STANDARD SELECTIONS

A COLLECTION AND ADAPTATION OF SUPERIOR
PRODUCTIONS FROM BEST AUTHORS
FOR USE IN CLASS ROOM AND
ON THE PLATFORM

Arranged and Edited by

ROBERT I. FULTON

Dean of the School of Oratory and Professor of Elocution and Oratory in the Ohio Wesleyan University

THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD

Professor of Elocution and Oratory in the University of Michigan

and

EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD

Professor of Elocution and Oratory in Earlham College

GINN AND COMPANY

BOSTON · NEW YORK · CHICAGO · LONDON
ATLANTA · DALLAS · COLUMBUS · SAN FRANCISCO

Copyright, 1907, by
R. I. Fulton, T. C. Trueblood, and E. P. Trueblood
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Athenæum Press
GINN AND COMPANY · PROPRIETORS
BOSTON · U.S.A.

PREFACE

The purpose of the compilers of this volume is:—

First, to provide some new material in poetry and eloquence that has never before appeared in books of this character, in addition to many standard selections familiar to the general public;

Second, to furnish selections that will stand the test of literary criticism and at the same time prove to be popular and successful for public entertainment;

Third, to offer for the use of classes in public speaking such carefully selected literature of varied scope as will be helpful and stimulating in the practice of reading aloud and profitable in acquiring power of vocal interpretation;

Fourth, to stimulate interest in the works of the authors from whom we have chosen and in the speeches or books from which extracts have been taken;

Fifth, to present as models for students in public speaking notable specimens of eloquence, among which are masterpieces of the seven great orators of the world and from the six great triumphs in the history of American oratory;

Sixth, to provide carefully chosen scenes from a few standard, modern dramas for class-room and platform use. In these scenes the attempt has been made to preserve the spirit and unity of the plays, to shorten them to practical length, and to adapt them to the demands of the public audience.

To avoid reprinting material which is already universally accessible, we have inserted no scenes from Shakespeare; but the reader is referred to Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings" (published by Ginn and Company), which contains copious Indexes to choice scenes from Shakespeare, the Bible, and hymn-books. The two volumes include a wide field of literature best suited for public speaking.

The selections throughout the book are arranged under six different classes and cover a wide range of thought and emotion. While many shades of feeling may be found in the same selection, it has been our aim to place each one under the division with which, as a whole, it is most closely allied.

We are grateful to the many authors and publishers who have courteously permitted us to use their publications. Instead of naming them in the preface we have chosen to make due acknowledgment in a footnote wherever their selections appear in the volume.

F. and T.

CONTENTS

[PREFACE]

[I]

NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC

[II]

SOLEMN, REVERENTIAL, SUBLIME

[III]

PATRIOTIC, HEROIC, ORATORICAL

• [The Seven Great Orators of the World]
  • [I. Demosthenes]
  • Encroachments of Philip, The
  • [II. Cicero]
  • Oration against Antony
  • [III. Chrysostom]
  • Undue Lamentations over the Dead
  • [On Applauding Preachers]
  • [IV. Bossuet]
  • On the Death of the Prince of Condé
  • [V. Chatham]
  • I. War with America
  • [II. Attempt to Subjugate America]
  • [VI. Burke]
  • I. Impeachment of Hastings
  • [II. Conciliation with America]
  • [III. English Privileges in America]
  • [VII. Webster]
  • I. Bunker Hill Monument
  • [II. Revolutionary Patriots]
  • [III. Character of Washington]
• [Six Great Triumphs in the History of American Oratory]
  • [I. Henry]
  • Call to Arms, The
  • [II. Hamilton]
  • Coercion of Delinquent States
  • [III. Webster]
  • Reply to Hayne, The
  • [IV. Phillips]
  • Murder of Lovejoy, The
  • [V. Lincoln]
  • Slavery Issue, The
  • [VI. Beecher]
  • Moral Aspect of the American War

[IV]

GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC

[V]

