The following essay is a reproduction, modified and expanded, of an article published in "The Dial, Boston, July, 1843," under the title of "The Great Lawsuit.—Man versus Men; Woman versus Women."

This article excited a good deal of sympathy, add still more interest. It is in compliance with wishes expressed from many quarters that it is prepared for publication in its present form.

Objections having been made to the former title, as not sufficiently easy to be understood, the present has been substituted as expressive of the main purpose of the essay; though, by myself, the other is preferred, partly for the reason others do not like it,—that is, that it requires some thought to see what it means, and might thus prepare the reader to meet me on my own ground. Besides, it offers a larger scope, and is, in that way, more just to my desire. I meant by that title to intimate the fact that, while it is the destiny of Man, in the course of the ages, to ascertain and fulfil the law of his being, so that his life shall be seen, as a whole, to be that of an angel or messenger, the action of prejudices and passions which attend, in the day, the growth of the individual, is continually obstructing the holy work that is to make the earth a part of heaven. By Man I mean both man and woman; these are the two halves of one thought. I lay no especial stress on the welfare of either. I believe that the development of the one cannot be effected without that of the other. My highest wish is that this truth should be distinctly and rationally apprehended, and the conditions of life and freedom recognized as the same for the daughters and the sons of time; twin exponents of a divine thought.

I solicit a sincere and patient attention from those who open the following pages at all. I solicit of women that they will lay it to heart to ascertain what is for them the liberty of law. It is for this, and not for any, the largest, extension of partial privileges that I seek. I ask them, if interested by these suggestions, to search their own experience and intuitions for better, and fill up with fit materials the trenches that hedge them in. From men I ask a noble and earnest attention to anything that can be offered on this great and still obscure subject, such as I have met from many with whom I stand in private relations.

And may truth, unpolluted by prejudice, vanity or selfishness, be granted daily more and more as the due of inheritance, and only valuable conquest for us all!

November, 1844.

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"Say that my views are unchanged as to his soliciting a marriage with me when too childish to know my own mind on that or any other subject; but I have now seen enough of the world to know that he meant no ill, if no good, and was no more heedless in this great matter than many others are. He is not born to know what one constituted like me must feel, in a home where I found no rest for my heart. I have now read, seen and thought, what has made me a woman. I can be what you call reasonable, though not perhaps in your way. I see that my misfortune is irreparable. I heed not the world's opinion, and would, for myself, rather remain here, and keep up no semblance of a connection which my matured mind disclaims. But that scandalizes you and my mother, and makes your house a scene of pain and mortification in your old age. I know you, too, did not neglect the charge of me, in your own eyes. I owe you gratitude for your affectionate intentions at least.

"L—— too is as miserable as mortification can make one like him. Write, and ask him if he wishes my presence in his house on my own terms. He must not expect from me the affection, or marks of affection, of a wife. I should never have been his wife had I waited till I understood life or myself. But I will be his attentive and friendly companion, the mistress of his house, if he pleases. To the world it will seem enough,—he will be more comfortable there,—and what he wished of me was, in a great measure, to show me to the world. I saw that, as soon as we were in it, I could not give him happiness if I would, for we have not a thought nor employment in common. But if we can agree on the way, we may live together without any one being very miserable except myself, and I have made up my mind."

The astonishment of the father may be conceived, and his cavils; L——'s also.

To cut the story short, it was settled in Emily's way, for she was one of the sultana kind, dread and dangerous. L—— hardly wished her to love him now, for he half hated her for all she had done; yet he was glad to have her back, as she had judged, for the sake of appearances. All was smoothed over by a plausible story. People, indeed, knew the truth as to the fair one's outrageous conduct perfectly, but Mr. L—— was rich, his wife beautiful, and gave good parties; so society, as such, bowed and smiled, while individuals scandalized the pair.

They had been living on this footing for several years, when I saw Emily at the opera. She was a much altered being. Debarred of happiness in her affections, she had turned for solace to the intellectual life, and her naturally powerful and brilliant mind had matured into a splendor which had never been dreamed of by those who had seen her amid the freaks end day-dreams of her early youth.

Yet, as I said before, she was not captivating to me, as her picture had been. She was, in a different way, as beautiful in feature and coloring as in her spring-time. Her beauty, all moulded and mellowed by feeling, was far more eloquent; but it had none of the virgin magnificence, the untouched tropical luxuriance, which had fired my fancy. The false position in which she lived had shaded her expression with a painful restlessness; and her eye proclaimed that the conflicts of her mind had strengthened, had deepened, but had not yet hallowed, her character.

She was, however, interesting, deeply so; one of those rare beings who fill your eye in every mood. Her passion for music, and the great excellence she had attained as a performer, drew us together. I was her daily visitor; but, if my admiration ever softened into tenderness, it was the tenderness of pity for her unsatisfied heart, and cold, false life.

But there was one who saw with very different eyes. V—— had been intimate with Emily some time before my arrival, and every day saw him more deeply enamored.

Laurie. And pray where was the husband all this time?

Aglauron. L—— had sought consolation in ambition. He was a man of much practical dexterity, but of little thought, and less heart. He had at first been jealous of Emily for his honor's sake,—not for any reality,—for she treated him with great attention as to the comforts of daily life; but otherwise, with polite, steady coldness. Finding that she received the court, which many were disposed to pay her, with grace and affability, but at heart with imperial indifference, he ceased to disturb himself; for, as she rightly thought, he was incapable of understanding her. A coquette he could have interpreted; but a romantic character like hers, born for a grand passion, or no love at all, he could not. Nor did he see that V—— was likely to be more to her than any of her admirers.

Laurie. I am afraid I should have shamed his obtuseness. V—— has nothing to recommend him that I know of, except his beauty, and that is the beauty of a petit-maitre—effeminate, without character, and very unlikely, I should judge, to attract such a woman as you give me the idea of.

Aglauron. You speak like a man, Laurie; but have you never heard tales of youthful minstrels and pages being preferred by princesses, in the land of chivalry, to stalwart knights, who were riding all over the land, doing their devoirs maugre scars and starvation? And why? One want of a woman's heart is to admire and be protected; but another is to be understood in all her delicate feelings, and have an object who shall know how to receive all the marks of her inventive and bounteous affection. V—— is such an one; a being of infinite grace and tenderness, and an equal capacity for prizing the same in another.

