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.

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 plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it;
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O ye gods, how dearly Cæsar lov'd him!
This, this was the 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.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
Oh, 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, by traitors,

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

They that have done this deed are honourable;
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honourable,
And will no doubt with reasons answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts s;
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 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 in mutiny.

3. Panegyric of Pompey.

Shakspeare.

What language can do justice to the military powers of Cneius Pompey! what form of panegyric can be devised worthy of him, unknown to you, or not familiar to the universe! For the qualifications of a commander are not confined within the narrow circle to which popular opinion restricts them,-assiduity in business, intrepidity in danger, vigour in action, promptitude to achieve, and wisdom to provide; all which unite in this one man, and in a degree not to be found in all other commanders ever seen or heard of. Attest it, Italy, the liberation of which the victorious Sylla herself attributed to his valour and assistance ;-attest it, Sicily, rescued from the many dangers which encom

passed it, not by the terror of his arms, but by the promptitude of his counsels;-attest it, Africa, saturated with the blood of the countless hordes, with which it was oppressed;-attest it, Gaul, over the bodies of whose slaughtered sons our legions entered Spain;-attest it, Spain herself, which has so often seen the overwhelming forces of her enemies subdued and prostrated by his victorious arm;—again and again attest it, Italy, which, when oppressed by the foul and devastating servile war, with outstretched arms entreated his return; at the mere rumour of his approach that war pined and sickened, as his arrival was its death-blow and extermination. In short, attest it, every land and every distant tribe and nation-attest it, every wave of the ocean, the wide expanse of waters, and every port and bay of its remotest shores.-Cicero.

VIII.-Soliloquy.

Soliloquy is, for the most part, either reflective or preconcertive;-recalling the past, contemplating the present, or determining for the future. It admits every variety of emotion, which must be duly expressed in reading; but its tones are usually more subdued than those of direct addresses to other persons.

1. Falstaff's Soliloquy;

Having been told, on the eve of a battle, that he owed "Heaven a Death."

on.

'Tis not due yet; I would be loth to pay before the day. What need I be so forward with one that calls not on me? Well, 'tis no matter; Honour pricks me Yes, but how if honour pricks me off when I come on? How then? Can honour set a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour? A word. What is that word Honour ? Air. A trim reckoning!-who hath it?

He that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yes, to the dead. But, will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it:-therefore, I'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon; and so ends my catechism.-Shakspeare.

2. Douglas's Reflections on discovering his Noble Origin. Eventful day! how hast thou changed my state ! Once on the cold and winter-shaded side

Of a bleak hill, mischance had rooted me,
Never to thrive, child of another soil;-
Transplanted now to the gay sunny vale,
Like the green thorn of May, my future flowers!
Ye glorious stars! high canopied resplendent host!
To whom I oft have of my lot complain'd,
Hear and record my soul's unalter'd wish!
Dead or alive, let me but be renown'd!
Let daring lead some fierce gigantic Dane,
To give a bold defiance to our host!
Before he speaks it out, I will accept;
Like Douglas, conquer, or like Douglas, die.

3. Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death.

Home.

To be, or not to be,-that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them ?-To die-to sleep-
No more ;—and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,-'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die-to sleep

To sleep!-perchance to dream!—aye, there's the rub : For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause.-There's the respect,

That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time;
To groan and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death
(That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns), puzzles the will;

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

4. Wolsey's Soliloquy,

Shakspeare.

On receiving back from the King private Papers he had by mistake sent in the place of some official Documents.

What should this mean?

What sudden anger's this? How have I reap'd it?
He parted frowning from me, as if ruin

Leap'd from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him;
Then makes him nothing.

I must read this paper,
I fear, the story of his anger.-'Tis so:
This paper has undone me. 'Tis the account
Of all that world of wealth I've drawn together
For mine own ends; indeed to gain the popedom
And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence,
Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross spirit
Made me put this main secret in the packet
I sent the king? Is there no way to cure this?
No new device to beat this from his brains?
I know 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know
A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune,
Will bring me off again.