A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.
But yet I call you servile ministers
That will with two pernicious daughters join
Your high-engendered battles ’gainst a head
So old and white as this. O, O, ’tis foul.”
These last words, beginning with “high-engendered battles,” he delivered with a down-sweeping cadence as mighty in its swell as one of the great symphonic swings of Beethoven. The auditor seemed to hear the peal strike on the mountain-top and its slow reverberations roll through the valleys. The next speech, commencing with,—
“Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads,
Find out their enemies now,”—
and ending with,—