DRAMATIC, NOT IN THE DRAMA

[VI]

SCENES FROM THE DRAMA

STANDARD SELECTIONS

I

NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC

THE ARENA SCENE FROM "QUO VADIS"[1]

Henryk Sienkiewicz

The Roman Empire in the first century presents the most revolting picture of mankind to be found in the pages of history. Society founded on superior force, on the most barbarous cruelty, on crime and mad profligacy, was corrupt beyond the power of words to describe. Rome ruled the world, but was also its ulcer, and the horrible monster, Nero, guilty of all hideous and revolting crimes, seems a fit monarch for such a people.

A few years ago appeared "Quo Vadis?" the story from which this selection is made. The book attained so great a popularity, that it was translated into almost every tongue. In spite of its many faults, it invited the attention, and, although it shocked the sensibilities, when its great purpose was understood it melted the heart.

The author drew a startlingly vivid and horrible picture of humanity at this lowest stage, and in conflict with it he showed us the Christ spirit.

The extract is the story of how the young Vinicius, a patrician, a soldier, a courtier of Nero, through the labyrinth of foul sin, of self-worship and self-indulgence, with love for his guide, found his way home to the feet of Him who commanded, "Be ye pure even as I am pure."

It is the love story of Vinicius and the Princess Lygia, a convert to Christ. The girl's happy and innocent life was rudely disturbed by a summons to the court of the profligate emperor. Arrived there, she found that Nero had given her to Vinicius, who had fallen passionately in love with her; but on the way to Vinicius' house she was rescued by the giant Ursus, one of her devoted attendants and a member of her own faith. They escaped in safety to the Christians, who were living in hiding in the city.

The imperious nature of the youthful soldier for the first time in his life met resistance. He was so transported with rage and disappointment that he ordered the slaves from whom Lygia had escaped to be flogged to death, while he set out to find the girl who had dared to thwart his desire. His egotism was so great that he would have seen the city and the whole world sunk in ruins rather than fail of his purpose. For days and days his search was unceasing, and at last he found Lygia, but in making a second attempt to carry her off was severely wounded by the giant Ursus. Finding himself helpless in the Christians' hands, he expected nothing but death; but instead he was carefully and tenderly nursed back to health. Waking from his delirium, he found at his bedside Lygia—Lygia, whom he had most injured, watching alone, while the others had gone to rest. Gradually in his pagan head the idea began to hatch with difficulty that at the side of naked beauty, confident and proud of Greek and Roman symmetry, there is another in the world, new, immensely pure, in which a soul resides. As the days went by, Vinicius was thrilled to the very depths of his soul by the consciousness that Lygia was learning to love him. With that revelation came the certain conviction that his religion would forever make an inseparable barrier between them. Then he hated Christianity with all the powers of his soul, yet he could not but acknowledge that it had adorned Lygia with that exceptional, unexplained beauty, which was producing in his heart besides love, respect; besides desire, homage. Yet, when he thought of accepting the religion of the Nazarene, all the Roman in him rose up in revolt against the idea. He knew that if he were to accept that teaching he would have to throw, as on a burning pile, all his thoughts, ideas, ambitions, habits of life, his very nature up to that moment, burn them into ashes and fill himself with an entirely new life, and from his soul he cried that it was impossible; it was impossible!

Before Vinicius had entirely recovered Nero commanded his presence at Antium, whither the court was going for the hot summer months. Nero was ambitious to write an immortal epic poem which should rival the "Odyssey," and in order that he might describe realistically a burning city, gave a secret command while he was in Antium that Rome should be set on fire.

One evening, when the court was assembled to hear Nero recite some of his poetry, a slave appeared.

