University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

—The city gate leading towards Athens. (Many persons pass hastily out, flying from the faction of Leontidas.)
(Enter Epaminondas—from the fields.)
Epam.
What means this headlong flight,—and these wild looks?

(Several voices.)
Fly!—fly! Epaminondas.—Thebes is lost!

Epam.
Stay—stay—I charge you.—They are gone. Just Heaven!
What may this mean?—Pelopidas—

(Enter Pelopidas.)
Pelop.
Good friend!
Turn back, and leave the city. As we go,
I'll tell thee all.

Epam.
What!—play the runaway—
And then ask what 'tis frights me?

Pelop.
We're unarm'd,—
Or I would stay and beard them. The black Archon
Hath seized Ismenias,—brought the Spartan troops
Into the Citadel.—yea, to the Forum,
Whence armëd men have chas'd the Senators.
Still they pursue us:—we've nor arms nor soldiers,
And must submit.—Hark to yon blood-hound cries!

(Shouts at a distance.)
(Enter Democlides, Theopompus, and Pherenicus, in haste.)
Demo.
Fly! fly! Pelopidas.—They call for you.

Theo.
Haste! for Heav'n's mercy haste!—they seek your life.

Pelop.
But shall not have it. Make what speed you can
Tow'rds Athens—I am safe:—My horses wait
By this time in the palm-grove near the gate.
(Shouts at a distance.)
Hence! hence! Heaven guard you, friends!

Demo., Theo., and Pher.
Adieu—adieu!

[Exeunt at the gate.
Epam.
Pelopidas—I shall not fly with thee.

Pelop.
Then wilt thou perish?—As my friend, thou'lt die
Wert thou as harmless as the new-yean'd lamb.—
Thou shalt not stay.—By heaven, I'll force thee hence
If thou resist!—

Epam.
Pelopidas—these times
Are like fierce fires, that separate the dross
From the pure metal.—'Tis no wondrous thing
To lead an honest, quiet life;—read books,
And dole forth scraps of wisdom to one's friends;—
Wive—and bring up good children;—pay one's debts;—
Give unmiss'd alms to the unfortunate;—
And so live on a comfortable life
Of virtuous indolence,—at a small cost
Buying the kind opinions of the world:—
This may be only glittering hollowness.
The bubble that the children blow for sport—
Seen in the sunshine, and the unmov'd air—
Looks bright and hard as crystal:—but, a breath
Dissolves it.—I've known many men, my friend,
Who have led decent lives,—and, at their death
Been held up as examples,—who but lack'd
Courage or industry to have up-climb'd
Guilt's steepest precipice.

Pelop.
But, my dear friend,—
You need no fire to prove your metal pure—

(Shouts again.)
Epam.
Stay—stay—the moments are but few. Now—mark me!
Though the sky bend its arch, and threat to fall,
I'll not leave Thebes,—till I shall be made sure
I serve my country so.—

Pelop.
Then I will bid
The groom lead back my horses.—I can die
As well as wiser men.

(He goes to the gate.)
Epam.
Pelopidas—
Thou hast thy duties,—and I mine: the paths
May join again, tho' in their setting forth
Averse as North from South.—What is our goal?
Our country's good.—You seek it hence,—in arms,
I—here—by patience and mild argument.
I ask not you to tread my path:—forbear
To urge me upon yours. Each, separate,
May trip on lightly to his journey's end;—
But,—forc'd together;—one will lag by th' way,
And drag his fellow backward.—Now get hence!
(Shouts again.)
I hear thy name, with no kind accent, call'd.—
Depart—I charge thee!—

Pelop.
Will your life be safe?

Epam.
Unless you stay with me, to lose your own.
Their fangs, being flesh'd, might hunger for more food;—
I have no other fear.—From time to time
Let me hear of you.—You're for Athens too?

Pelop.
'Tis our best refuge.—It were vain to beg,—
And you're the wiser.—Be it as you say.
Farewell, Epaminondas—dearest friend—
Farewell—farewell!— (They embrace.)


Epam.
Both shall, I trust, fare well,
Though th' heavens look frowning now. Adieu—adieu!
Dear youth—farewell—farewell!

[Exit Pelop.
(Epaminondas stands at the gate to look after him.)
Epam.
Heaven never wrought a nobler piece of work
Than thou art:—save thy huntings;—that's not well:
And somewhat over-fiery art thou too,
Being provok'd,—or in the battle's rush:—
But thou art full of every nobleness;—
Thy very gait bespeaks a lofty soul;—
Thy kindling brow is like a sudden burst
Of sunshine on a cold and cloudy day.—
The just Gods prosper thee! (Shouts again.)


