University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—A room in the house of Charon.
(Charon sits by a table, on which are many papers. His wife, Clymene, employed in embroidering, sits at the opposite end.)
Charon.
So, dear Clymene, train our little flower,
And he shall flourish;—shelter'd from the frosts
Of avarice,—ambition's feverish heats,—
Anger's fierce tempests;—free from all the blights
And sore diseases that false culturing
Brings on the pretty flowerets that we breed.—
And, for his pattern in all virtuous deeds,
His guide to wisdom,—often only reached
Thro' error's mazes, and misfortune's glooms,—
Still to Epaminondas turn his eye.
As on the dial's face we look, to know
How the blest sun is journeying through heaven,
So, on that noble Theban let him gaze,
To find bright Virtue's path. He will not err.

Clymene.
Dear Charon, let it be so.

Charon.
Briefly, thus
I'd have him fashion'd: gentle—but not tame;—
Wise—and yet modest;—firm—but never harsh;
Bold—but not violent;—of cheerful mind,—
Yet never heartless in his levity.—
Patient, to bear Heav'n's judgments—but like fire,
To snap the tyrant's bonds. Dost heed me, love?

Clymene.
Yes, Charon. Are you ill?

Charon.
No—

Clymene.
Is there aught
Of such a doubtful issue soon to be—
That you forecast the worst?

Charon.
Why ask you that?

Clymene.
Nay, Charon—answer me.—Who are these guests—
Coming so secretly, and unawares?—
Why arms, and armour, in the dead of night
Brought, with a thief's soft foot-tread, to your house?—
I know it, Charon—and right well I know
'Tis for no boyish sport,—but some great act
Whose mightiness and scope you think too vast
For my poor mind to grapple with.—Dear Charon,
When have you found me weak like common wives?
When have I blabb'd the thing you would conceal?
When have I shrunk to bear what must be borne?
When have I fled the danger should be met?
If I deserve your trust—then give it me:—
If not—I ask no more.

Charon.
I would have spared
Thy bosom, dear Clymene, to the last,—
But thou wilt force me on.—Dost think this Thebes
Can writhe for ever underneath the lash,
And not essay to snatch the bloody scourge
From out the tyrant's hands?

Clymene.
I thought 'twas this.

Charon.
My story shall be brief. Twelve Theban Exiles—
Pelopidas the head, and heart of all—
Have sworn the tyrants' overthrow.—With them,
For life, or death,—for weal, or woe, I join.
To-day they come;—for them the meal's prepar'd;—
To-night they rest:—to-morrow will they strike.—
To-morrow Thebes shall live,—or we must die.

Clymene.
A fearful throw, dear Charon,—when the dice
Must turn up life, or death.

Charon.
We choose the risk.
See that your bearing in this exigence,
Belov'd Clymene!—hang no signal out
Of fear, or coming danger:—on your slaves
Impose no charge of secrecy:—be calm;
Yet rather gay, than grave. Our looks, and tones
Are Nature's language, which the infant knows
Ere it can lisp;—a universal book
In which all ages, and all countries read:—
Dissimulation turns the leaf,—and points
The page it would have read. In this must we
Play false for our true end:—yet, with a look—
Remember this—as though we heeded not
If any read at all;—lest, anxiously
Pointing one page,—a wary eye take note,
And turn the leaf to read.

Clymene.
Hypocrisy,
Dear Charon, is a garment I've not worn,
And 'twill not fit me well. Yet I will try it.
When the storm comes, our robes are well enough
So they will keep the rain out.

Charon.
'Tis a cloak
Of magic web, that, on the giant's back,
Fits easily as on the smallest dwarf.—
Old age, and infancy;—the mean—the proud,—
The beggar—and the king;—the grave—the gay!—
The vestal,—and the prostitute!—the judge
O'er his furr'd robes,—the felon o'er his chains;—
The lawyer—and the client,—the smooth priest,—
And the rough soldier;—the wise-faced physician,
And his expiring patient—all—all wear it!
The father puts it on, when he exhorts
His son to temperance and chastity,
Unpractised by himself:—the son, too, wears it,
Hoping his sire shall reach a good old age,
That keeps him from his money, and his lands:—
Daughters and mothers;—brothers, sisters, wear it:—
'Tis worn in hovels, and in palaces:—
At the bright altar—in the fulsome stews,—
By day—by night—in sunshine, and in frost:—
We wrap it round the infant at its birth,—
We shroud the corpse beneath it;—and the grave
Hath it to deck its tombstone!

