, Dionysius had submitted a drama to the poet to revise, and the latter drew his pen through the whole of it—an affront which may naturally have aroused the indignation of the monarch. But I have preferred following the account given by Diodorus, as better adapted to dramatic treatment. Fragments of a burlesque poem, entitled Δειπνον, or the Entertainment, preserved by Athenæus, are all that remain to us of the writings of Philoxenus.

CHARACTERS.

• Dionysius,King of Syracuse.
• Philoxenus,A Poet and Critic.
• Alastor,Secretary to Dionysius.
• Phormio,An Athenian.
• Xanthe,Daughter of Philoxenus.
• Guards, Parasites, Executioners, &c.

SCENE I.

The Palace Grounds in Syracuse. Enter Phormio.
PHORMIO.
A respite! a reprieve! The gods be thanked,
I have escaped at last! O, Phormio, Phormio!
Did Fortune snatch thee from the howling waves
That gnash their white teeth on the rocks of Scylla,
Or coil their giant tresses round Charybdis,
To put thy patience to severer tests?
O, which way can I fly from Syracuse?
How rid me of the imminent infliction?

Enter Philoxenus.
PHILOXENUS.
Ho, Phormio! Is thy haste so very urgent,
Thou canst not tarry for a friend's embrace?

PHORMIO.
Philoxenus! Indeed I'm glad to see thee.

PHILOXENUS.
And I to welcome thee to Syracuse.
When didst leave Athens? Who bore off the prizes
At the Olympic games? Thou'rt out of breath:
Come, rest with me awhile beside this fountain.

PHORMIO.
Not there! Not on the palace steps! Remain;—
I shall be better instantly. O tyrant,
Remorseless in thy rancor!

PHILOXENUS.
Not so loud!
Thy dulcet compliments may reach the ears
Of Dionysius. More than two he owneth.
Hast thou already felt his cruelty—
Thou, an Athenian?

PHORMIO.
Ay, and yet am doomed
To feel it more. O, torment most refined!

PHILOXENUS.
What! hath he tried his newly-fashioned scourge
Upon thy back?

PHORMIO.
O, something worse than that!

PHILOXENUS.
Say'st thou? Perhaps, then, he prescribed a bath
Of molten lead: I've known it efficacious
In checking many troublesome eruptions.

PHORMIO.
No: that were honey-dew to what I've suffered.

PHILOXENUS.
Thou wast not crammed into a cask of spikes,
And rolled down hill?

PHORMIO.
'Twere pastime, merry pastime,
Compared with the extreme barbarity!

PHILOXENUS.
Thy flesh has not been torn with red-hot pincers,
Nor peeled in crimson ribbons by his engines;
Thy limbs have not been stretched upon the rack,
Nor thine eyes seared by plates of heated steel:—
Which of his little toys of torture was it
He chose for dalliance in his cheerful mood?

PHORMIO.
Give thy imagination freer rein:
Sees it nought further in the realm of horrors?

PHILOXENUS.
Indeed, I cannot guess thy punishment,
Unless—but, no! there's life left in thee yet.

PHORMIO.
Unless what, would'st thou say?

PHILOXENUS.
I know of nothing
Beyond these charming hospitalities,
Unless he made thee hear his poetry.

PHORMIO.
Thou'st hit the mark!

PHILOXENUS.
My miserable friend!

PHORMIO.
Ah me! You poets have imagined tortures:—
The pool of Tantalus, Ixion's wheel,
Prometheus with the vulture at his vitals,
Procrustes' bed, the bull of Phalaris—
All these you may consider quite ingenious;
But, pshaw! they're bubbles, straws, and thistle-down,
To what your Dionysius has invented.
Gods! he did make me hear his tragedy—
Tragic in nothing save the dire infliction!
With all my nerves braced to the serious task,
I sat and listened; but, before the scroll
Was half completed, such an earthquake yawn
Burst from me, that the wordy tyrant started,
And shouted for his guards. As they rushed in,
Alastor, the young scribe, in hurried whispers,
Suggested an excuse that saved my life:
Kneeling before the monarch, I protested
That the strange pathos of the well-wrought scene
Had, by its art, so won upon my senses,
Most inadvertently I groaned aloud.
Ha, ha! Forgetting all his guilty fears
Of ambushed cut-throats and disguised assassins,
He raised me in his arms, and kissed my cheek:
Nor would he suffer me to quit the palace
Till I had promised to return to-night
To hear the rest of his vile tragedy.
My friend, shall I survive it?

