The Inflexible Captive: A Tragedy, in Five Acts

by Hannah More

ACT IV.

Scene—A Gallery in the Ambassador's Palace.

Reg. (alone.) Be calm, my soul! what strange emotions shake thee? Emotions thou hast never felt till now. Thou hast defied the dangers of the deep, Th' impetuous hurricane, the thunder's roar, And all the terrors of the various war; Yet, now thou tremblest, now thou stand'st dismay'd, With fearful expectation of thy fate.—— Yes—thou hast amplest reason for thy fears; For till this hour, so pregnant with events, Thy fame and glory never were at stake. Soft—let me think—what is this thing call'd glory? 'Tis the soul's tyrant, that should be dethron'd, And learn subjection like her other passions! Ah! no! 'tis false: this is the coward's plea; The lazy language of refining vice. That man was born in vain, whose wish to serve Is circumscrib'd within the wretched bounds Of self—a narrow, miserable sphere! Glory exalts, enlarges, dignifies, Absorbs the selfish in the social claims, And renders man a blessing to mankind.— It is this principle, this spark of deity, Rescues debas'd humanity from guilt, And elevates it by her strong excitements:— It takes off sensibility from pain, From peril fear, plucks out the sting from death, Changes ferocious into gentle manners, And teaches men to imitate the gods. It shows——but see, alas! where Publius comes. Ah! he advances with a down-cast eye, And step irresolute——

Enter Publius.

Reg. My Publius, welcome! What tidings dost thou bring? what says the Senate? Is yet my fate determin'd? quickly tell me.—

Pub. I cannot speak, and yet, alas! I must.

Reg. Tell me the whole.—

Pub. Would I were rather dumb!

Reg. Publius, no more delay:—I charge thee speak.

Pub. The Senate has decreed thou shalt depart.

Reg. Genius of Rome! thou hast at last prevail'd— I thank the gods, I have not liv'd in vain! Where is Hamilcar?—find him—let us go, For Regulus has nought to do in Rome; I have accomplished her important work, And must depart.

Pub. Ah, my unhappy father!

Reg. Unhappy, Publius! didst thou say unhappy? Does he, does that bless'd man deserve this name, Who to his latest breath can serve his country?

Pub. Like thee, my father, I adore my country, Yet weep with anguish o'er thy cruel chains.

Reg. Dost thou not know that life's a slavery? The body is the chain that binds the soul; A yoke that every mortal must endure. Wouldst thou lament—lament the general fate, The chain that nature gives, entail'd on all, Not these I wear?

Pub. Forgive, forgive my sorrows: I know, alas! too well, those fell barbarians Intend thee instant death.

Reg. So shall my life And servitude together have an end.—— Publius, farewell; nay, do not follow me.—

Pub. Alas! my father, if thou ever lov'dst me, Refuse me not the mournful consolation To pay the last sad offices of duty I e'er can show thee.——

Reg. No!—thou canst fulfil Thy duty to thy father in a way More grateful to him: I must strait embark. Be it meanwhile thy pious care to keep My lov'd Attilia from a sight, I fear, Would rend her gentle heart.—Her tears, my son, Would dim the glories of thy father's triumph. Her sinking spirits are subdu'd by grief. And should her sorrows pass the bounds of reason, Publius, have pity on her tender age, Compassionate the weakness of her sex; We must not hope to find in her soft soul The strong exertion of a manly courage.—— Support her fainting spirit, and instruct her, By thy example, how a Roman ought To bear misfortune. Oh, indulge her weakness! And be to her the father she will lose. I leave my daughter to thee—I do more—— I leave to thee the conduct of—thyself. —Ah, Publius! I perceive thy courage fails— I see the quivering lip, the starting tear:— That lip, that tear calls down my mounting soul. Resume thyself—Oh, do not blast my hope! Yes—I'm compos'd—thou wilt not mock my age— Thou art—thou art a Roman—and my son.

[Exit.

Pub. And is he gone?—now be thyself, my soul— Hard is the conflict, but the triumph glorious. Yes.—I must conquer these too tender feelings; The blood that fills these veins demands it of me; My father's great example too requires it. Forgive me Rome, and glory, if I yielded To nature's strong attack:—I must subdue it. Now, Regulus, I feel I am thy son.