Effeminate, say you? Lovely, rather, and lovable. He was not, indeed, made to grow old; but I never saw a fairer spring-time than shone in his eye when life, and thought, and love, opened on him all together.

He was to Emily like the soft breathing of a flute in some solitary valley; indeed, the delicacy of his nature made a solitude around him in the world. So delicate was he, and Emily for a long time so unconscious, that nobody except myself divined how strong was the attraction which, as it drew them nearer together, invested both with a lustre and a sweetness which charmed all around them.

But I see the sun is declining, and warns me to cut short a tale which would keep us here till dawn if I were to detail it as I should like to do in my own memories. The progress of this affair interested me deeply; for, like all persons whose perceptions are more lively than their hopes, I delight to live from day to day in the more ardent experiments of others. I looked on with curiosity, with sympathy, with fear. How could it end? What would become of them, unhappy lovers? One too noble, the other too delicate, ever to find happiness in an unsanctioned tie.

I had, however, no right to interfere, and did not, even by a look, until one evening, when the occasion was forced upon me.

There was a summer fÊte given at L——'s. I had mingled for a while with the guests in the brilliant apartments; but the heat oppressed, the conversation failed to interest me. An open window tempted me to the garden, whose flowers and tufted lawns lay bathed in moonlight. I went out alone; but the music of a superb band followed my steps, and gave impulse to my thoughts. A dreaming state, pensive though not absolutely sorrowful, came upon me,—one of those gentle moods when thoughts flow through the mind amber-clear and soft, noiseless, because unimpeded. I sat down in an arbor to enjoy it, and probably stayed much longer than I could have imagined; for when I reËntered the large saloon it was deserted. The lights, however, were not extinguished, and, hearing voices in the inner room, I supposed some guests still remained; and, as I had not spoken with Emily that evening, I ventured in to bid her good-night. I started, repentant, on finding her alone with V——, and in a situation that announced their feelings to be no longer concealed from each other. She, leaning back on the sofa, was weeping bitterly, while V——, seated at her feet, holding her hands within his own, was pouring forth his passionate words with a fervency which prevented him from perceiving my entrance. But Emily perceived me at once, and starting up, motioned me not to go, as I had intended. I obeyed, and sat down. A pause ensued, awkward for me and for V——, who sat with his eyes cast down and blushing like a young girl detected in a burst of feeling long kept secret. Emily sat buried in thought, the tears yet undried upon her cheeks. She was pale, but nobly beautiful, as I had never yet seen her.

After a few moments I broke the silence, and attempted to tell why I had returned so late. She interrupted me: "No matter, Aglauron, how it happened; whatever the chance, it promises to give both V—— and myself, what we greatly need, a calm friend and adviser. You are the only person among these crowds of men whom I could consult; for I have read friendship in your eye, and I know you have truth and honor. V—— thinks of you as I do, and he too is, or should be, glad to have some counsellor beside his own wishes."

V—— did not raise his eyes; neither did he contradict her. After a moment he said, "I believe Aglauron to be as free from prejudice as any man, and most true and honorable; yet who can judge in this matter but ourselves?"

"No one shall judge," said Emily; "but I want counsel. God help me! I feel there is a right and wrong; but how can my mind, which has never been trained to discern between them, be confident of its power at this important moment? Aglauron, what remains to me of happiness,—if anything do remain; perhaps the hope of heaven, if, indeed, there be a heaven,—is at stake! Father and brother have failed their trust. I have no friend able to understand, wise enough to counsel me. The only one whose words ever came true to my thoughts, and of whom you have often reminded me, is distant. Will you, this hour, take her place?"

"To the best of my ability," I replied without hesitation, struck by the dignity of her manner.

"You know," she said, "all my past history; all do so here, though they do not talk loudly of it. You and all others have probably blamed me. You know not, you cannot guess, the anguish, the struggles of my childish mind when it first opened to the meaning of those words, Love, Marriage, Life. When I was bound to Mr. L——, by a vow which from my heedless lips was mockery of all thought, all holiness, I had never known a duty, I had never felt the pressure of a tie. Life had been, so far, a sweet, voluptuous dream, and I thought of this seemingly so kind and amiable person as a new and devoted ministrant to me of its pleasures. But I was scarcely in his power when I awoke. I perceived the unfitness of the tie; its closeness revolted me.

"I had no timidity; I had always been accustomed to indulge my feelings, and I displayed them now. L——, irritated, averted his mastery; this drove me wild; I soon hated him, and despised too his insensibility to all which I thought most beautiful. From all his faults, and the imperfection of our relation, grew up in my mind the knowledge of what the true might be to me. It is astonishing how the thought grow upon me day by day. I had not been married more than three months before I knew what it would be to love, and I longed to be free to do so. I had never known what it was to be resisted, and the thought never came to me that I could now, and for all my life, be bound by so early a mistake. I thought only of expressing my resolve to be free.

"How I was repulsed, how disappointed, you know, or could divine if you did not know; for all but me have been trained to bear the burden from their youth up, and accustomed to have the individual will fettered for the advantage of society. For the same reason, you cannot guess the silent fury that filled my mind when I at last found that I had struggled in vain, and that I must remain in the bondage that I had ignorantly put on.

"My affections were totally alienated from my family, for I felt they had known what I had not, and had neither put me on my guard, nor warned me against precipitation whose consequences must be fatal. I saw, indeed, that they did not look on life as I did, and could be content without being happy; but this observation was far from making me love them more. I felt alone, bitterly, contemptuously alone. I hated men who had made the laws that bound me. I did not believe in God; for why had He permitted the dart to enter so unprepared a breast? I determined never to submit, though I disdained to struggle, since struggle was in vain. In passive, lonely wretchedness I would pass my days. I would not feign what I did not feel, nor take the hand which had poisoned for me the cup of life before I had sipped the first drops.

"A friend—the only one I have ever known—taught me other thoughts. She taught me that others, perhaps all others, were victims, as much as myself. She taught me that if all the wrecked submitted to be drowned, the world would be a desert. She taught me to pity others, even those I myself was paining; for she showed me that they had sinned in ignorance, and that I had no right to make them suffer so long as I myself did, merely because they were the authors of my suffering.