PHILOXENUS.
Thou wilt have
At least a partner in thy misery:
Know that I too am summoned to the palace,
Doubtless to be a victim with thyself;
But, should this royal metromaniac ask
My poor opinion, frankly will I give it.

PHORMIO.
Nay, thou would'st only jeopardize thy life:—
His weakness 'tis to be esteemed a poet;
And, to sink irony, 'tis surely better
That he should murder metaphors on parchment
Than stain the block with massacres of men.
So, tell him, if thou wilt, that he's no soldier;
That he knows nothing of the art of war,
Nothing of all the useful arts of peace,
And that he daily, hourly, violates
His duties to the gods, the state, the people;
But do not—do not criticize his verses.

PHILOXENUS.
Or I'll be silent or avow the truth.
Wilt thou be at the palace?

PHORMIO.
For thy sake
Will I be there. Heighho!

PHILOXENUS.
Nay, smile, my friend!
Great sorrows have their lessons; and the gods
Would teach us, by this dispensation, patience.

[Exeunt.
Enter Alastor and Xanthe.
ALASTOR.
There goes thy father, Xanthe! I implore thee,
Go try once more to change his stubborn purpose.
Tell him the king himself approves our nuptials,
And promises to grace them with his presence.

XANTHE.
Already once to-day I've sued to him;
But neither tears nor blandishments availed.

ALASTOR.
Obdurate parent!

XANTHE.
Do not call him so!
In all things is he liberal and most kind.

ALASTOR.
O! thou may'st think him kind—in all things kind—
Kind in his opposition to our nuptials;
But I, who love not in so cool a fashion,
Chafe at this unexplained impediment—
Nay, sweet! I meant not to be harsh. Look up!

XANTHE.
Why wilt thou vex me with thy doubts, Alastor?

ALASTOR.
Why not remove at once all cause for doubt?
Become in truth my own, without regard
To thy allegiance elsewhere?

XANTHE.
No, Alastor,
Not for my life would I deceive my father;
For, since I lost my mother, he hath been
Doubly a parent to me, and I owe him
Double devotion, gratitude, obedience.

ALASTOR.
Canst tell me wherein lies his enmity
To our alliance? Am I stamped by nature
With any vile deformity of person?
Have I disgraced my name, or marred my fortune?
Am I in any way unworthy of thee?

XANTHE.
No, no! Thou'rt all that honor could desire.

ALASTOR.
Then, say, what is this Pelion piled on Ossa,
That towers between our fates?

XANTHE.
My father tells me,
That 'tis not to thyself he has objection,
But to thy occupation.

ALASTOR.
Occupation!
Chief secretary to the king himself,
And yet the obstacle my occupation?

XANTHE.
Wert thou, he says, chief cook, or groom, or scullion,
So that we loved, he'd not oppose our union;
But that to be the tyrant's cruelest agent,
The hired transcriber of his fluent doggerel,
Is a disgrace, in which he cannot share.
There! I've dared tell thee all.

ALASTOR.
Thy father is—
Ah! 'tis a hinderance so delectable,
And thou proclaim'st it with such gravity,
That laughter gets the better of vexation.

XANTHE.
Thou tak'st it merrily.

ALASTOR.
Be not offended;
For I rejoice, with all my heart, at finding
The obstacle not insurmountable.
Go to thy father, Xanthe; and make known,
That, for thy dearest sake, I'll straight resign
My present post; and, should propitious fate
Break a groom's neck, or suffocate a scullion,
Or give some cook a surfeit that shall end him,
I'll instantly apply to Dionysius
For—for promotion.

XANTHE.
Nay, I'll plead once more
In our behalf, nor urge that hard condition.
Farewell, Alastor.