Enter Attilia and Barce.

At. My brother, I'm distracted, wild with fear— Tell me, O tell me, what I dread to know— Is it then true?—I cannot speak—my father?

Barce. May we believe the fatal news?

Pub. Yes, Barce, It is determin'd. Regulus must go.

At. Immortal Powers!—What say'st thou?

Barce. Can it be? Thou canst not mean it.

At. Then you've all betray'd me.

Pub. Thy grief avails not.

Enter Hamilcar and Licinius.

Barce. Pity us, Hamilcar!

At. Oh, help, Licinius, help the lost Attilia!

Ham. My Barce! there's no hope.

Lic. Ah! my fair mourner, All's lost.

At. What all, Licinius? said'st thou all? Not one poor glimpse of comfort left behind? Tell me, at least, where Regulus is gone: The daughter shall partake the father's chains, And share the woes she knew not to prevent.

[Going.

Pub. What would thy wild despair? Attilia, stay, Thou must not follow; this excess of grief Would much offend him.

At. Dost thou hope to stop me?

Pub. I hope thou wilt resume thy better self, And recollect thy father will not bear——

At. I only recollect I am a daughter, A poor, defenceless, helpless, wretched daughter! Away——and let me follow.

Pub. No, my sister.

At. Detain me not—Ah! while thou hold'st me here, He goes, and I shall never see him more.

Barce. My friend, be comforted, he cannot go Whilst here Hamilcar stays.

At. O Barce, Barce! Who will advise, who comfort, who assist me? Hamilcar, pity me.—Thou wilt not answer?

Ham. Rage and astonishment divide my soul.

At. Licinius, wilt thou not relieve my sorrows?

Lic. Yes, at my life's expense, my heart's best treasure, Wouldst thou instruct me how.

At. My brother, too—— Ah! look with mercy on thy sister's woes!

Pub. I will at least instruct thee how to bear them. My sister—yield thee to thy adverse fate; Think of thy father, think of Regulus; Has he not taught thee how to brave misfortune? 'Tis but by following his illustrious steps Thou e'er canst merit to be call'd his daughter.

At. And is it thus thou dost advise thy sister? Are these, ye gods, the feelings of a son? Indifference here becomes impiety— Thy savage heart ne'er felt the dear delights Of filial tenderness—the thousand joys That flow from blessing and from being bless'd! No—didst thou love thy father as I love him, Our kindred souls would be in unison; And all my sighs be echoed back by thine. Thou wouldst—alas!—I know not what I say.— Forgive me, Publius,—but indeed, my brother, I do not understand this cruel coldness.

Ham. Thou may'st not—but I understand it well. His mighty soul, full as to thee it seems Of Rome, and glory—is enamour'd—caught— Enraptur'd with the beauties of fair Barce.— She stays behind if Regulus departs. Behold the cause of all the well-feign'd virtue Of this mock patriot—curst dissimulation!

Pub. And canst thou entertain such vile suspicions? Gods! what an outrage to a son like me!

Ham. Yes, Roman! now I see thee as thou art, Thy naked soul divested of its veil, Its specious colouring, its dissembled virtues: Thou hast plotted with the Senate to prevent Th' exchange of captives. All thy subtle arts, Thy smooth inventions, have been set to work— The base refinements of your polish'd land.

Pub. In truth the doubt is worthy of an African.

[Contemptuously.

Ham. I know.——

Pub. Peace, Carthaginian, peace, and hear me, Dost thou not know, that on the very man Thou hast insulted, Barce's fate depends?

Ham. Too well I know, the cruel chance of war Gave her, a blooming captive, to thy mother; Who, dying, left the beauteous prize to thee.

Pub. Now, see the use a Roman makes of power. Heav'n is my witness how I lov'd the maid! Oh, she was dearer to my soul than light! Dear as the vital stream that feeds my heart! But know my honour's dearer than my love. I do not even hope thou wilt believe me; Thy brutal soul, as savage as thy clime, Can never taste those elegant delights, Those pure refinements, love and glory yield. 'Tis not to thee I stoop for vindication, Alike to me thy friendship or thy hate; But to remove from others a pretence For branding Publius with the name of villain; That they may see no sentiment but honour Informs this bosom—Barce, thou art free. Thou hast my leave with him to quit this shore. Now learn, barbarian, how a Roman loves!