(Enter Melon—Cephisidorus—and Gorgidas, from the city.)
Melon.
Epaminondas, have you seen your friend?

Epam.
Melon, I have. Look there;—he rides as cool
As if he took an airing for his health,
Or to make sharp his appetite.

Cephis.
Who is't
That stops him now?

Melon.
'Tis Charon.

Gorgid.
Heaven be prais'd!
The harpies yonder would have drunk his blood.

Epam.
Perhaps not, good Gorgidas;—we've sins enough
In what we do;—let our intents lie still.
Were each man's guilt weigh'd by his enemy,
The monstrous mass would burst earth's ceiling in,
And crush th' infernal Gods. . . Cephisidorus,
You look not well. I hope you ride.

Cephis.
My strength
Hath been much shaken by an obstinate ague;
And this strange business doth me little good.
Farewell!—our horses wait.

Gorgidas and Melon.
Farewell—farewell.

Epam.
Kind gentlemen, adieu! Heaven be your guide!

[Exit Epaminondas, towards the city.
Cephis.
In sooth I'm very faint.

Gorgid.
Come, lean on me.

Cephis.
I thank you.

(Enter Charon, from the fields.)
Charon.
My noble friends, I grieve to hear of this!
Have you seen Androclides?—Ha! he comes.

[Exeunt Gorgidas and Cephisidorus.
Melon.
Charon, adieu!—you're on a slippery path,
Yet strive to walk alone, or he who stays you
May trip your heels up.

Charon.
Melon, thou art kind.
[Exit Melon.
Adieu—adieu! I thank thee.—Androclides,
(Androclides enters from the city)
Where hast thou lagg'd? I saw Pelopidas
An instant back, nigh to the grove of palms.
He waits for thee, and wonders at thy stay.
Art thou not well?

Andro.
Oh! Charon.—I am sick!—
Sick to the heart. I hasted to my home
To snatch from ruin the sole thing i' th' world
For which I care to live;—and she was gone!—
But that I hope a friendly hand hath borne her
To some safe hiding,—I would perish here;—
For life, without her, were but agony
Passing endurance!—

Charon.
Hope the best,—dear youth!
If she be left behind thee, all my power—
And, as a neutral 'twixt your adverse parties,
Thou know'st I have power—with what sway beside
Wealth, and a noble ancestry may give,—
All power and influence mine will I employ
To shield her, and, at fitter season, guide
Where thou shalt point the way.

Andro.
Charon—dear friend!
Thou giv'st all comfort I can take.—Oh! God!
(Shouts again.)
Must I then go?—Mad hell-dogs! ye would tear
Your grey-hair'd fathers, or your prattling babes
When you are raging.—Aye!—you call in vain!
He will not bleed beneath your tiger-claws—

(Shouts again.)
Charon.
Hence—hence:—your name is call'd. To linger here
May cost your life, and his. Beside yon clump
Of dwarfish oaks I left my horse: your flight
May be pursued;—take him, and leave your own:—
You may defy all chase:—twice hath that steed
Been victor at th' Olympic games.—Hence—hence—
Your foes are close upon you.—Stay not now
For a leave-taking,—but farewell at once.

Andro.
Farewell—kind friend!—Oh Thulia! where art thou?

[Exit through the gate.
Charon.
Unhappy youth!—There may be sharper stings
For man t' endure than thine;—but oh! not one
That with a deadlier sickness swells the heart
Almost to bursting!—I have known that pang.

(Enter Leontidas, Archias, and Philip.)
Leon.
Charon, good day. Hast seen Pelopidas?

Archias.
Hast thou seen Androclides, gentle Charon?

Philip.
Who wast went hence ev'n now?

Charon.
Good gentlemen,
Good day to all of you. I wish 't may prove
Good day indeed. But oft a wicked noon
Follows such morning, and a woful night
Closes what dawn'd so fair.

Leon.
True, noble Charon:
Therefore, to have a still and pleasant eve,
We shun the guilty noon.

Charon.
I joy to hear it.
You shed no blood then?

Archias.
Philip—Philip—look!
There rides the wretch who sought my life—

Charon.
Your life!—
Who's he that did so?

Archias.
Bloody Androclides!
Ev'n in the Forum!—see where his fell dagger
Hath pierc'd my robe,—aiming to pierce my heart!—
I'll after him;—his life shall answer it.—

(Going to the gate.)
Leon.
Stay, Archias—stay—I do not think 'twas he.

Charon.
I'd stake my life he's free of this!

Leon.
Think, Archias,—
In such turmoil how soon the steadiest eye
Might be disturb'd, and see unreal things:—
And of the danger think, if private broils
With this great public question be mix'd up.
Desist, I charge you!