ALASTOR.
May the gods protect thee!
Farewell, true heart! Bring back a gracious answer.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the Palace. Dionysius seated, perusing a Scroll. Present, Parasites and Guards.
DIONYSIUS.
Ah, here's true inspiration! Dorian numbers,
That charm the ear with limpid melody,
And shining thoughts forged in poetic fire!
I marvel not that the Athenian youth,
Raised on the pinions of my soaring fancy,
Was terror-stricken at his exaltation,
And vented all unconsciously his wonder.
Here is the verse that so inwrapped his soul.

FIRST PARASITE.
Is it, most mighty liege, but mightier poet,
That passage which thy majesty vouchsafed
Graciously to rehearse, the other day,
Where Polymestor, of his sight deprived,
Heaps curses on the ruthless dames of Troy?
O, that indeed was beautiful!—most grand!
Methought I never heard a more divine—
A more—Your majesty!—

DIONYSIUS.
Dolt! dotard! driveller!
By all the gods forsaken and accursed!
'Twas from Euripides—that feeble passage:—
I but compared it with the imprecation
Which, in my poem, I make Ajax utter
Against the sons of Atreus. Tasteless blockhead!
Since thou'rt so charmed with Polymestor's ravings,
Thou shalt partake his doom. Ho! guards! The quarries!
There let the varlet study to distinguish
Between Euripides and Dionysius.

[First Parasite is dragged away.
SECOND PARASITE.
In sooth, my liege, thy sentence was too lenient;
But 'tis thy failing—clemency.

DIONYSIUS.
Be silent!
Who asked thy comments, babbler, on my failings?
Was ever king so hedged by fleering fools?
Enter Phormio and Philoxenus.
Aha! my young Athenian! Give you welcome!
Philoxenus, we must be better friends.
Be seated, gentlemen. The feast is ready—
Ambrosial meats—an intellectual feast.

PHILOXENUS,
(aside.)
Would that I were an intellectual ostrich!

PHORMIO.
My liege, the prisoner whom we just encountered
Besought our intercession—

DIONYSIUS.
Let him pass!
Bœotia never bred a bigger ass.

PHORMIO.
He but entreats the priceless privilege
Of listening to thy poem.

PHILOXENUS.
After which,
We do not doubt, my liege, he'll die content.

DIONYSIUS.
Bring back the culprit: tell him he is pardoned.

PHORMIO,
(aside to Philoxenus.)
The invention was well-timed.

PHILOXENUS,
(aside to Phormio.)
Remorseless Phormio!
Would'st thou reserve him for a crueler doom?

FIRST PARASITE,
(entering and kneeling to the King.)
My gracious master!

DIONYSIUS.
Rise! Thy wish is granted.
Philoxenus, you've never heard our “Ajax,”
If I remember?

PHILOXENUS.
You forget, my liege:
I was a listener at the royal theatre
On its first presentation.

DIONYSIUS.
There 'twas murdered,
Unconscionably murdered by the players.
The rascals! I improved their elocution
Before they quitted Syracuse.

PHILOXENUS.
And how?

DIONYSIUS.
Cut out the tongue of every one of them.
Didst ever have a tragedy performed?
Be happy, in thy inexperience, then!
More woful than the woe of Niobe
Was it, to see the children of my brain
Dismembered, mangled, strangled, torn and swallowed,
By those word-butchers! Maledictions on them!
Great Nemesis! I let them off too lightly.

FIRST PARASITE.
Indeed, my liege, 'twould only have been justice
To have tried the new-made engine on their limbs;—
That would have served them after their own fashion.

DIONYSIUS.
Well thought of! But, Philoxenus, now tell me,
What thought you of the play?

PHORMIO,
(aside to Philoxenus.)
For Xanthe's sake,
Be prudent now.

DIONYSIUS.
Which passage pleased thee best?

PHILOXENUS.
The closing one, my liege.

DIONYSIUS.
Ay, that was fair;
But which didst think most moving?

PHILOXENUS.
'Twas all moving.
(Aside.)
And yet I sat it through!