[Exit.

Barce. He cannot mean it!

Ham. Oh, exalted virtue! Which challenges esteem though from a foe.

[Looking after Publius.

At. Ah! cruel Publius, wilt thou leave me thus? Thus leave thy sister?

Barce. Didst thou hear, Hamilcar? Oh, didst thou hear the god-like youth resign me?

[Hamilcar and Licinius seem lost in thought.

Ham. Farewell, I will return.

Lic. Farewell, my love![To Attilia.

Barce. Hamilcar, where——

At. Alas! where art thou going?

[To Licinius.

Lic. If possible, to save the life of Regulus.

At. But by what means?—Ah! how canst thou effect it?

Lic. Since the disease so desperate is become, We must apply a desperate remedy.

Ham. (after a long pause.) Yes—I will mortify this generous foe; I'll be reveng'd upon this stubborn Roman; Not by defiance bold, or feats of arms, But by a means more sure to work its end; By emulating his exalted worth, And showing him a virtue like his own; Such a refin'd revenge as noble minds Alone can practise, and alone can feel.

At. If thou wilt go, Licinius, let Attilia At least go with thee.

Lic. No, my gentle love, Too much I prize thy safety and thy peace. Let me entreat thee, stay with Barce here Till our return.

At. Then, ere ye go, in pity Explain the latent purpose of your souls.

Lic. Soon shalt thou know it all—Farewell! farewell! Let us keep Regulus in Rome, or die.

[To Hamilcar as he goes out.

Ham. Yes.—These smooth, polish'd Romans shall confess The soil of Afric, too, produces heroes. What, though our pride, perhaps, be less than theirs, Our virtue may be equal: they shall own The path of honour's not unknown to Carthage, Nor, as they arrogantly think, confin'd To their proud Capitol:——Yes—they shall learn The gods look down on other climes than theirs.

[Exit.

At. What gone, both gone? What can I think or do? Licinius leaves me, led by love and virtue, To rouse the citizens to war and tumult, Which may be fatal to himself and Rome, And yet, alas! not serve my dearest father. Protecting deities! preserve them both!

Barce. Nor is thy Barce more at ease, my friend; I dread the fierceness of Hamilcar's courage: Rous'd by the grandeur of thy brother's deed, And stung by his reproaches, his great soul Will scorn to be outdone by him in glory. Yet, let us rise to courage and to life, Forget the weakness of our helpless sex, And mount above these coward woman's fears. Hope dawns upon my mind—my prospect clears, And every cloud now brightens into day.

At. How different are our souls! Thy sanguine temper, Flush'd with the native vigour of thy soil, Supports thy spirits; while the sad Attilia, Sinking with more than all her sex's fears, Sees not a beam of hope; or, if she sees it, 'Tis not the bright, warm splendour of the sun; It is a sickly and uncertain glimmer Of instantaneous lightning passing by. It shows, but not diminishes, the danger, And leaves my poor benighted soul as dark As it had never shone.

Barce. Come, let us go. Yes, joys unlook'd-for now shall gild thy days, And brighter suns reflect propitious rays.

[Exeunt.

Scene—A Hall looking towards the Garden.

Enter Regulus, speaking to one of Hamilcar's Attendants.

Where's your Ambassador? where is Hamilcar? Ere this he doubtless knows the Senate's will. Go, seek him out—Tell him we must depart—— Rome has no hope for him, or wish for me. Longer delay were criminal in both.

Enter Manlius.

Reg. He comes. The Consul comes! my noble friend! O let me strain thee to this grateful heart, And thank thee for the vast, vast debt I owe thee! But for thy friendship I had been a wretch—— Had been compell'd to shameful liberty. To thee I owe the glory of these chains, My faith inviolate, my fame preserv'd, My honour, virtue, glory, bondage,—all!

Man. But we shall lose thee, so it is decreed—— Thou must depart?

