For the defective treatment of the theme of the love of Brutus for his son by the author the actor made the very best amends in his power by improving every opportunity to suggest the depth and fervor of the tie, in look and gesture and tone, in order to exalt the coming catastrophe. Seated calmly in the curule chair as Consul, robed with purple, the lictors with their uplifted axes before him, a messenger announces the seizure of a young man at the head of an insurgent band. Valerius whispers to Brutus,—
"Oh, my friend, horror invades my heart.
I know thy soul, and pray the gods to put
Thee to no trial beyond a mortal bearing."
Mastering his agitation by a mighty effort, Brutus responds,—
"No, they will not,—they cannot."
The unhappy Titus is brought in guarded. The father, all his convulsed soul visible in his countenance and motions, turns from him, rises, walks to his colleague, and says, with tremulous, sobbing voice,—
"That youth, my Titus, was my age's hope,—
I loved him more than language can express,—
I thought him born to dignify the world."