DIONYSIUS.
Indeed, I'm glad
It pleased thee.

PHILOXENUS.
Said I that?

PHORMIO,
(aside.)
Restrain thy tongue.

DIONYSIUS.
How! Pleased it not? Speak out, Philoxenus!
I prize judicious censure. Think me not
One of those tender-skinned, conceited scribblers,
Who, prurient for praise, recoil and smart
Under the touch of blame.

PHILOXENUS.
That's wise—that's royal!
For, let this be admitted: the true poet
Carries the consciousness of his high gift
Like an impenetrable shield before him.
He knows his oracles are from the gods,
And, like the gods, immutable, immortal,
Albeit the tardy age receive them not.
What though the laugh of bigotry and hate,
The taunt of scurrile infamy and falsehood,
The sneer of worldly-wise expediency,
Fall on his ears? The echo is not heard
In the serene seclusion of his soul!
'Tis the false prophet whom the critics reach:
Never a true one by their shafts was wounded.

DIONYSIUS.
My thoughts, adroitly uttered! Tell me now,—
Now that I know to value thy opinion,—
Wast thou not charmed with “Ajax”?

PHILOXENUS.
Frankly, no.

DIONYSIUS.
Dost jest?

PHILOXENUS.
The gods forbid, so great a king
Should be a poet!

DIONYSIUS.
Insolent! Thy life—

PHORMIO,
(to Philoxenus.)
Rash one! Thou'rt lost!

FIRST PARASITE.
Ho! Democles and guards!
Seize on this churlish traitor.

PHILOXENUS.
Why, thou viper!
Art thou already warm enough to sting?

DIONYSIUS.
No poet! I no poet! Democles!
Conduct this carping rebel to the quarries.

PHILOXENUS.
The quarries! Are they always good, my liege,
In such distempers?

DIONYSIUS.
What distempers, sirrah?

PHILOXENUS.
A sort of indigestion of the mind—
A state in which the judgment cannot stomach
What's put upon it.

DIONYSIUS.
Drag him from my sight!

PHILOXENUS.
And wilt thou then be any more a poet?

DIONYSIUS.
Away! No words! Now, Phormio, thou shalt hear
The rest of “Ajax.”

PHILOXENUS,
(to the Guards.)
Quick, quick to the quarries!

[Exit with Guards.
PHORMIO.
My liege, he's mad! Forgive him; spare my friend!

[He kneels to Dionysius as the Scene closes.

SCENE III.

A Dungeon. Enter Philoxenus. Two Executioners, unperceived of him, follow.
PHILOXENUS.
Could all poor poets thus confute their critics,
Dulness might drone, unpricked, among her poppies.
Good sooth! here's room enough to criticize,—
And matter too,—with very patient listeners.
The ceiling is a thought too nigh the floor;
The architecture of a style too heavy;
A mouldy moisture hangs upon the air,
If air it may be called by courtesy.
A caviller might find even other faults;
But, when I think on all that I've escaped,
This dungeon smiles a welcome. Who approach?
Ah, worthy sirs! I knew not you were present.

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
A merry knave! Eh, comrade?

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
'Tis a marvel
To see a man smile here. Art in thy senses?

PHILOXENUS.
Ay, sir, and they in me. Canst say as much?
Pardon me—am I right?—your gentle craft—
Is it not—are ye not the executioners?

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
The same, sir, at your service.

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
We shall be
Better acquainted soon.

PHILOXENUS.
Ha! that's a comfort.
How long have ye pursued your cheerful calling?

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
More than ten years.

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
And I—let me consider!
When had we the great plague in Syracuse?
I came in with the plague.

PHILOXENUS.
A worthy colleague!
Well, ye must be no bunglers at your trade
By this time, gentle sirs. I'll warrant me,
In bringing down an axe upon the block,
Tying a noose, or nailing to the rack,
Ye've ne'er had rivals;—ye can do it deftly?

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Ah! thou may'st say it. I defy the man
Can do those jobs more neatly.

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
Hold thy tongue!
Bah! Thou'rt a scandal to the craft—a botcher!

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Dost hear the jealous rogue? Go to! go to!
Thou'rt a mere boy.