Reg. Because I must depart You will not lose me; I were lost, indeed, Did I remain in Rome.

Man. Ah! Regulus, Why, why so late do I begin to love thee? Alas! why have the adverse fates decreed I ne'er must give thee other proofs of friendship, Than those so fatal and so full of woe?

Reg. Thou hast perform'd the duties of a friend; Of a just, faithful, Roman, noble friend: Yet, generous as thou art, if thou constrain me To sink beneath a weight of obligation, I could—yes, Manlius—I could ask still more.

Man. Explain thyself.

Reg. I think I have fulfill'd The various duties of a citizen; Nor have I aught beside to do for Rome. Now, nothing for the public good remains! Manlius, I recollect I am a father! My Publius! my Attilia! ah! my friend, They are—(forgive the weakness of a parent) To my fond heart dear as the drops that warm it. Next to my country they're my all of life; And, if a weak old man be not deceiv'd, They will not shame that country. Yes, my friend, The love of virtue blazes in their souls. As yet these tender plants are immature, And ask the fostering hand of cultivation: Heav'n, in its wisdom, would not let their father Accomplish this great work.—To thee, my friend, The tender parent delegates the trust: Do not refuse a poor man's legacy; I do bequeath my orphans to thy love— If thou wilt kindly take them to thy bosom, Their loss will be repaid with usury. Oh, let the father owe his glory to thee, The children their protection!

Man. Regulus, With grateful joy my heart accepts the trust: Oh, I will shield, with jealous tenderness, The precious blossoms from a blasting world. In me thy children shall possess a father, Though not as worthy, yet as fond as thee. The pride be mine to fill their youthful breasts With ev'ry virtue—'twill not cost me much: I shall have nought to teach, nor they to learn, But the great history of their god-like sire.

Reg. I will not hurt the grandeur of thy virtue, By paying thee so poor a thing as thanks. Now all is over, and I bless the gods, I've nothing more to do.

Enter Publius in haste.

Pub. O Regulus!

Reg. Say what has happened?

Pub. Rome is in a tumult— There's scarce a citizen but runs to arms— They will not let thee go.

Reg. Is't possible? Can Rome so far forget her dignity As to desire this infamous exchange? I blush to think it!

Pub. Ah! not so, my father. Rome cares not for the peace, nor for th' exchange; She only wills that Regulus shall stay.

Reg. How, stay? my oath—my faith—my honour! ah! Do they forget?

Pub. No: every man exclaims That neither faith nor honour should be kept With Carthaginian perfidy and fraud.

Reg. Gods! gods! on what vile principles they reason! Can guilt in Carthage palliate guilt in Rome, Or vice in one absolve it in another? Ah! who hereafter shall be criminal, If precedents are us'd to justify The blackest crimes.

Pub. Th' infatuated people Have called the augurs to the sacred fane, There to determine this momentous point.

Reg. I have no need of oracles, my son; Honour's the oracle of honest men. I gave my promise, which I will observe With most religious strictness. Rome, 'tis true, Had power to choose the peace, or change of slaves; But whether Regulus return, or not, Is his concern, not the concern of Rome. That was a public, this a private care. Publius! thy father is not what he was; I am the slave of Carthage, nor has Rome Power to dispose of captives not her own. Guards! let us to the port.—Farewell, my friend.

Man. Let me entreat thee stay; for shouldst thou go To stem this tumult of the populace, They will by force detain thee: then, alas! Both Regulus and Rome must break their faith.

Reg. What! must I then remain?

Man. No, Regulus, I will not check thy great career of glory: Thou shalt depart; meanwhile, I'll try to calm This wild tumultuous uproar of the people. The consular authority shall still them.

Reg. Thy virtue is my safeguard——but——

Man. Enough—— I know thy honour, and trust thou to mine. I am a Roman, and I feel some sparks Of Regulus's virtue in my breast. Though fate denies me thy illustrious chains, I will at least endeavour to deserve them.

[Exit.

Reg. How is my country alter'd! how, alas, Is the great spirit of old Rome extinct! Restraint and force must now be put to use To make her virtuous. She must be compell'd To faith and honour.—Ah! what, Publius here? And dost thou leave so tamely to my friend The honour to assist me? Go, my boy, 'Twill make me more in love with chains and death, To owe them to a son.