"She showed me, by her own pure example, what were Duty and Benevolence and Employment to the soul, even when baffled and sickened in its dearest wishes. That example was not wholly lost: I freed my parents, at least, from their pain, and, without falsehood, became less cruel and more calm.

"Yet the kindness, the calmness, have never gone deep. I have been forced to live out of myself; and life, busy or idle, is still most bitter to the homeless heart. I cannot be like Almeria; I am more ardent; and, Aglauron, you see now I might be happy,"

She looked towards V——. I followed her eye, and was well-nigh melted too by the beauty of his gaze.

"The question in my mind is," she resumed, "have I not a right to fly? To leave this vacant life, and a tie which, but for worldly circumstances, presses as heavily on L—— as on myself. I shall mortify him; but that is a trifle compared with actual misery. I shall grieve my parents; but, were they truly such, would they not grieve still more that I must reject the life of mutual love? I have already sacrificed enough; shall I sacrifice the happiness of one I could really bless for those who do not know one native heart-beat of my life?"

V—— kissed her hand.

"And yet," said she, sighing, "it does not always look so. We must, in that case, leave the world; it will not tolerate us. Can I make V—— happy in solitude? And what would Almeria think? Often it seems that she would feel that now I do love, and could make a green spot in the desert of life over which she mourned, she would rejoice to have me do so. Then, again, something whispers she might have objections to make; and I wish—O, I long to know them! For I feel that this is the great crisis of my life, and that if I do not act wisely, now that I have thought and felt, it will be unpardonable. In my first error I was ignorant what I wished, but now I know, and ought not to be weak or deluded."

I said, "Have you no religious scruples? Do you never think of your vow as sacred?"

"Never!" she replied, with flashing eyes. "Shall the woman be bound by the folly of the child? No!—have never once considered myself as L——'s wife. If I have lived in his house, it was to make the best of what was left, as Almeria advised. But what I feel he knows perfectly. I have never deceived him. But O! I hazard all! all! and should I be again ignorant, again deceived"——

V—— here poured forth all that can be imagined.

I rose: "Emily, this case seems to me so extraordinary that I must have time to think. You shall hear from me. I shall certainly give you my best advice, and I trust you will not over-value it."

"I am sure," she said, "it will be of use to me, and will enable me to decide what I shall do. V——, now go away with Aglauron; it is too late for you to stay here."

I do not know if I have made obvious, in this account, what struck me most in the interview,—a certain savage force in the character of this beautiful woman, quite independent of the reasoning power. I saw that, as she could give no account of the past, except that she saw it was fit, or saw it was not, so she must be dealt with now by a strong instalment made by another from his own point of view, which she would accept or not, as suited her.

There are some such characters, which, like plants, stretch upwards to the light; they accept what nourishes, they reject what injures them. They die if wounded,—blossom if fortunate; but never learn to analyze all this, or find its reasons; but, if they tell their story, it is in Emily's way;—"it was so;" "I found it so."

I talked with V——, and found him, as I expected, not the peer of her he loved, except in love. His passion was at its height. Better acquainted with the world than Emily,—not because he had seen it more, but because he had the elements of the citizen in him,—he had been at first equally emboldened and surprised by the ease with which he won her to listen to his suit. But he was soon still more surprised to find that she would only listen. She had no regard for her position in society as a married woman,—none for her vow. She frankly confessed her love, so far as it went, but doubted as to whether it was her whole love, and doubted still more her right to leave L——, since she had returned to him, and could not break the bond so entirely as to give them firm foot-hold in the world.

"I may make you unhappy," she said, "and then be unhappy myself; these laws, this society, are so strange, I can make nothing of them. In music I am at home. Why is not all life music? We instantly know when we are going wrong there. Convince me it is for the best, and I will go with you at once. But now it seems wrong, unwise, scarcely better than to stay as we are. We must go secretly, must live obscurely in a corner. That I cannot bear,—all is wrong yet. Why am I not at liberty to declare unblushingly to all men that I will leave the man whom I do not love, and go with him I do love? That is the only way that would suit me,—I cannot see clearly to take any other course."

I found V—— had no scruples of conscience, any more than herself. He was wholly absorbed in his passion, and his only wish was to persuade her to elope, that a divorce might follow, and she be all his own.

I took my part. I wrote next day to Emily. I told her that my view must differ from hers in this: that I had, from early impressions, a feeling of the sanctity of the marriage vow. It was not to me a measure intended merely to insure the happiness of two individuals, but a solemn obligation, which, whether it led to happiness or not, was a means of bringing home to the mind the great idea of Duty, the understanding of which, and not happiness, seemed to be the end of life. Life looked not clear to me otherwise. I entreated her to separate herself from V—— for a year, before doing anything decisive; she could then look at the subject from other points of view, and see the bearing on mankind as well as on herself alone. If she still found that happiness and V—— were her chief objects, she might be more sure of herself after such a trial. I was careful not to add one word of persuasion or exhortation, except that I recommended her to the enlightening love of the Father of our spirits.

Laurie. With or without persuasion, your advice had small chance, I fear, of being followed.

Aglauron. You err. Next day V—— departed. Emily, with a calm brow and earnest eyes, devoted herself to thought, and such reading as I suggested.

Laurie. And the result?

Aglauron. I grieve not to be able to point my tale with the expected moral, though perhaps the true denouement may lead to one as valuable. L—— died within the year, and she married V——.

Laurie. And the result?

Aglauron. Is for the present utter disappointment in him. She was infinitely blest, for a time, in his devotion, but presently her strong nature found him too much hers, and too little his own. He satisfied her as little as L—— had done, though always lovely and dear. She saw with keen anguish, though this time without bitterness, that we are never wise enough to be sure any measure will fulfil our expectations.

But—I know not how it is—Emily does not yet command the changes of destiny which she feels so keenly and faces so boldly. Born to be happy only in the clear light of religious thought, she still seeks happiness elsewhere. She is now a mother, and all other thoughts are merged in that. But she will not long be permitted to abide there. One more pang, and I look to see her find her central point, from which all the paths she has taken lead. She loves truth so ardently, though as yet only in detail, that she will yet know truth as a whole. She will see that she does not live for Emily, or for V——, or for her child, but as one link in a divine purpose. Her large nature must at last serve knowingly.