"Pardon, Divine Imperator, Rome is burning! The whole city is a sea of flames!" A moment of horrified silence followed, broken by the cry of Vinicius. He rushed forth, and, springing on his horse, dashed into the deep night. A horseman, rushing also like a whirlwind, but in the opposite direction, toward Antium, shouted as he raced past: "Rome is perishing!" To the ears of Vinicius came only one more expression: "Gods!" The rest was drowned by the thunder of hoofs. But the expression sobered him. "Gods!" He raised his head suddenly, and, stretching his arms toward the sky filled with stars, began to pray.

"Not to you, whose temples are burning, do I call, but to Thee. Thou Thyself hast suffered. Thou alone hast understood people's pain. If Thou art what Peter and Paul declare, save Lygia. Seek her in the burning; save her and I will give Thee my blood!"

Before he had reached the top of the mountain he felt the wind on his face, and with it the odor of smoke came to his nostrils. He touched the summit at last, and then a terrible sight struck his eyes. The whole lower region was covered with smoke, but beyond this gray, ghastly plain the city was burning on the hills. The conflagration had not the form of a pillar, but of a long belt, shaped like the dawn.

Vinicius' horse, choking with the smoke, became unmanageable. He sprang to the earth and rushed forward on foot. The tunic began to smolder on him in places; breath failed his lungs; strength failed his bones; he fell! Two men, with gourds full of water, ran to him and bore him away. When he regained consciousness he found himself in a spacious cave, lighted with torches and tapers. He saw a throng of people kneeling, and over him bent the tender, beautiful face of his soul's beloved.

Lygia was indeed safe from the burning, but before the first thrill of relief was over an infinitely more horrible danger threatened her. The people were in wrath and threatened violence to Nero and his court, for it was popularly believed that the city had been set on fire at the emperor's instigation. The coward, Nero, was startled and thoroughly alarmed, and welcomed gladly the suggestion that the calamity should be blamed on the Christians, who were viewed with great suspicion by the common people, and obliged even then to live in hiding. In order to clear himself and to divert the people's minds, he instituted at once against the Christians the most horrible persecutions that have ever stained man's history. For days and days the people came in countless numbers to witness the tortures of the innocent victims; but at last they grew weary of blood-spilling. Then it was given out that Nero had arranged a climax for the last of the Christians who were to die at an evening spectacle in a brilliantly lighted amphitheater. Chief interest both of the Augustinians and the people centered in Lygia and Vinicius, for the story of their love was now generally known, and everybody felt that Nero was intending to make a tragedy for himself out of the suffering of Vinicius.

At last the evening arrived. The sight was in truth magnificent. All that was powerful, brilliant and wealthy in Rome was there. The lower seats were crowded with togas as white as snow. In a gilded padium sat Nero, wearing a diamond collar and a golden crown upon his head. Every eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the unfortunate lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his forehead was covered with drops of sweat. To his tortured mind came the thought that faith of itself would spare Lygia. Peter had said that faith would move the earth to its foundations. He crushed doubt in himself, compressed his whole being into the sentence, "I believe," and he looked for a miracle.

The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, and out of the dark gully into the brilliantly lighted arena came Ursus. In Rome there was no lack of gladiators, larger by far than the common measure of man; but Roman eyes had never seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed with the delight of experts at his mighty limbs, as large as tree trunks; at his breast, as large as two shields joined together, and his arms of a Hercules. He was unarmed, and had determined to die as became a follower of the Lamb, peacefully and patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once more to the Saviour. So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands and raised his eyes towards the stars. This act displeased the crowd. They had had enough of those Christians, who died like sheep. They understood that if the giant would not defend himself, the spectacle would be a failure. Here and there hisses were heard. Some began to cry for scourgers, whose office it was to lash combatants unwilling to fight. But soon all had grown silent, for no one knew what was waiting for the giant, nor whether he would not defend himself when he met death eye to eye.

In fact, they had not long to wait. Suddenly the shrill sound of brazen trumpets was heard, and at that signal into the arena rushed, amid the shouts of the beast-keepers, an enormous German aurochs, bearing on his head the naked body of a woman.

Vinicius sprang to his feet.