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
When had I to strike twice
At a man's neck? O! thou'rt a matchless workman!

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Fellow! I scorn thy malice. There was cause
Why I should miss that aim: the light was dim.

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
Thy eyes, more like.

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Fellow, I say thou liest!

PHILOXENUS.
Nay, gentlemen, this generous strife must end.
Ye both are artists—'tis a pride to know you;—
Artists, I say—the first in your vocation,
Though your vocation may not be the first!
Ye do abhor all tyros—all pretenders,
Devoid of skill and genius. Yesterday,
The king's chief barber fell beneath your axe,
For rashly boasting that the royal weasand
Was at his mercy daily.

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Marry, I
Took care of him. A very pretty job!
A handsome throat he had—made a good mark.

PHILOXENUS.
Sir, spoken like an artist! Hear me now:
I am an artist equally—a poet.

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
We could have sworn thou wast no honest man.

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Did I not tell you 'twas a desperate knave?

PHILOXENUS.
Well, listen to my case: your lord, the king,
Though neither born nor bred to my vocation,—
Without that natural gift no toil can lend,
Or that acquaintance study may supply,—
Attempts the poet's function, and then asks
My frank opinion of his verses. I
Tell him I like them not: for which offence,
Behold me here! Now put it to yourselves:
What had the king essayed your handicraft,
And, emulous to wield the axe like you,
Hacked off my head,—then asked, “Was't not well done?”—
Would ye've said, Ay?

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Not were he twice a king!

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
No! Each man to his trade, is still my maxim.

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
'Tis a shrewd knave. Well, well; enough of prating!

SECOND EXECUTIONER,
(aside to Philoxenus.)
I like thy humor;—view me as thy friend.
'Twill be thy privilege to choose the arm
That is to—

PHILOXENUS.
Yes, I fully comprehend.

SECOND EXECUTIONER,
(aside to Philoxenus.)
Give me the chance, and I'll outdo myself.
Thou shalt be featly dealt with;—thou shalt see
A marvellous nice stroke—no butchery,
But smooth, clean, faultless headsmanship.

PHILOXENUS.
Good sir,
How shall I show my gratitude? Thy claims
Shall be considered.

FIRST EXECUTIONER,
(aside to Philoxenus.)
If your head
Is to come off, consider me your man.
Marry, 'twill do your heart good when you see
How dexterously I'll do it. You'll confess
That I'm the better artist.

PHILOXENUS.
You o'erwhelm me.
[Exeunt Executioners.
Well, by the gods, I hold in reverence more
A skilful headsman than a charlatan!
O, 'tis the curse of every liberal art,
There still are vile pretenders who defame it.
In painting, what mere daubers do we see,
Who, born to guide the plough, mislead the pencil!
In music, what deluded sciolists
Evoke strange discords and tormented sounds
From chords which, smitten by responsive fingers,
Give up the very soul of harmony!
And how art thou, divinest Poesy,
Shamed and molested by the wretched herd,
Who, unordained, profane thy sacred temples,
And claim to utter oracles of thine,
Mistaking the foul tumors of their brains
For a god's impregnation! Scribbling fools,
Innocent cheats, and facile poetasters!
O, would they quit the pen and grasp the spade,
Apollo should not curse, but Flora bless!
Enter Xanthe.
My child! thy footstep was so feathery light,
Methought, a moment, 'twas thy mother's spirit,
With sainted beauty, come to light my dungeon.

XANTHE.
Whatever doom may be for thee reserved,
Behold me here to share it!

PHILOXENUS.
Tremble not.
I cannot think the king will do me harm;
But, should capricious cruelty impel him
To prematurely quench life's sinking taper,
Know, that it was not with a serious purpose,
I've interposed objections to the choice
Of thy surrendered heart.

XANTHE.
Ah, do not turn
My thoughts from thy great peril on myself!
Another time, those words had made me start
With a too vivid joy; but now, alas!
They bring no consolation;—I should hate
My own ungrateful spirit if they did.

Enter Executioners.
SECOND EXECUTIONER.
'Tis the king's order;—we must e'en obey it.