Myself. I cannot understand you, Aglauron; I do not guess the scope of your story, nor sympathize with your feeling about this lady. She is a strange, and, I think, very unattractive person. I think her beauty must have fascinated you. Her character seems very inconsistent.

Aglauron. Because I have drawn from life.

Myself. But, surely, there should be a harmony somewhere.

Aglauron. Could we but get the right point of view.

Laurie. And where is that?

He pointed to the sun, just sinking behind the pine grove. We mounted and rode home without a word more. But I do not understand Aglauron yet, nor what he expects from this Emily. Yet her character, though almost featureless at first, gains distinctness as I think of it more. Perhaps in this life I shall find its key.

hall smite in her chosen time; by her is the child restored;
And, darkly devising, the Fiend of the house, world-cursed, will repay
The price of the blood of the slain that was shed in the bygone day.

[Enter Orestes and Pylades, in guise of travellers.

ORESTES (knocking at the palace gate)
What ho! slave, ho! I smite the palace gate
In vain, it seems; what ho, attend within,—
Once more, attend; come forth and ope the halls,
If yet Aegisthus holds them hospitable.

SLAVE (from within)
Anon, anon!

[Opens the door.

Speak, from what land art thou, and sent from whom?

ORESTES
Go, tell to them who rule the palace-halls,
Since ’tis to them I come with tidings new—
(Delay not—Night’s dark car is speeding on,
And time is now for wayfarers to cast
Anchor in haven, wheresoe’er a house
Doth welcome strangers)—that there now come forth
Some one who holds authority within—
The queen, or, if some man, more seemly were it;
For when man standeth face to face with man,
No stammering modesty confounds their speech,
But each to each doth tell his meaning clear.

[Enter Clytemnestra.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Speak on, O strangers; have ye need of aught?
Here is whate’er beseems a house like this—
Warm bath and bed, tired Nature’s soft restorer,
And courteous eyes to greet you; and if aught
Of graver import needeth act as well,
That, as man’s charge, I to a man will tell.

ORESTES
A Daulian man am I, from Phocis bound,
And as with mine own travel-scrip self-laden
I went toward Argos, parting hitherward
With travelling foot, there did encounter me
One whom I knew not and who knew not me,
But asked my purposed way nor hid his own,
And, as we talked together, told his name—
Strophius of Phocis; then he said, “Good sir,
Since in all case thou art to Argos bound,
Forget not this my message, heed it well,
Tell to his own, Orestes is no more.
And—whatsoe’er his kinsfolk shall resolve,
Whether to bear his dust unto his home,
Or lay him here, in death as erst in life
Exiled for aye, a child of banishment—
Bring me their hest, upon thy backward road;
For now in brazen compass of an urn
His ashes lie, their dues of weeping paid.”
So much I heard, and so much tell to thee,
Not knowing if I speak unto his kin
Who rule his home; but well, I deem, it were,
Such news should earliest reach a parent’s ear.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Ah woe is me! thy word our ruin tells;
From roof-tree unto base are we despoiled.—
O thou whom nevermore we wrestle down,
Thou Fury of this home, how oft and oft
Thou dost descry what far aloof is laid,
Yea, from afar dost bend th’ unerring bow
And rendest from my wretchedness its friends;
As now Orestes—who, a brief while since,
Safe from the mire of death stood warily,—
Was the home’s hope to cure th’ exulting wrong;
Now thou ordainest, Let the ill abide.

ORESTES
To host and hostess thus with fortune blest,
Lief had I come with better news to bear
Unto your greeting and acquaintanceship;
For what goodwill lies deeper than the bond
Of guest and host? and wrong abhorred it were,
As well I deem, if I, who pledged my faith
To one, and greetings from the other had,
Bore not aright the tidings ’twixt the twain.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Whate’er thy news, thou shalt not welcome lack,
Meet and deserved, nor scant our grace shall be.
Hadst them thyself not come, such tale to tell,
Another, sure, had borne it to our ears.
But lo! the hour is here when travelling guests,
Fresh from the daylong labour of the road,
Should win their rightful due. Take him within

[To the slave.

To the man-chamber’s hospitable rest—
Him and these fellow-farers at his side;
Give them such guest-right as beseems our halls;
I bid thee do as thou shalt answer for it.
And I unto the prince who rules our home
Will tell the tale, and, since we lack not friends,
With them will counsel how this hap to bear

[Exit Clytemnestra.

CHORUS
So be it done—
Sister-servants, when draws nigh
Time for us aloud to cry
Orestes and his victory?

O holy earth and holy tomb
Over the grave-pit heaped on high,
Where low doth Agamemnon lie,
The king of ships, the army’s lord!
Now is the hour—give ear and come,
For now doth Craft her aid afford,
And Hermes, guard of shades in hell,
Stands o’er their strife, to sentinel
The dooming of the sword.
I wot the stranger worketh woe within—
For lo! I see come forth, suffused with tears,
Orestes’ nurse. What ho, Kilissa—thou
Beyond the doors? Where goest thou? Methinks
Some grief unbidden walketh at thy side.

[Enter Kilissa, a nurse.

KILISSA
My mistress bids me, with what speed I may,
Call in Aegisthus to the stranger guests,
That he may come, and standing face to face,
A man with men, may thus more clearly learn
This rumour new. Thus speaking, to her slaves
She hid beneath the glance of fictive grief
Laughter for what is wrought—to her desire
Too well; but ill, ill, ill besets the house,
Brought by the tale these guests have told so clear.
And he, God wot, will gladden all his heart
Hearing this rumour. Woe and well-a-day!
The bitter mingled cup of ancient woes,
Hard to be borne, that here in Atreus’ house
Befel, was grievous to mine inmost heart,
But never yet did I endure such pain.
All else I bore with set soul patiently;
But now—alack, alack!—Orestes dear,
The day and night-long travail of my soul!
Whom from his mother’s womb, a new-born child,
I clasped and cherished! Many a time and oft
Toilsome and profitless my service was,
When his shrill outcry called me from my couch!
For the young child, before the sense is born,
Hath but a dumb thing’s life, must needs be nursed
As its own nature bids. The swaddled thing
Hath nought of speech, whate’er discomfort come—
Hunger or thirst or lower weakling need,—
For the babe’s stomach works its own relief.
Which knowing well before, yet oft surprised,
’Twas mine to cleanse the swaddling clothes—poor I
Was nurse to tend and fuller to make white;
Two works in one, two handicrafts I took,
When in mine arms the father laid the boy.
And now he’s dead—alack and well-a-day!
Yet must I go to him whose wrongful power
Pollutes this house—fair tidings these to him!

