Lend Me Your Ears: Great Speeches in History

by Unknown

  Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him.

  This was the most unkindest cut of all;

  For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,

  Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,

  Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;

  And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

  Even at the base of Pompey’s statue,

  Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.

  O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

  Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,

  Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.

  O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel

  The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.

  Kind souls, what weep you when you but behold

  Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,

  Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors.

  FIRST CITIZEN. O piteous spectacle!

  SECOND CITIZEN. O noble Caesar!

  THIRD CITIZEN. O woeful day!

  FOURTH CITIZEN. O traitors, villains!

  FIRST CITIZEN. O most bloody sight!

  SECOND CITIZEN. We will be revenged.

  ALL. Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire!

  Kill! Slay! Let not a traitor live!

  ANTONY. Stay, countrymen.

  FIRST CITIZEN. Peace there! hear the noble Antony.

  SECOND CITIZEN. We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him.

  ANTONY. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny.

  They that have done this deed are honorable;

  What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,

  That made them do it; they are wise and honorable,

  And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

  I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: I am no orator, as Brutus is;

  But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,

  That love my friend; and that they know full well

  That gave me public leave to speak of him:

  For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

  Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,

  To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on;

  I tell you that which you yourselves do know;

  Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,

  And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,

  And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony

  Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue

  In every wound of Caesar, that should move

  The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

  ALL. We’ll mutiny.

  FIRST CITIZEN. We’ll burn the house of Brutus.

  THIRD CITIZEN. Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.

  ANTONY. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.

  ALL. Peace, ho! Hear Antony. Most noble Antony!

  ANTONY. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:

  Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves?

  Alas, you know not; I must tell you then:

  You have forgot the will I told you of.

  ALL. Most true: the will! Let’s stay and hear the will.

  ANTONY. Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal.

  To every Roman citizen he gives,

  To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.

  SECOND CITIZEN. Most noble Caesar! we’ll revenge his death.

  THIRD CITIZEN. O royal Caesar!

  ANTONY. Hear me with patience.

  ALL. Peace, ho!

  ANTONY. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,

  His private arbors and new-planted orchards,

  On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,

  And to your heirs for ever; common pleasures,

  To walk abroad and recreate yourselves.

  Here was a Caesar! when comes such another?

  FIRST CITIZEN. Never, never. Come, away, away!

  We’ll burn his body in the holy place,

  And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses.

  Take up the body.

  SECOND CITIZEN. Go fetch fire.

  THIRD CITIZEN. Pluck down benches.

  FOURTH CITIZEN. Pluck down forms, windows, anything.

  [Exeunt Citizens with the body.]

  ANTONY. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,

  Take thou what course thou wilt.

  Edmund Burke Laments the Death of Marie Antoinette

  “The age of chivalry is gone….”

  Pictured as spoiled and frivolous, Marie Antoinette never said the most famous words attributed to her. When told that the French people had no bread to eat, she supposedly replied, “Let them eat cake” (“Qu’ils mangent de la brioche”). Rousseau, however, had already recorded that “thoughtless saying of a great princess” in his Confessions, in 1767, years before Marie Antoinette’s arrival in France.

  Dissatisfaction of the common people and a sense of royal indifference to their plight fomented the French Revolution. King Louis XVI was executed for treason in early 1793, and his queen, Marie Antoinette, was sent to the guillotine later that same year.

  Edmund Burke, the great English orator and conservative parliamentarian, had vigorously opposed the French Revolution as an unnecessary evil. Burke mourned the loss of Marie Antoinette and delivered a glowing tribute to her, remembering his vision of her twenty years before her execution. This drew the accusation of “foppery” from a friend who favored the Revolution, and Burke adamantly defended his words:

  “Am I obliged to prove judicially the virtues of those I see suffering every kind of wrong?… I tell you again that the recollection of the manner in which I saw the queen of France in 1774 and the contrast between that brilliancy, splendor, and beauty, with the prostrate homage of a nation to her, and the abominable scene of 1789, which I was describing, did draw tears from me and wetted the paper. Those tears came again into my eyes almost as often as I looked at the description. They may again. You do not believe this fact nor that these are my real feelings, but that the whole is affected or, as you express it, ‘downright foppery.’ My friend, I tell you it is truth and that it is true and will be true when you and I are no more, and will exist as long as men with their natural feelings shall exist.”

  Was that last line in the mind of the New York Evening Sun editorialist who wrote the Santa-Claus-lives editorial to “Dear Virginia”? Probably not; it is one of those long thoughts expressed in a widely used but memorable construction.

  ***

  IT IS NOW sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just begun to move in, glittering like the morning star full of life and splendor and joy. O, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her, in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers! I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult.

