enacted, over which the commander's genius presided, as calm as though he didn't belong to our sphere! STEELE. Does he know? Just listen to this! [Going to the desk and taking up a page of manuscript] While crowds of princes your deserts proclaim, An Iliad rising out of one campaign. Bravo, Bravo! Is it not great? Another glass to The Poem! [They all drink.] And hark to this. [Turning a page] Our godlike leader, ere the stream he passed, Forming the wondrous year within his thought; And danger serves but to enhance the prize. But I must go now, gentlemen, to meet Budgell at the George before the play. Pray let me not disturb you. Stay, Harry, and talk Blenheim with dearest Joe. He will profit by your wit, I doubt me not. And now adieu to both! He embraces and kisses them both and goes off. Esmond and Addison take pipes and settle themselves comfortably to converse. ESMOND. I admire the licence of your poets. I admire your art; the murder of the campaign is done to military music, like a battle at the opera. You hew out of your polished verses a stately image of smiling victory. I tell you 'tis an uncouth, distorted, savage idol; hideous, bloody, and barbarous. You great poets should show war as it is, ugly and horrible, not beautiful and serene. ADDISON. [Quietly] What would you have? In our polished days, and according to the rules of art, 'tis impossible that the Muse should depict tortures or begrime her hands with the horrors of war. Were I to sing as you would have me, the town would tear the poet in pieces, and burn his book by the hands of the common hangman. We must paint our great Duke, not as a man, which no doubt he is, with weaknesses like the rest of us, but as a hero. ESMOND. There were as brave men on that field as the leader, whom neither knights nor senators applauded, nor voices plebeian or patrician favored, and who lie there forgotten, under the clods. What poet is there to sing them? ADDISON. To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades! Would you celebrate them all? One of the greatest of a great man's qualities is success; of all his gifts I admire that one in the great Marlborough. To be brave? every man is brave. But in being victorious, as he is, I fancy there is something divine. In presence of the occasion, the great soul of the leader shines out, and the god is confessed. Death itself respects him, and passes by him to lay others low. And yet [smiling] 'tis a pity I could not find a rhyme for Webb, your brave Colonel-else had he, too, found a place in this poem. But as for you [still smiling], you are but a lieutenant, and the Muse can't occupy herself with any gentleman under the rank of a field officer. Enter the Maid, showing in Mr. Boyle. THE MAID. A gentleman to see you, sir. ADDISON. [Rising and greeting his guest] My dear sir, welcome to my humble lodgings. Honored am I indeed, to see you again at my chambers. [Turning to Esmond] Captain Esmond, I have the honor to present Mr. Boyle. MR. BOYLE. [To Esmond] I am pleased to meet you, sir, [Looking toward the desk] And how goes on the magnum opus, Mr. Addison? ADDISON. We were but now over it. Here is the plan on the table; here ran the little river Nebel; here are Tallard's quarters, at the bowl of this pipe [indicating with his pipe] at the attack of which Captain Esmond was present; and Mr. Esmond was but now depicting aliquo proelia mixta mero, when you came in. MR. BOYLE. What more have you written since I was last here? I am all impatience to learn. Pray read. Addison takes up a paper and reads, timidly, at first, then, gradually becoming inspired, with great animation. You have not yet heard these lines: But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find 'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved, That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, Examined all the dreadful scenes of war; In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, Not a word papers- -I'll MR. BOYLE. [Springing up with great delight] more, my dear sir. Trust me with the defend them with my life. Let me read them over to my Lord Treasurer, whom I am appointed to see in half-anhour. I venture to promise, the verses shall lose nothing by my reading, and then, sir, we shall see whether Lord Halifax has a right to complain that his friend's pension is no longer paid. He seizes the manuscript, places it in his breast; with his hand over his heart, executes a most gracious wave of the hat with the disengaged hand, smiles and bows himself out of the room. ADDISON. Does not the chamber look quite dark, after the glorious appearance and disappearance of that gracious messenger? Why, he illuminated the whole room. Your scarlet, Mr. Esmond, will bear any light; but this threadbare old coat of mine, how very worn it looked under the glare of that splendor! [Thoughtfully] I wonder whether they will do anything for me. ESMOND. Of course they will.-Let me prophesy. Within a month from this very day, the whole town will be in an uproar of admiration of your poem, The Campaign. Dick Steele will be spouting it at every coffee-house in Whitehall and Covent Garden. The wits on the other side of Temple Bar will be saluting you as the greatest poet the world has seen for ages; the people will be huzzahing for Marlborough and for Addison, and, more than this, you will get some high office from the party in power, which will be only the beginning of the honors and dignities which from henceforth are to be showered They take their hats and go off as the curtain falls. |