CHORUS
Say then, with what array she bids him come?

KILISSA
What say’st thou! Speak more clearly for mine ear.

CHORUS
Bids she bring henchmen, or to come alone?

KlLISSA
She bids him bring a spear-armed body-guard.

CHORUS
Nay, tell not that unto our loathÈd lord,
But speed to him, put on the mien of joy,
Say, Come along, fear nought, the news is good:
A bearer can tell straight a twisted tale.

KILISSA
Does then thy mind in this new tale find joy?

CHORUS
What if Zeus bid our ill wind veer to fair?

KILISSA
And how? the home’s hope with Orestes dies.

CHORUS
Not yet—a seer, though feeble, this might see.

KILISSA
What say’st thou? Know’st thou aught, this tale belying?

CHORUS
Go, tell the news to him, perform thine hest,—
What the gods will, themselves can well provide.

KILISSA
Well, I will go, herein obeying thee;
And luck fall fair, with favour sent from heaven.

[Exit.

CHORUS
Zeus, sire of them who on Olympus dwell,
Hear thou, O hear my prayer!
Grant to my rightful lords to prosper well
Even as their zeal is fair!
For right, for right goes up aloud my cry—
Zeus, aid him, stand anigh!

Into his father’s hall he goes
To smite his father’s foes.
Bid him prevail! by thee on throne of triumph set,
Twice, yea and thrice with joy shall he acquit the debt.

Bethink thee, the young steed, the orphan foal
Of sire beloved by thee, unto the car
Of doom is harnessed fast.
Guide him aright, plant firm a lasting goal,
Speed thou his pace,—O that no chance may mar
The homeward course, the last!

And ye who dwell within the inner chamber
Where shines the storÈd joy of gold—
Gods of one heart, O hear ye, and remember;
Up and avenge the blood shed forth of old,
With sudden rightful blow;
Then let the old curse die, nor be renewed
With progeny of blood,—
Once more, and not again, be latter guilt laid low!

O thou who dwell’st in Delphi’s mighty cave,
Grant us to see this home once more restored
Unto its rightful lord!
Let it look forth, from veils of death, with joyous eye
Unto the dawning light of liberty;
And Hermes, Maia’s child, lend hand to save,
Willing the right, and guide
Our state with Fortune’s breeze adown the favouring tide.
Whate’er in darkness hidden lies,
He utters at his will;
He at his will throws darkness on our eye
By night and eke by day inscrutable.

Then, then shall wealth atone
The ills that here were done.
Then, then will we unbind,
Fling free on wafting wind
Of joy, the woman’s voice that waileth now
In piercing accents for a chief laid low;
And this our song shall be—
Hail to the commonwealth restored!
Hail to the freedom won to me!
All hail! for doom hath passed from him, my well-loved lord!

And thou, O child, when Time and Chance agree,
Up to the deed that for thy sire is done!
And if she wail unto thee, Spare, O son—
Cry, Aid, O father—and achieve the deed,
The horror of man’s tongue, the gods’ great need!
Hold in thy breast such heart as Perseus had,
The bitter woe work forth,
Appease the summons of the dead,
The wrath of friends on earth;
Yea, set within a sign of blood and doom,
And do to utter death him that pollutes thy home.

[Enter Aegisthus.

AEGISTHUS
Hither and not unsummoned have I come;
For a new rumour, borne by stranger men
Arriving hither, hath attained mine ears,
Of hap unwished-for, even Orestes’ death.
This were new sorrow, a blood-bolter’d load
Laid on the house that doth already bow
Beneath a former wound that festers deep.
Dare I opine these words have truth and life?
Or are they tales, of woman’s terror born,
That fly in the void air, and die disproved?
Canst thou tell aught, and prove it to my soul?

CHORUS
What we have heard, we heard; go thou within
Thyself to ask the strangers of their tale.
Strengthless are tidings, thro’ another heard;
Question is his, to whom the tale is brought.

AEGISTHUS
I too will meet and test the messenger,
Whether himself stood witness of the death,
Or tells it merely from dim rumour learnt:
None shall cheat me, whose soul hath watchful eyes.

[Exit.

CHORUS
Zeus, Zeus! what word to me is given?
What cry or prayer, invoking heaven,
Shall first by me be utterÈd?
What speech of craft? nor all revealing,
Nor all too warily concealing—
Ending my speech, shall aid the deed?
For lo! in readiness is laid
The dark emprise, the rending blade;
Blood-dropping daggers shall achieve
The dateless doom of Atreus’ name,
Or—kindling torch and joyful flame
In sign of new-won liberty—
Once more Orestes shall retrieve
His father’s wealth, and, throned on high,
Shall hold the city’s fealty.
So mighty is the grasp whereby,
Heaven-holpen, he shall trip and throw,
Unseconded, a double foe
Ho for the victory!

[A loud cry within.

VOICE OF AEGISTHUS
Help, help, alas!

CHORUS
Ho there, ho! how is’t within?
Is’t done? is’t over? Stand we here aloof
While it is wrought, that guiltless we may seem
Of this dark deed; with death is strife fulfilled.

[Enter a slave

SLAVE
O woe, O woe, my lord is done to death!
Woe, woe, and woe again, AEgisthus gone!
Hasten, fling wide the doors, unloose the bolts
Of the queen’s chamber. O for some young strength
To match the need! but aid availeth nought
To him laid low for ever. Help, help, help!
Sure to deaf ears I shout, and call in vain
To slumber ineffectual. What ho!
The queen! how fareth Clytemnestra’s self?
Her neck too, hers, is close upon the steel,
And soon shall sink, hewn thro’ as justice wills.

[Enter Clytemnestra.

CLYTEMNESTRA
What ails thee, raising this ado for us?

SLAVE
I say the dead are come to slay the living.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Alack, I read thy riddles all too clear—
We slew by craft and by like craft shall die.
Swift, bring the axe that slew my lord of old;
I’ll know anon or death or victory—
So stands the curse, so I confront it here.