  But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom! The unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone. It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which
felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness.

  Henry Lee Remembers George Washington

  “First in war—first in peace—and first in the hearts of his countrymen….”

  The death of George Washington in 1799 elicited a memorable tribute from Henry Lee. Lee, the father of Confederate military leader Robert E. Lee, was himself a Virginia officer whose revolutionary-war exploits and quick movements lent him the nickname Light-Horse Harry.

  Henry Lee’s funeral oration for Washington includes lists of reverential modifiers (“pious, just, humane”) and archaic language (“Methinks I see his august image”). The dramatic device of attributing a speech to the deceased will appear again in Daniel Webster’s eulogy for John Adams. Lee’s tribute is remembered, however, almost exclusively for the elegant opening line (“First in war—first in peace—and first in the hearts of his countrymen”) that has a horse’s-hoofbeats rhythm and encapsulates in three short phrases the record and reputation of the first president of the United States.

  ***

  FIRST IN WAR—first in peace—and first in the hearts of his countrymen, he was second to none in the humble and endearing scenes of private life; pious, just, humane, temperate, and sincere; uniform, dignified, and commanding, his example was as edifying to all around him as were the effects of that example lasting.

  To his equals he was condescending, to his inferiors kind, and to the dear object of his affections exemplarily tender; correct throughout, vice shuddered in his presence, and virtue always felt his fostering hand; the purity of his private character gave effulgence to his public virtues.

  His last scene comported with the whole tenor of his life—although in extreme pain, not a sigh, not a groan escaped him; and with undisturbed serenity he closed his well-spent life. Such was the man America has lost—such was the man for whom our nation mourns.

  Methinks I see his august image, and I hear falling from his venerable lips these deep-sinking words:

  “Cease, sons of America, lamenting our separation; go on, and confirm by your wisdom the fruits of our joint councils, joint efforts, and common dangers; reverence religion, diffuse knowledge throughout your land, patronize the arts and sciences; let liberty and order be inseparable companions. Control party spirit, the bane of free governments; observe good faith to, and cultivate peace with, all nations, shut up every avenue to foreign influence, contract rather than extend national connection, rely on ourselves only: be Americans in thought, word, and deed—thus will you give immortality to that union which was the constant object of my terrestrial labors; thus will you preserve undisturbed to the latest posterity the felicity of a people to me most dear, and thus will you supply (if my happiness is now aught to you) the only vacancy in the round of pure bliss high heaven bestows.”

  Daniel Webster Puts a Speech in the Mouth of John Adams

  “Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote.”

  On July 4, 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, John Adams died. His last words: “Thomas Jefferson still surv—.” But Jefferson did not survive; by coincidence, he also died that same day. (His last words were “This is the Fourth?” Maybe it’s a good idea that we have stopped recording “last words.”)

  At a double memorial service for these framers, the great orator of the day, Representative Daniel Webster, spoke in Boston’s Faneuil Hall. In the style of the ancient historians, he included in his address a speech that might have been given by John Adams. In his grandiloquent but moving manner, Webster set the scene with a supposed speech by John Hancock dissenting from the Declaration as “unseasonable and illjudged,” warning of the day “when we ourselves, given up by an exhausted, a misled people, shall have expiated our rashness and atoned for our presumption on the scaffold.”

  Said Webster, “It was for Mr. Adams to reply to arguments like these. We know his opinions, we know his character. He would commence with his accustomed directness and earnestness.” Then Webster delivered his speech within a speech; it is sometimes mistakenly taken to be Adams’s own words, but Adams would have writhed listening to it because Adams’s style was much more brisk and businesslike (“May none but honest and wise men ever rule under this roof”). Here was the first retrospective ghostwriting for one of America’s founders.

  ***

  “SINK OR SWIM, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. But there’s a divinity which shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours.

  “Why, then, should we defer the Declaration? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own life and his own honor? Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair—is not he, our venerable colleague near you—are you not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws? If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up, the war? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston Port Bill and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men—that plighting, before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives? I know there is not a man here who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground.

  “For myself, having twelve months ago in this place moved you that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces, raised or to be raised, for defense of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waiver in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And, if the war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why, then—why, then, sir, do we not, as soon as possible, change this from a civil to a national war? And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory?

  “If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people—the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these colonies, and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts and cannot be eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bl
oody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this Declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy’s cannon; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support.

  “Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly, through this day’s business. You and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die; die, colonists; die, slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously and on the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it be the pleasure of heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free country.

  “But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present I see the brightness of the future as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour has come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and, by the blessing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment; independence now, and independence forever.”