Archias.
To the public good
My private must bow down:—let him go free!—
But wilt thou then pursue Pelopidas,
Forbidding me my chase?—Is yours not, too,
A private broil?—

Leon.
No—Archias.—Went he not
Through every street exciting to revolt,—
Calling us tyrants;—bidding men take arms
And slay us on the instant? No one stirr'd
To act his bidding:—but his guilty aim
Not less deserv'd the penalty.—Yet, mark!
I give him up!—his blood shall not be shed
For this bad treason:—let thy private wrong
Pass to oblivion then.

Philip.
I think indeed
His blood shall not be shed,—at least o' th' instant;—
For,—else my eyes tell false,—he hath made free
To take his exercise, our leave unask'd,
On his black hunter yonder.

Archias and Leon.
Where? where?

Philip.
Stay—
Now look!—between yon row of poplars—now—
Just over that thick chesnut—

Leon.
Yes—'tis he.
You can't mistake his seat,—nor the proud lifting
Of his strong hunter's feet.—Well—let him go!—
And, gentlemen,—with most dispassion'd minds
Return we to the Forum,—there to hold
Discourse on what hath happen'd,—and to choose
With wariest circumspection our new path,
That, 'scaping this, we fall not in more snares.

Charon.
It glads me much to find such gentleness
I' th' rear of so much fury. I have friends
In both your parties,—being myself of none;—
And whichsoever shall oppress the other
Inflicts on me a grief.

Leon.
We'll be like bows
After the shafts are shot.—But hark!—The heralds
Make proclamation of our government;—
Let us away!—Charon, a word with you
As we go on.—Lend me your arm, I pray you.
I wrenched my ankle with a fall last night,
And now it stings me.

Charon.
Have it look'd to, sir.

[Exeunt Leontidas and Charon.
Philip.
Archias—didst thou hear the heralds?

Archias.
No!—

Philip,

Nor I. 'Twere best we went to see the ceremony,
—were it not? I'll hold you a wager, Archias, that, at the
next Pancratium, Polydamus shall keep the ring against all
comers.

Archias
(aside).

I'll employ a surer dagger,—and a more
practised arm:—and I'll go about it immediately.

Philip.

What dost thou mutter, Archias? Shall we not go
after, to hear the proclamation? (Aside)
No answer again?
What the plague does he stare at?—Ha! 'tis his new dignity
hath closed up his senses thus. It is wonderful how a carved
stick, stuck in the hand,—or a robe of a new cut and fashion,
should transform a man quite from the shape of his former
self, and transmute all his thoughts and faculties,—his carriage,
—and his most ordinary and unimportant actions as completely
as the magic of Proteus could have done it,—which, in
the twinkling of an eye shall change you a good portly man to
a wisp of straw,—or the hind leg of a toad to a grave Senator.
—I should like now to see a fish-wife suddenly created queen
of Persia—

(Enter Thulia in great agitation.)
Thulia.
Oh! Androclides!—have you seen him, sirs?
I heard a voice i' th' street cry he was slain—
For heaven's love—have you seen him?—doth he live?

Archias.
Lady,—but now with most foul scorn you eyed me.

Thulia.
Speak! speak! Doth Androclides live? ha? say!

Philip.
Lady—he doth live; and hath 'scaped unhurt;
I saw him on his horse, bound, as I think,
Tow'rds Athens.

(Thulia shrieks with joy, laughs, and falls backward. Archias catches her in his arms.)
Philip.
She's dead! This is no common swoon, Archias!
She's surely dead.

Archias.

Dead! Philip? Thou'rt a raw physician! She
knows better than to die, I'll warrant thee. Women never die
o' this fashion. The world hath not seen such a folly. They
die decently and solemnly; after distributing their trinkets,—
their embroideries,—their infinite gew-gaws to their sobbing
friends, whom, with a most breathless voice and trembling
hand, they awfully warn against the follies and vanities of life.

Philip.

But, Archias—I do truly think she is dead.

Archias.

Art thou a mushroom, Philip?—Didst hear her
make her will? Talk no more of it,—but turn the corner and
summon my servants—and bid them bring the litter with them.
— (Exit Philip)
Which in truth was intended for a different
burthen; but the exchange will be a rich one. Now, my little
proud-crested dove, we shall see if thou wilt peck at me, and
flutter thy disdainful plumes as before;—or if a close cage shall
not bring down that haughty humour of thine to a more obsequious
humility. Come, fellows! despatch! But stay—set
down the litter there, i' th' shade. The sun burns here unbearably.
Now, pretty dove! I'll lay thee in thy nest: and,
as thy old mate hath left thee, why, it will be but charity to
find thee another, and a better perhaps. (He carries her off.)