[Enter Orestes, his sword dropping with blood.

ORESTES
Thee too I seek: for him what’s done will serve.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Woe, woe! Aegisthus, spouse and champion, slain!

ORESTES
What lov’st the man? then in his grave lie down,
Be his in death, desert him nevermore!

CLYTEMNESTSA
Stay, child, and fear to strike. O son, this breast
Pillowed thine head full oft, while, drowsed with sleep,
Thy toothless mouth drew mother’s milk from me.

ORESTES
Can I my mother spare? speak, Pylades,

PYLADES
Where then would fall the hest Apollo gave
At Delphi, where the solemn compact sworn?
Choose thou the hate of all men, not of gods.

ORESTES
Thou dost prevail; I hold thy counsel good.

[To Clytemnestra.

Follow; I will slay thee at his side.
With him whom in his life thou lovedst more
Than Agamemnon, sleep in death, the meed
For hate where love, and love where hate was due!

CLYTEMNESTRA
I nursed thee young; must I forego mine eld?

ORESTES
Thou slew’st my father; shalt thou dwell with me?

CLYTEMNESTRA
Fate bore a share in these things, O my child!

ORESTES
Fate also doth provide this doom for thee.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Beware, O my child, a parent’s dying curse.

ORESTES
A parent who did cast me out to ill!

CLYTEMNESTRA
Not cast thee out, but to a friendly home.

ORESTES
Born free, I was by twofold bargain sold.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Where then the price that I received for thee?

ORESTES
The price of shame; I taunt thee not more plainly.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Nay, but recount thy father’s lewdness too.

ORESTES
Home-keeping, chide not him who toils without.

CLYTEMNESTRA
’Tis hard for wives to live as widows, child.

ORESTES
The absent husband toils for them at home.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Thou growest fain to slay thy mother, child

ORESTES
Nay, ’tis thyself wilt slay thyself, not I.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Beware thy mother’s vengeful hounds from hell.

ORESTES
How shall I ’scape my father’s, sparing thee?

CLYTEMNESTRA
Living, I cry as to a tomb, unheard.

ORESTES
My father’s fate ordains this doom for thee.

CLYTEMNESTRA
Ah, me! this snake it was I bore and nursed.

ORESTES
Ay, right prophetic was thy visioned fear.
Shameful thy deed was—die the death of shame!

[Exit, driving Clytemnestra before him.

CHORUS
Lo, even for these I mourn, a double death:
Yet since Orestes, driven on by doom,
Thus crowns the height of murders manifold,
I say, ’tis well—that not in night and death
Should sink the eye and light of this our home.

There came on Priam’s race and name
A vengeance; though it tarried long,
With heavy doom it came.
Came, too, on Agamemnon’s hall
A lion-pair, twin swordsmen strong.
And last, the heritage doth fall
To him, to whom from Pythian cave
The god his deepest counsel gave.
Cry out, rejoice! our kingly hall
Hath ’scaped from ruin—ne’er again
Its ancient wealth be wasted all
By two usurpers, sin-defiled—
An evil path of woe and bane!
On him who dealt the dastard blow
Comes Craft, Revenge’s scheming child.
And hand in hand with him doth go,
Eager for fight,
The child of Zeus, whom men below
Call Justice, naming her aright.
And on her foes her breath
Is as the blast of death;
For her the god who dwells in deep recess
Beneath Parnassus’ brow,
Summons with loud acclaim
To rise, though late and lame,
And come with craft that worketh righteousness.

For even o’er Powers divine this law is strong—
Thou shalt not serve the wrong.
To that which ruleth heaven beseems it that we bow.
Lo, freedom’s light hath come!
Lo, now is rent away
The grim and curbing bit that held us dumb.
Up to the light, ye halls! this many a day
Too low on earth ye lay.
And Time, the great Accomplisher,
Shall cross the threshold, whensoe’er
He choose with purging hand to cleanse
The palace, driving all pollution thence.
And fair the cast of Fortune’s die
Before our state’s new lords shall lie,
Not as of old, but bringing fairer doom
Lo, freedom’s light hath come!

[The scene opens, disclosing Orestes standing over the corpses of Aegisthus and Clytemnestra; in one hand he holds his sword, in the other the robe in which Agamemnon was entangled and slain.

ORESTES
There lies our country’s twofold tyranny,
My father’s slayers, spoilers of my home.
Erst were they royal, sitting on the throne,
And loving are they yet,—their common fate
Tells the tale truly, shows their trothplight firm.
They swore to work mine ill-starred father’s death,
They swore to die together; ’tis fulfilled.
O ye who stand, this great doom’s witnesses,
Behold this too, the dark device which bound
My sire unhappy to his death,—behold
The mesh which trapped his hands, enwound his feet!
Stand round, unfold it—’tis the trammel-net
That wrapped a chieftain; holds it that he see,
The father—not my sire, but he whose eye
Is judge of all things, the all-seeing Sun!
Let him behold my mother’s damnÈd deed,
Then let him stand, when need shall be to me,
Witness that justly I have sought and slain
My mother; blameless was Aegisthus’ doom—
He died the death law bids adulterers die.
But she who plotted this accursÈd thing
To slay her lord, by whom she bare beneath
Her girdle once the burden of her babes,
Beloved erewhile, now turned to hateful foes—
What deem ye of her? or what venomed thing,
Sea-snake or adder, had more power than she
To poison with a touch the flesh unscarred?
So great her daring, such her impious will.
How name her, if I may not speak a curse?
A lion-springe! a laver’s swathing cloth,
Wrapping a dead man, twining round his feet—
A net, a trammel, an entangling robe?
Such were the weapon of some strangling thief,
The terror of the road, a cut-purse hound—
With such device full many might he kill,
Full oft exult in heat of villainy.
Ne’er have my house so cursed an indweller—
Heaven send me, rather, childless to be slain!

CHORUS
Woe for each desperate deed!
Woe for the queen, with shame of life bereft!
And ah, for him who still is left,
Madness, dark blossom of a bloody seed!

