You all did see, that on the Lupercal'
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.

Was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once,-not without cause;
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?
O judgment thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason.-Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me. .
But yesterday the word of Cæsar might

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Have stood against the world: now lies he there, 15 And none so poor to do him reverence.

O masters! if I were dispos'd to stir

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,

I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men.

I will not do them wrong: I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men.

But here's a parchment with the name of Cæsar;
I found it in his closet; 'tis his will:
Let but the Commons hear this testament,
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,)

And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,

Unto their issue...

Have patience, gentle friends; I must not read it:

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It is not meet you know how Cæsar lov'd you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ;
For if you should, O, what would come of it?...
You will compel me, then, to read the will?
Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar,
And let me shew you him that made the will.
Shall I descend? And will you give me leave?... 10
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever Cæsar put it on:
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:
See what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar lov'd him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;

For when the noble Cæsar 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 Cæsar 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.

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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 Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors. . . . 5
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, 10
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,
Shew you sweet Cæsar'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 Cæsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. . . .
Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. . .
Why, friends, you go to do you know not what.
Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserv'd your loves?
Alas! you know not:-I must tell you, then.
You have forgot the will I told you of....
Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal.
To every Roman citizen he gives,

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To every several man, seventy-five drachmas....
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 forever; common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.

Here was a Cæsar: When comes such another?

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XIX.

APHORISMS.

BY JONATHAN SWIFT.'

An old miser kept a tame jackdaw, that used to steal pieces of money and hide them in a hole, which the cat observing, asked why he would hoard up those round 10 shining things that he could make no use of. "Why," said the jackdaw, "my master has a whole chest full, and makes no more use of them than I."

If men of wit and genius would resolve never to complain in their works of critics and detractors, the next 15 age would not know that they ever had any.

I never wonder to see men wicked, but I often wonder to see them not ashamed.

Imaginary evils soon become real ones by indulging our reflections on them, as he who in a melancholy 20 fancy sees something like a face on the wall or the wainscot can, by two or three touches with a lead-pencil, make it look visible and agreeing with what he fancied. Men of great parts are often unfortunate in the management of public business, because they are apt to go 25 out of the common road by the quickness of their imag

ination. This I once said to my Lord Bolingbroke,' and desired he would observe that the clerks in his office used a sort of ivory knife with a blunt edge to divide a sheet of paper, which never failed to cut it even, only requiring a steady hand; whereas if they should make use of a sharp penknife, the sharpness would make it often go out of the crease and disfigure the paper.

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"He who does not provide for his own house," St. Paul says, "is worse than an infidel;" and I think he who provides only for his own house is just equal with 10 an infidel.

When I am reading a book, whether wise or silly, it seems to me to be alive, and talking to me.

When I was young I thought all the world, as well as myself, was wholly taken up in discoursing upon the 15 last new play.

I never yet knew a wag (as the term is) who was not a dunce.

A person reading to me a dull poem of his own making, I prevailed on him to scratch out six lines together; 20 in turning over the leaf, the ink being wet, it marked as many lines on the other side; whereof the poet complaining, I bid him be easy, for it would be better if those were out too.

We have just enough religion to make us hate, but 25 not enough to make us love one another.

When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on the good side or circumstances of it; when it is obtained, our minds run wholly on the bad ones.

The latter part of a wise man's life is taken up in 30 curing the follies, prejudices, and false opinions he had contracted in the former.

Would a writer know how to behave himself with

relation to posterity, let him consider in old books what