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Poor fellow! Well, come, master!

XANTHE.
Who are these?

PHILOXENUS.
Command thyself—the executioners!

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
We both are sorry for thee, master poet;
But the king's will is final.

PHILOXENUS.
Do ye bear
His written mandate?

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
Ay, sir; more's the pity!

XANTHE.
Away! ye grim and lying murderers!
Ye shall hew off these limbs before ye reach him.

PHILOXENUS.
Let me behold your order.

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
If you doubt it,
Read for yourself. Marry, 'tis plain as daylight.

PHILOXENUS,
(reading aside.)
“And let Philoxenus appear to-night
At the king's banquet.” (Laughs.)


XANTHE.
Ah, that frantic laughter!
'Tis even more terrible than tears.

PHILOXENUS.
A summons
To attend the king! These gentlemen, my child,
Are wags in their small way. Unmannered caitiffs!
Why did ye palter with us?

FIRST EXECUTIONER.
Be not angry.
We gladly would have served you, master poet;
But then his majesty, you know, is wilful.

PHILOXENUS.
Well, I can pardon you the disappointment
With all my heart. And now, good sirs, farewell!
Nay, we must tear ourselves from your embraces.

[Exit with Xanthe.
FIRST EXECUTIONER.
'Tis always thus our choicest customers
Find a reprieve.

SECOND EXECUTIONER.
Bear up, bear up, old fellow!
Fear not the king will let our axes rust.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The King's Banquetting-Room.—Enter Phormio and Alastor.
PHORMIO.
Art thou assured the king has pardoned him?

ALASTOR.
Ay, he is bidden to the evening banquet;
And, sir, as thou'rt his friend, I do implore thee
Counsel him nevermore to criticize
The monarch's verses.

PHORMIO.
I shall venture much
To shield him from imprudence.

ALASTOR.
Fare thee well.

[Exit.
PHORMIO.
And yet I fear, in spite of chains and dungeons,
His thoughts will spurn disguise. The gods themselves
Could not extort the praise his heart denied;—
Will he then stoop to flatter Dionysius?

Enter Philoxenus.
PHILOXENUS.
What! do I see thee, Phormio, and alive?

PHORMIO.
Beware! thou'st found it somewhat hazardous
To sport with tigers counterfeiting tameness;—
A scratch, a look may rouse the bloody instinct
That marks thee for its prey—and so, be prudent.

PHILOXENUS.
I seek not this encounter. May the gods
Desert me when I fawn upon a tyrant!
My friend, I loathe hypocrisy.

PHORMIO.
Not less
Is my aversion to it; but, alas!
We all, in a degree, are hypocrites,—
Always deceiving others or ourselves.
Some thoughts concealed we not from our best friends,
They'd be our friends no longer;—looked we closely
To our own derelictions,—did we not,
With flattering fantasies and dear delusions,
Juggle our ready hearts,—we'd soon abhor
The life we cling to.

PHILOXENUS.
Phormio, thou hast studied
Among the Sophists, and canst aptly wield
The two-edged weapons of that specious school.
The king approaches.

PHORMIO.
Now let caution rule thee
In look and word.

PHILOXENUS.
I'll not forget myself.

Enter Dionysius, Alastor, Xanthe, Parasites, &c.
DIONYSIUS.
Philoxenus, sit here at our right hand,
And pledge us in this cup.

PHILOXENUS.
Most thankfully.

DIONYSIUS.
What news, Sir Poet, bring'st thou from the quarries?

PHILOXENUS.
Incredible, my liege! The headsmen languish
For want of occupation.

DIONYSIUS.
Ha! that's bitter.

PHILOXENUS.
The sunshine of the court shall sweeten me.

DIONYSIUS.
What if we had consigned thee to the block
For thy unmeasured rudeness?

PHILOXENUS.
There had been
One man the less in Syracuse, who dared
To speak the truth to all men at all times.

DIONYSIUS.
A prodigy at court, I do confess!
But, come: they tell me thou'st a taste proficient
In poetry and art; and here's a passage—
'Tis very brief—which above all I prize,
In my great poem. Read it.