ORESTES
Did she the deed or not? this robe gives proof,
Imbrued with blood that bathed Aegisthus’ sword:
Look, how the spurted stain combines with time
To blur the many dyes that once adorned
Its pattern manifold! I now stand here,
Made glad, made sad with blood, exulting, wailing—
Hear, O thou woven web that slew my sire!
I grieve for deed and death and all my home—
Victor, pollution’s damnÈd stain for prize.

CHORUS
Alas, that none of mortal men
Can pass his life untouched by pain!
Behold, one woe is here—
Another loometh near.

ORESTES
Hark ye and learn—for what the end shall be
For me I know not: breaking from the curb
My spirit whirls me off, a conquered prey,
Borne as a charioteer by steeds distraught
Far from the course, and madness in my breast
Burneth to chant its song, and leap, and rave—
Hark ye and learn, friends, ere my reason goes!
I say that rightfully I slew my mother,
A thing God-scorned, that foully slew my sire
And chiefest wizard of the spell that bound me
Unto this deed I name the Pythian seer
Apollo, who foretold that if I slew,
The guilt of murder done should pass from me;
But if I spared, the fate that should be mine
I dare not blazon forth—the bow of speech
Can reach not to the mark, that doom to tell.
And now behold me, how with branch and crown
I pass, a suppliant made meet to go
Unto Earth’s midmost shrine, the holy ground
Of Loxias, and that renownÈd light
Of ever-burning fire, to ’scape the doom
Of kindred murder: to no other shrine
(So Loxias bade) may I for refuge turn.
Bear witness, Argives, in the after time,
How came on me this dread fatality.
Living, I pass a banished wanderer hence,
To leave in death the memory of this cry.

CHORUS
Nay, but the deed is well; link not thy lips
To speech ill-starred, nor vent ill-boding words—
Who hast to Argos her full freedom given,
Lopping two serpents’ heads with timely blow.

ORESTES
Look, look, alas!
Handmaidens, see—what Gorgon shapes throng up;
Dusky their robes and all their hair enwound—
Snakes coiled with snakes—off, off, I must away!

CHORUS
Most loyal of all sons unto thy sire,
What visions thus distract thee? Hold, abide;
Great was thy victory, and shalt thou fear?

ORESTES
These are no dreams, void shapes of haunting ill,
But clear to sight my mother’s hell-hounds come!

CHORUS
Nay, the fresh bloodshed still imbrues thine hands,
And thence distraction sinks into thy soul.

ORESTES
O king Apollo—see, they swarm and throng—
Black blood of hatred dripping from their eyes!

CHORUS
One remedy thou hast; go, touch the shrine
Of Loxias, and rid thee of these woes.

ORESTES
Ye can behold them not, but I behold them.
Up and away! I dare abide no more.

[Exit

CHORUS
Farewell then as thou mayst,—the god thy friend
Guard thee and aid with chances favouring.

Behold, the storm of woe divine
That the raves and beats on Atreus’ line
Its great third blast hath blown.
First was Thyestes’ loathly woe—
The rueful feast of long ago,
On children’s flesh, unknown.
And next the kingly chief’s despite,
When he who led the Greeks to fight
Was in the bath hewn down.
And now the offspring of the race
Stands in the third, the saviour’s place,
To save—or to consume?
O whither, ere it be fulfilled,
Ere its fierce blast be hushed and stilled,
Shall blow the wind of doom?

[Exeunt.

---

ght support:
No juries here were pack'd to kill or clear,
No bribes were taken, nor oaths broken here;
No gownsmen, partial to a client's cause,
To their own purpose turn'd the pliant laws;
Each judge

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[1] 'The Rosciad:' for occasion, &c., see Life.

[2] 'Roscius:' Quintus Roscius, a native of Gaul, and the most
celebrated comedian of antiquity. [3] 'Clive:' Robert Lord Clive. See
Macaulay's paper on him.

[4] 'Shuter:' Edward Shuter, a comic actor, who, after various
theatrical vicissitudes, died a zealous methodist and disciple of
George Whitefield, in 1776.

[5] 'Yates:' Richard Yates, another low actor of the period.

[6] 'Foote:' Samuel Foote, the once well-known farcical writer, (now chiefly remembered from Boswell's Life of Johnson), opened the Old House in the Haymarket, and, in order to overrule the opposition of the magistrates, announced his entertainments as 'Mr Foote's giving tea to his friends.'

[7] 'Wilkinson:' Wilkinson, the shadow of Foote, was the proprietor of Sadler's Wells Theatre.

[8] 'Palmer:' John Palmer, a favourite actor in genteel comedy, who
married Miss Pritchard, daughter of the celebrated actress of that
name.

[9] 'Barry:' Spranger Barry, an actor of first-rate eminence and tall
of size. Barry was a competitor of Garrick. Every one remembers the
lines in a poem comparing the two—

'To Barry we give loud applause;
To Garrick only tears.'

[10] 'Coan:' John Coan, a dwarf, showed himself, like another Tom
Thumb, for sixpence a-head.

[11] 'Ackman:' Ackman ranked as one of the lowest comic actors of his
time.

[12] 'Sterne:' the celebrated Laurence Sterne.

[13] 'Franklin:' Dr Thomas Franklin, the translator of Sophocles, Phalaris, and Lucian, and the author of a volume of sermons; all forgotten.

[14] 'Colman:' Colman, the elder, translator of Terence, and author of many clever comedies.

[15] 'Murphy:' Arthur Murphy, Esq., a native of Ireland. See Boswell's Life of Johnson. Churchill hated Murphy on account of his politics. He was in the pay of the Court.

[16] 'Northern race:' Wedderburn, afterwards Lord Loughborough, and Earl Rosslyn, a patron of Murphy, and a bitter enemy of Wilkes.

[17] 'Proteus Hill:' Sir John Hill, a celebrated character of that day, of incredible industry and versatility, a botanist, apothecary, translator, actor, dramatic author, natural historian, multitudinous compiler, libeller, and, intus et in cute, a quack and coxcomb. See Boswell's account of the interview between the King and Dr Johnson, for a somewhat modified estimate of Hill.

[18] 'Woodward:' Woodward the comedian had a paper war with Hill.

[19] 'Fools:' the person here meant was a Mr Fitzpatrick, a bitter
enemy of Garrick's, and who originated riots in the theatre on the
subject of half-price.

[20] 'A youth:' Robert Lloyd, the friend and imitator of Churchill—an
ingenious but improvident person, who died of grief at his friend's
death, in 1764.