"Lygia! Oh, ... I believe! I believe! Oh, Christ, a miracle! a miracle!" And he did not even know that Petronius had covered his head at that moment with a toga. He did not look; he did not see. The feeling of some awful emptiness possessed him. In his head there remained not a thought. His lips merely repeated as if in madness, "I believe! I believe! I believe!"

This time the amphitheater was silent, for in the arena something uncommon had happened. That giant, obedient and ready to die, when he saw his queen on the horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched by living fire, and, bending forward, he ran at the raging animal.

From all breasts a sudden cry of amazement was heard, as the giant fell on the raging bull and seized him by the horns. And then came deep silence. All breasts ceased to breathe. In the amphitheater a fly might be heard on the wing. People could not believe their own eyes. Since Rome was Rome no one had ever seen such a spectacle. The man's feet sank in the sand to his ankle; his back was bent like a bow; his head was hidden between his shoulders; on his arms the muscles came out so that the skin almost burst from their pressure; but he had stopped the bull in his tracks. The man and the bull remained so still that the spectators thought themselves looking at a group hewn in stone. But in that apparent repose there was a tremendous exertion of two struggling forces. The bull's feet, as well as the man's, sank in the sand, and the dark, shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which of the two would fail first? Which would fall first?

Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard from the arena, after which a brief shout was wrested from every breast, and again there was silence. Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful grew the groan of the bull as it mingled with the whistling breath from the breast of the giant. The head of the beast began to turn in the iron hands of the barbarian, and from his jaws crept forth a long, foaming tongue. A moment more and to the ears of the spectators sitting nearer came, as it were, the crack of breaking bones; then the beast rolled on the earth, dead.

The giant removed in a twinkling the ropes that bound the maiden to the horns of the bull. His face was very pale; he stood as if only half conscious; then he raised his eyes and looked at the spectators.

The amphitheater had gone wild. The walls of the building were trembling from the roar of tens of thousands of people.

Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate and persistent, which soon turned into one unbroken thunder.

The giant understood that they were asking for his life and liberty, but his thoughts were not for himself. He raised the unconscious maiden in his arms, and, going to Nero's padium, held her up and looked up imploringly.

Vinicius sprang over the barrier, which separated the lower seats from the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her with his toga.

Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by wounds received in the Armenian war, and stretched out his hands to the multitude.

At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in a circus before. Voices choking with tears began to demand mercy. Yet Nero halted and hesitated. He would have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent by the horns of the bull.

Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer was simply dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus might seize the whole city. He looked once more, and, seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited faces and eyes fixed on him, he slowly raised his hand and gave the sign for mercy.

Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats to the lowest. But Vinicius heard it not. He dropped on his knees in the arena, stretched his hands toward heaven and cried: "I believe! Oh, Christ! I believe! I believe!"

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Copyright, 1896, by Jeremiah Curtin.

THE ARROW AND THE SONG[2]

H. W. Longfellow

I shot an arrow into the air.

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air.

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong

That it can follow the flight of song.

Long, long afterward, in an oak,

I found the arrow still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his works.

AUX ITALIENS

R. Bulwer Lytton

At Paris it was, at the opera there;

And she looked like a queen that night,

With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair,

And the brooch in her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatoré":

And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,

The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,

As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,

"Non ti scordar di me?"

The Emperor there in his box of state,

Looked grave; as if he had just then seen

The red flag wave from the city gate,

Where the eagles in bronze had been.

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye;

You'd have thought that her fancy had gone back again,

For one moment, under the old blue sky,

To that old glad life in Spain.

Well! there in our front row box we sat

Together, my bride betrothed and I;

My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent and both were sad;

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,

With that regal indolent air she had;

So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then

Of her former lord, good soul that he was,

Who died the richest and roundest of men,

The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,

Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;

I wish him well for the jointure given

To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love

As I had not been thinking of aught for years;

Till over my eyes there began to move

Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,

When we stood neath the cypress-trees together,

In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);

And her warm white neck in its golden chain;

And her full soft hair just tied in a knot,

And falling loose again.