PHILOXENUS,
(aside.)
Cruel fate!

PHORMIO,
(aside to Philoxenus.)
Now, if thou canst applaud not, pray be silent.
[Philoxenus reads in dumb show from a scroll which Dionysius hands him.
Beautiful! Is it not, Philoxenus?
(Aside,)
Say, Yes: that little word may make thy fortune.

DIONYSIUS.
Do those lines please thee? Speak, Philoxenus!
Now for thy frank opinion!

PHILOXENUS.
Are thy guards
Within there?

DIONYSIUS.
What, ho! guards!

[The Guards come forward.
PHILOXENUS,
(to the Guards.)
I pray you, lead me
Back to the quarries.

PHORMIO.
Now thou'rt lost, indeed.

FIRST PARASITE.
Seize the disloyal churl! He must not live
After such insolence.

SECOND PARASITE.
Death to the knave!
Torture and death!

XANTHE.
Ah, no, sirs! he's my father!
Urge not such desperate penalties.

ALASTOR.
The king,
Kind sirs, is still a king; he does not ask
Any of your dictation.

FIRST PARASITE.
By the gods,
I cannot quietly stand by and hear
My sovereign liege insulted, nor defend him.

DIONYSIUS.
Thy sovereign liege, fool! can defend himself.
Ye forward brawlers, leave the royal presence!
Leave Syracuse, forever! Are ye gone?
[Exeunt Parasites.
And now, Philoxenus, we must devise
Some punishment for thee, albeit I fear
Thou'rt quite incorrigible. Since the quarries
Have failed to make thee pliant, I must try
Severer measures. Xanthe and Alastor,
If tell-tale eyes speak truly, in your hearts
Already are ye wedded: lo, I join
Your hands in nuptial union! There's thy sentence,
Philoxenus!

PHILOXENUS.
Magnanimous avenger!
Great Dionysius! With surprise and joy
I'm all confounded! Why not always, thus,
With clemency o'erwhelm the offender's soul?
O, is not gratitude a sweeter draught
Than vengeance ever tasted?

DIONYSIUS.
Rise, my friends!
Athenian, rise! We would not have thee think
Mercy so rare a mood with Dionysius.
Now, for the banquet!—But, a moment, stay!
Philoxenus, in truth, canst thou discern
No merit in my “Ajax”? Can I write
Poetry, think you?

PHILOXENUS.
No. But thou canst act it;
And that is nobler.

DIONYSIUS.
Then am I content.

THE LAMPOON.

Byron expresses his surprise that poor Keats should have allowed his soul to be “snuffed out by an article.” But an exaggerated estimate of the importance of published abuse is among the commonest fallacies. This dramatic sketch was written at a time when the community had been recently shocked by the intelligence of two deaths, one of which was self-inflicted, in consequence of scurrilous personal attacks from an utterly worthless and discreditable print. Let the thin-skinned object of such attacks bear in mind, that “no man can be written down except by himself.”

Present, Victor. Enter Pedrillo, with a Newspaper.
VICTOR.
How now, Pedrillo? Pr'ythee, what's the matter,
That thus you tramp the room, and chafe, and pant,
As if to madness baited?

PEDRILLO.
Look at that;
And wonder at my equanimity!

VICTOR.
A very Stoic, truly! mild as moonbeams,
Reluctant as gun-cotton to take fire,
And quiet as a ribbon in a whirlwind!
Patience personified!

PEDRILLO.
Read that, I say!

VICTOR.
An if you roar so loudly, my Pedrillo,
You'll wake the watchman snoring on the doorstep.
Compose yourself

PEDRILLO.
I shall go mad indeed!
What! you have seen it—read it—laughed at it—
Retailed it, at the club, as a good joke!
But, as the moon 's above us, I'll have vengeance!

VICTOR.
Well done! The action and the word well suited!
How such a climax would bring down the bravos!
Othello, Hotspur, Gloster—say, what part
Shall be selected for your first appearance?

PEDRILLO.
Torture! I thought you were my friend. Farewell!