[21] 'Foster:' Sir Michael Foster, one of the puisne judges of the
Court of King's Bench.

[22] 'Ode:' alluding to Mason's Ode to Memory.

[23] 'Havard:' William Havard, an amiable man, but mediocre actor, of
the period.

[24] 'Davies:' Thomas Davies, a bookseller, actor, and author. See
Boswell.

[25] 'Holland:' Holland, a pupil and imitator of Mr Garrick.

[26] 'King:' Thomas King, a voluble and pert but clever actor.

[27] 'Yates:' Yates had a habit of repeating his words twice or thrice
over, such as 'Hark you, hark you.'

[28] 'Tom Errand:' Tom Errand and Clincher, two well-known dramatic
characters—a Clown and a coxcomb.

[29] 'Woodward:' Henry Woodward, comic actor of much power of face.

[30] 'Kitely:' Kitely, in Johnson's 'Every Man in his Humour,' was a favourite character of Garrick's.

[31] 'Obrien:' a small actor; originally a fencing-master.

[32] 'Jackson:' afterwards manager of the Royal Theatre, Edinburgh.

[33] 'Love:' James Love, an actor and dramatic writer, who could play
nothing well but Falstaff.

[34] 'Dominic:' Dryden's 'Spanish Friar.' [35] 'Boniface:' The jovial
landlord in Farquhar's 'Beaux Stratagem.'

[36] 'Austin,' &c.: all small and forgotten actors.

[37] 'Moody:' Moody excelled in Irish characters.

[38] 'Bayes:' alluding to the summer theatre in the Haymarket, where Murphy's plays were got up and acted under the joint management of himself and Mr Foote.

[39] 'Elliot:' a female actress of great merit.

[40] 'Ledgers:' the Public Ledger, a newspaper.

[41] 'Vaughan:' Thomas Vaughan, a friend of Murphy.

[42] 'Little factions:' Murphy had called Churchill and his friends
'The Little Faction.'

[43] 'Militia:' the Westminster militia and the city of London trained
bands and lumber troopers, afforded much amusement.

[44] 'Sparks:' Luke Sparks, an actor of the time, rather hard in his
manner.

[45] 'Smith:' Called Gentleman Smith,' an actor in genteel comedy,
corpulent in person.

[46] 'Ross:' a Scotchman, dissipated in his habits.

[47] 'Statira:' Ross's Statira was Mrs Palmer, the daughter of Mrs Pritchard.

[48] 'Macklin:' Charles Macklin, alias M'Laughlin, good in such characters as Shylock, &c.; no tragedian; a lecturer on elocution; coarse in features.

[49] 'Sheridan:' father of Richard Brinsley. See Boswell and Moore.

[50] 'Islington:' the new river.

[51] 'Rolt:' a drudge to the booksellers, who plagiarised Akenside's
'Pleasures of Imagination,' and was a coadjutor with Christopher
Smart in the 'Universal Visitor.' See Boswell.

[52] 'Lun:' Mr John Rich, the manager of Covent Garden and Lincoln's
Inn Fields Theatre, called Lun for his performance of Harlequin; famous
for pantomimes.

[53] 'Clive:' Catherine Clive, a celebrated comic actress, of very diversified powers; 'a better romp' than Jonson 'ever saw in nature.'

[54] 'Pope:' a pleasing protÉgÉ of Mrs Clive.

[55] 'Vincent:' Mrs Vincent, a tolerable actress and a fine singer.

[56] 'Arne:' a fine musician, but no writer.

[57] 'Brent:' a female scholar of Arne's, very popular as Polly in the 'Beggars Opera.'

[58] 'Beard and Vincent:' famous singers.

[59] 'Yates:' Anna Maria Yates, the wife of Richard Yates, mentioned in
a preceding note.

[60] 'Hart:' Mrs Hart, a demirep, married to one Reddish, who, after
her death, wedded Mrs Canning, mother of the great statesman.

[61] 'Bride:' another beautiful, but disreputable actress.

[62] 'Stale flower,' &c.: an unmanly allusion to Mrs Palmer, the daughter of Mrs Pritchard, who was greatly inferior to her mother.

[63] 'Cibber:' sister to Arne, and wife to the once notorious Theophilus Cibber, the son of the hero of the 'Dunciad.' She was no better in character than many actresses of that day; but sang so plaintively, that a bishop who heard her once cried out, 'Woman, thy sins be forgiven thee!'

[64] 'Pritchard:' according to Johnson, 'in private a vulgar idiot, but who, on the stage, seemed to become inspired with gentility and understanding.'

[65] 'Pantomime:' the 'Mourning Bride.'

[66] 'Thane:' Macbeth.

[67] 'Juletta:' a witty maid-servant in the play of 'The Pilgrim.'

[68] The 'Jealous Wife:' the 'Jealous Wife,' by Colman, was taken from
the story of Lady Bellaston, in 'Tom Jones.'

[69] 'Mossop:' Henry Mossop, a powerful, fiery, but irregular actor,
very unfortunate in life.

[70] 'Right-hand:' Mossop practised the 'tea-pot attitude.'

[71] 'Barry:' Spranger Barry, mentioned above as Garrick's great rival. He acted in Covent Garden.

[72] 'Quin:' the friend of Thomson, (see 'Castle of Indolence'),
instructor in reading of George III., famous for indolence, wit, good
nature, and corpulence.

[73] 'Betterton:' the great actor of the seventeenth century, whose
funeral and character are described in the 'Tatler.' Booth was his
successor and copy.

[74] 'Lined:' supported.

[75] 'Rowe.' Andromache, in the tragedy of the 'Distressed Mother,' by Ambrose Philips, and Lothario, in the 'Fair Penitent,' by Rowe.

[76] 'Brute:' Sir John Brute, in Vanbrugh's 'Provoked Wife.'

[77] 'Dorax:' a soldier in Dryden's 'Don Sebastian.'

[78] 'Sheridan:' see a previous note.

[79] 'Nailor:' pugilist.

[80] 'Hubert:' in King John.

[81] 'Garrick:' see Boswell and Murphy's life of that great actor.

[82] 'Serjeant Kite:' the recruiting serjeant in Farquhar's 'Recruiting Officer.'