Pub. I go, my father— I will, I will obey thee.

Reg. Do not sigh—— One sigh will check the progress of thy glory.

Pub. Yes, I will own the pangs of death itself Would be less cruel than these agonies: Yet do not frown austerely on thy son: His anguish is his virtue: if to conquer The feelings of my soul were easy to me, 'Twould be no merit. Do not then defraud The sacrifice I make thee of its worth.

[Exeunt severally.

Manlius, Attilia.

At. (speaking as she enters.) Where is the Consul?— Where, oh, where is Manlius? I come to breathe the voice of mourning to him, I come to crave his mercy, to conjure him To whisper peace to my afflicted bosom, And heal the anguish of a wounded spirit.

Man. What would the daughter of my noble friend?

At. (kneeling.) If ever pity's sweet emotions touch'd thee,— If ever gentle love assail'd thy breast,— If ever virtuous friendship fir'd thy soul— By the dear names of husband and of parent— By all the soft, yet powerful ties of nature— If e'er thy lisping infants charm'd thine ear, And waken'd all the father in thy soul,— If e'er thou hop'st to have thy latter days Blest by their love, and sweeten'd by their duty— Oh, hear a kneeling, weeping, wretched daughter, Who begs a father's life!—nor hers alone, But Rome's—his country's father.

Man. Gentle maid! Oh, spare this soft, subduing eloquence!— Nay, rise. I shall forget I am a Roman— Forget the mighty debt I owe my country— Forget the fame and glory of thy father. I must conceal this weakness.

[Turns from her.

At. (rises eagerly.) Ah! you weep! Indulge, indulge, my Lord, the virtuous softness: Was ever sight so graceful, so becoming, As pity's tear upon the hero's cheek?

Man. No more—I must not hear thee.[Going.

At. How! not, not hear me! You must—you shall—nay, nay return, my Lord— Oh, fly not from me!——look upon my woes, And imitate the mercy of the gods: 'Tis not their thunder that excites our reverence, 'Tis their mild mercy, and forgiving love. 'Twill add a brighter lustre to thy laurels, When men shall say, and proudly point thee out, "Behold the Consul!—He who sav'd his friend." Oh, what a tide of joy will overwhelm thee! Who will not envy thee thy glorious feelings?

Man. Thy father scorns his liberty and life, Nor will accept of either at the expense Of honour, virtue, glory, faith, and Rome.

At. Think you behold the god-like Regulus The prey of unrelenting savage foes, Ingenious only in contriving ill:—— Eager to glut their hunger of revenge, They'll plot such new, such dire, unheard-of tortures— Such dreadful, and such complicated vengeance, As e'en the Punic annals have not known; And, as they heap fresh torments on his head, They'll glory in their genius for destruction. —Ah! Manlius—now methinks I see my father— My faithful fancy, full of his idea, Presents him to me—mangled, gash'd, and torn— Stretch'd on the rack in writhing agony— The torturing pincers tear his quivering flesh, While the dire murderers smile upon his wounds, His groans their music, and his pangs their sport. And if they lend some interval of ease, Some dear-bought intermission, meant to make The following pang more exquisitely felt, Th' insulting executioners exclaim, —"Now, Roman! feel the vengeance thou hast scorn'd."

Man. Repress thy sorrows——

At. Can the friend of Regulus Advise his daughter not to mourn his fate? How cold, alas! is friendship when compar'd To ties of blood—to nature's powerful impulse! Yes—she asserts her empire in my soul, 'Tis Nature pleads—she will—she must be heard; With warm, resistless eloquence she pleads.— Ah, thou art soften'd!—see—the Consul yields— The feelings triumph—tenderness prevails— The Roman is subdued—the daughter conquers!

[Catching hold of his robe.

Man. Ah, hold me not!—I must not, cannot stay, The softness of thy sorrow is contagious; I, too, may feel when I should only reason. I dare not hear thee—Regulus and Rome, The patriot and the friend—all, all forbid it.

[Breaks from her, and exit.