VICTOR.
Stay, till you prove me otherwise. Explain:
What direful, strange affliction hath o'erwhelmed you?
Have you been plundered, cuffed, knocked down, and stamped on?
Perhaps your uncle's dead, and, in his will,
Has left you but a halter? No? Has Laura
Eloped with that long-haired, black-whiskered bandit,
Count Loferini?

PEDRILLO.
Pah! he's her abhorrence.
Read—read that paragraph in that vile print!
Behold me dragged before a grinning public;
Pointed at, squibbed, traduced, and ridiculed—
Made the town's butt; the mockery of my friends!
'Sdeath! I'll be no man's butt! The lying caitiff!
The inky cutthroat! The pen-stabbing footpad!
The paltering, prying, prostituting pander!
I'll have his ears or his apology!

VICTOR.
Bah! Give me a regalia. Can it be
Abuse from such a one can stir your choler?
Wait till the blackguard praises you, and then,
Curse, if you please, the fellow's impudence.

PEDRILLO.
What! shall I take no notice of the knave
And his base lies?

VICTOR.
By all means notice him,
If you would flatter. Challenge—flog—demand
Instant retraction—sue him for a libel;—
So may his aims be answered, and the kicks
Of a true gentleman may do him honor,
As royalty dubs knighthood—with a blow!

PEDRILLO.
Would you not have me show a due resentment?

VICTOR.
Tell him his sting is felt, and he'll rejoice:
Let it strike harmless on the triple mail
Of conscious honor; and the baffled viper
Will writhe and hiss, to find his venom wasted.

PEDRILLO.
Ah! but the public scorn!

VICTOR.
The public scorn!
Tell me what scorn the public can inflict,
Which, if unmerited, an honest man
Cannot repay tenfold? The public scorn!
O paroxysm of most insane conceit,
To think a ribald gazetteer's worst spite
Could pull upon your head the public scorn—
Could raise you half an inch above the mass,
For public contemplation! Ah, my friend,
Time will reverse thy telescope; and objects,
Which strike thee now as monstrous, will appear
Ridiculously dwarfish: it will teach thee
That, in this jostling, struggling, whirling world,
The most notorious are but little known,
The observed of all observers little seen,
The loftiest low, the noisiest little heard;
And that attacks like this, conceived in envy,—
False, flippant, venal, venomous, and vulgar,—
By the judicious are at once despised,
By the unthinking are at once forgotten.
O, shallower than the ostrich's device,
Who buries in the desert sand his eyes,
That no one may discern him, is the folly,
Which could persuade you that the public gaze,
From the innumerable concerns of life,
Was turned by this frail slander on yourself!
So, never fear to walk the street to-morrow:—
The boys will not hoot after you; the ladies
Will not ejaculate as you pass by.
My life upon it, you will go unharmed,
Unpersecuted. But I'll flout no more;
Though, sooth to say, this sensitive alarm,
This prurient shyness, and unmeasured anger,
Spring merely from egregious self-conceit,
Or grosser ignorance. Yet have I known
Mistakes as marvellous—have seen a man—
A high-souled, honorable, valiant one—
Sickened and blasted by a slanderous breath.
And I have witnessed, too, a sadder sight—
A maiden in the bloom of youth and beauty,
And good as fair, and innocent as gifted,
By the same pestilence struck down and killed;
While he, the spotted wretch, who did the murders,
Was—O, the puniest of all creeping things!
The press! What is that terrifying engine
In hands of fools and knaves? An empty scarecrow!
A sword of lath! a pop-gun! a tin trumpet!
O, piteous the delusion, that could fancy
The minds of men, of veritable men,
Were swayed by such impostures!

PEDRILLO.
Are they not?

VICTOR.
No! Dupes and fools may be;—for such I care not:
Their good esteem is worthless as their hate!

PEDRILLO.
True, every word! You have prevailed, my friend;—
The smart is over, and the anger vanished.
Henceforth, these slight and slimy paper-hoppers
Shall less annoy than that superior insect,
The shrill cicada of our summer pathways,
Which harmless springs before us from the grass,
Sinks at our feet, and straightway is forgotten.