And the Jasmine flower in her fair young breast;

(O the faint sweet smell of that Jasmine flower!)

And the one bird singing alone to its nest;

And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,

And the letter that brought me back my ring;

And it all seemed there in the waste of life,

Such a very little thing.

For I thought of her grave below the hill,

Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over;

And I thought, "Were she only living still,

How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear as I thought of her thus in that hour,

And of how, after all, old things are best,

That I smelt the smell of that Jasmine flower

Which she used to wear in her breast.

And I turned and looked; she was sitting there,

In a dim box over the stage; and drest

In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,

And that Jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there;

And the glittering horse-shoe curved between;—

From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair

And her sumptuous scornful mien,

To my early love with her eyes downcast,

And over her primrose face the shade,

(In short from the future back to the past)

There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked, then I stole to the door,

I traversed the passage; and down at her side

I was sitting a moment more.

My thinking of her or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be expressed,

Had brought her back from the grave again,

With the Jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now and she loved me then!

And the very first words that her sweet lips said,

My heart grew youthful again.

The Marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy and young and handsome still,

And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass;

She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face, for old things are best;

And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above

The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And love must cling where it can, I say,

For beauty is easy enough to win,

But one isn't loved every day.

And I think in the lives of most women and men,

There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

But O! the smell of that Jasmine flower!

And O that music! and O the way

That voice rang out from the donjon tower,

Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me!

BOBBY SHAFTO[3]

Daniel Henry, Jr.

Theme.

"Bobby Shafto's gone to sea:—

Silver buckles on his knee—

He'll come back and marry me,

Pretty Bobby Shafto!"

"Mother Goose Melodies."

"With his treasures won at sea,

Spanish gold and Portugee,

And his heart, still fast to me,

Pretty Bobby Shafto!

"In a captain's pomp and pride,

With a gold sword at his side,

He'll come back to claim his bride,

Pretty Bobby Shafto!"

So she sang, the winter long,

Till the sun came, golden-strong,

And the blue birds caught her song:

All of Bobby Shafto.

Days went by, and autumn came,

Eyes grew dim, and feet went lame,

But the song, it was the same,

All of Bobby Shafto.

Never came across the sea,

Silver buckles on his knee,

Bobby to his bride-to-be,

Fickle Bobby Shafto!

For where midnight never dies,

In the Storm-King's caves of ice,

Stiff and stark, poor Bobby lies—

Heigho! Bobby Shafto.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] From "Under a Fool's Cap."

CARCASSONNE

Gustav Nadaud, translated by M. E. W. Sherwood

"How old I am! I'm eighty years!

I've worked both hard and long;

Yet patient as my life has been,

One dearest sight I have not seen,—

It almost seems a wrong.

A dream I had when life was new;

Alas, our dreams! they come not true;

I thought to see fair Carcassonne,—

That lovely city,—Carcassonne!

"One sees it dimly from the height

Beyond the mountains blue,

Fain would I walk five weary leagues,—

I do not mind the road's fatigues,—

Through morn and evening's dew;

But bitter frost would fall at night;

And on the grapes,—that yellow blight!

I could not go to Carcassonne,

I never went to Carcassonne.

"They say it is as gay all times

As holidays at home!

The gentles ride in gay attire,

And in the sun each gilded spire

Shoots up like those of Rome!

The bishop the procession leads,

The generals curb their prancing steeds.

Alas! I know not Carcassonne—

Alas! I saw not Carcassonne!

"Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud,

And bids us to beware;

He says, 'O guard the weakest-part,

And most that traitor in the heart

Against ambition's snare.'

Perhaps in autumn I can find

Two sunny days with gentle wind;

I then could go to Carcassonne,

I still could go to Carcassonne.

"My God, my Father! pardon me

If this my wish offends;

One sees some hope more high than his,

In age, as in his infancy,