Clymene.
I could laugh,
But for far graver matter; to hear this.
Count all the slanders of thy life before,
And they will not match this one railing fit.
Thou art infected from thy natural health
By some tart snarler.—Talk no more of this;
But tell me how your friends shall pass the gates,
And walk the streets unknown.—Hath a calm eye
Read your design, and found it well cohere?—
It is a fearful game!

Charon.
But 'tis begun.—
And must be play'd to th' end. The stake is down,
And cannot be withdrawn.

Clymene.
And if it could,
I would not say—‘withdraw it.’—But, your friends—

Charon.
All is foreseen. They come not in a group;
But separate, at different gates;—with nets,
And hunting-poles, like sportsmen:—so you'll call them,
If any ask. With this disguise, and night,
Or evening's duskiness to wrap them in,
They will be safe.—Well now,—my pretty boy—
(Enter their little son)
Why have you left your play? Go—get thee gone;
But come and kiss me first.—What want you now?

Boy.

Oh, Papa! I saw little Polydarus this morning upon
such a beautiful little horse—and he says it's all his own—and
he's only six years old—and I shall be six next year—and I
should so like to have such a pretty little horse to gallop about
—and I'm sure you're a deal richer than Polydarus's papa
—and I shall never like to ride my nasty little wooden horse
any more, for it only jumps up and down and doesn't gallop
a bit.

Charon.
Well—well—my pretty horseman!—wait awhile:
The roads are rough and dangerous:—wait till spring;
Thou'lt then be older; and the mornings warm;
And, if I live, I'll buy thee such a horse:
Wait till the spring, my boy. How wouldst thou ride
In such a snow as this?—Go—get thy ways.—
They'd take thee for a snow-ball on thy horse.

Boy
(as he goes out).
Thank you, dear papa. I wish it was spring now.

[Exit.
Clymene.
I wish so, too, my boy;—then this fierce strife
Would one way have an end. Is there no port,
Dear Charon, where this little boat might lie,
While we ride out the storm? That prattling tongue
Hath done what orators had fail'd to do,—
Made me a trembling coward.

Charon.
Dear Clymene—
O'er anxious to avoid, we oft make danger.
The hare, in starting, draws the greyhound's eye,
Who had been safe, close sitting on her form.
Let him abide at home. Now, my dear wife,
For some two hours I must go forth. Look gay:
Let no one, from the clouds upon your brow,
Say there's a tempest near. All will go well.—
If Philidas return, say I am gone
On that we spake of last.

Clymene.
Is that staff sound?
Or, too much lean'd on, may it not break short,
And throw you headlong?

Charon.
There are many men
Whose fair exterior shews like firmest rock,
Whereon the hills might their foundations have;—
Yet hollow are within;—and at the last,
When all yon pile is rear'd, will sink away,
And whelm it in a gulf: but a true arch,
Beneath the heaviest load still firmest stands:—
And such is Philidas.

Clymene.
I say no more.
You are not rash, dear Charon,—choleric,—
Revengeful,—nor o'erfond to mix in broils;—
And therefore with a cold and wary thought
Would weigh the chances, ere for life, or death,
You drew the bloody sword.—Here I give up
All doubts,—and trembling fears,—and do resign
Myself, and all that's dearer, to the Gods,—
To be as they decree.—Now shall your friends
See if my weakness shame your confidence.

Charon.
Belov'd Clymene, thanks.—A cheerful heart
Soars like an eagle o'er the precipice,
Where poor despair falls headlong.—The spear, thrown,
Will fall where it must fall, altho' with prayers
We deaf all heaven to turn its point aside:—
Our spear is thrown:—let's calmly watch it light.
And so, for two short hours,—sweet love, adieu!

(He embraces her.)
Clymene.
Adieu—adieu—dear Charon!
[Exit Charon.
I'm on a narrow plank,—above a gulf—
And must not look below,—or I shall fall.
Oh! my dear Charon!—and my sweetest boy!—
I cannot read what Time hath not yet written;
But the blank page doth blind me as I gaze,—
Fill'd thick with shadowy horrors!—I'll not look!—
Great Jove! into thy hand I give them up!

[Exit.