At. O feeble grasp!—and is he gone, quite gone? Hold, hold thy empire, Reason, firmly hold it, Or rather quit at once thy feeble throne, Since thou but serv'st to show me what I've lost, To heighten all the horrors that await me; To summon up a wild distracted crowd Of fatal images, to shake my soul, To scare sweet peace, and banish hope itself. Farewell! delusive dreams of joy, farewell! Come, fell Despair! thou pale-ey'd spectre, come, For thou shalt be Attilia's inmate now, And thou shalt grow, and twine about her heart, And she shall be so much enamour'd of thee, The pageant Pleasure ne'er shall interpose Her gaudy presence to divide you more.

[Stands in an attitude of silent grief.

Enter Licinius.

Lic. At length I've found thee—ah, my charming maid! How have I sought thee out with anxious fondness! Alas! she hears me not.——My best Attilia! Ah! grief oppresses every gentle sense. Still, still she hears not——'tis Licinius speaks, He comes to soothe the anguish of thy spirit, And hush thy tender sorrows into peace.

At. Who's he that dares assume the voice of love, And comes unbidden to these dreary haunts? Steals on the sacred treasury of woe, And breaks the league Despair and I have made?

Lic. 'Tis one who comes the messenger of heav'n, To talk of peace, of comfort, and of joy.

At. Didst thou not mock me with the sound of joy? Thou little know'st the anguish of my soul, If thou believ'st I ever can again, So long the wretched sport of angry Fortune, Admit delusive hope to my sad bosom. No——I abjure the flatterer and her train. Let those, who ne'er have been like me deceiv'd, Embrace the fair fantastic sycophant— For I, alas! am wedded to despair, And will not hear the sound of comfort more.

Lic. Cease, cease, my love, this tender voice of woe, Though softer than the dying cygnet's plaint: She ever chants her most melodious strain When death and sorrow harmonise her note.

At. Yes—I will listen now with fond delight; For death and sorrow are my darling themes. Well!—what hast thou to say of death and sorrow? Believe me, thou wilt find me apt to listen, And, if my tongue be slow to answer thee, Instead of words I'll give thee sighs and tears.

Lic. I come to dry thy tears, not make them flow; The gods once more propitious smile upon us, Joy shall again await each happy morn, And ever-new delight shall crown the day! Yes, Regulus shall live.——

At. Ah me! what say'st thou? Alas! I'm but a poor, weak, trembling woman— I cannot bear these wild extremes of fate— Then mock me not.—I think thou art Licinius, The generous lover, and the faithful friend! I think thou wouldst not sport with my afflictions.

Lic. Mock thy afflictions?—May eternal Jove, And every power at whose dread shrine we worship, Blast all the hopes my fond ideas form, If I deceive thee! Regulus shall live, Shall live to give thee to Licinius' arms. Oh! we will smooth his downward path of life, And after a long length of virtuous years, At the last verge of honourable age, When nature's glimmering lamp goes gently out, We'll close, together close his eyes in peace— Together drop the sweetly-painful tear— Then copy out his virtues in our lives.

At. And shall we be so blest? is't possible? Forgive me, my Licinius, if I doubt thee. Fate never gave such exquisite delight As flattering hope hath imag'd to thy soul. But how?——Explain this bounty of the gods.

Lic. Thou know'st what influence the name of Tribune Gives its possessor o'er the people's minds: That power I have exerted, nor in vain; All are prepar'd to second my designs: The plot is ripe,—there's not a man but swears To keep thy god-like father here in Rome—— To save his life at hazard of his own.

At. By what gradation does my joy ascend! I thought that if my father had been sav'd By any means, I had been rich in bliss: But that he lives, and lives preserv'd by thee, Is such a prodigality of fate, I cannot bear my joy with moderation: Heav'n should have dealt it with a scantier hand, And not have shower'd such plenteous blessings on me; They are too great, too flattering to be real; 'Tis some delightful vision, which enchants, And cheats my senses, weaken'd by misfortune.

Lic. We'll seek thy father, and meanwhile, my fair, Compose thy sweet emotions ere thou see'st him, Pleasure itself is painful in excess; For joys, like sorrows, in extreme, oppress: The gods themselves our pious cares approve, And to reward our virtue crown our love.

---