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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, marred, 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 honorable;
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honorable,
And will, no doubt, with reason 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;
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 and mutiny.

SHAKSPEARE.

“How did Garrick speak the soliloquy, last night?” “O! against all rule, my lord, most ungrammatically! Betwixt the substantive and the adjective, which should agree together in number, case, and gender, he made a breach thus -stopping as if the point wanted settling; and betwixt the nominative case and verb, — your lordship knows the nominative case should agree with the verb, - he suspended his voice in the epilogue, a dozen times, three seconds and three fifths, by a stop-watch, each time." “ Admirable grammarian! But, in suspending his voice, was the sense suspended? Did no expression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm? Was the eye silent ? Did you narrowly look ?” “I looked only at the stop-watch, my lord.” “ Excellent observer 1"

93. The Memory of Conscience.

It has been remarked by one of the most distinguished philosophers of our own day, that no atmospheric vibration ever becomes extinct; that the pulses of speech, when they have done their work, and become, to our ear, inaudible, pass in waves away, but wander still, reflected hither and thither through the regions of the air eternally. He conceives that, as the atmosphere comprises still within itself the distinct trace of every sound impressed on any portion of it, - as thus the record indestructibly exists, — we have only to suffer a change of position, and receive the endowment of an acuter sense, to hear again every idle word that we have spoken, and every sigh that we have caused.

The truth is, that already, and within the limits of our mental nature, there is a power that will effect all this; it is fully within the scope of our natural faculties of association and memory.

It
may

be doubted whether any idea once in the mind is ever lost, and past recall : it may drop, indeed, into the gulf of forgotten things, and the waves of successive thought roll over it; but there are in nature possible and even inevitable convulsions which may displace the waters, heave up the deep, and disentomb whatever may be fair or hideous there.

It is necessary only that associated objects should be presented, and the whole past, its most trivial features even,- the remnant of a school-boy task or the mere snatches of a dream, — will rise up to view. Make but a pilgrimage to the scenes of your early days, when more than half of life is gone; wander again over the peaceful fields, and stand on the brink of the yet gliding stream, the silent witnesses of youthful sports and cares; - and how the recollections of early years will throng around you. Does not remembrance seem inspired and commissioned to render back the dead? And do they not come crowding on your sense, faces, and voices, and moving shapes, and the tones of bells, and the very feeling, too, which these things awakened once!

If remembrance can do this, 'surely the memory of conscience, commissioned as it is by God to exercise a preternatural watch, will present the past in such true coloring, that the guilty soul will find itself standing in a theatre peopled with the collected images of the ills it has done; and turn where it may, the features it has made sad with grief, the eyes it has lighted with passion, the infant faces it has suffused with tears, stare upon it with insufferable fixedness. And if thus the past be truly indestructible; if thus its fragments may be regathered; if its details of evil thought and act may be thus brought together, and fused into one big agony, — why, then, it may be left to fools to make a mock at sin.

MARTINEAU.

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These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty! thine this universal frame.
Thus wondrous fair, thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing , ye in heaven,
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol
· Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn, -
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,

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While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb’st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall st. -
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies,
And ye five other wandering fires, that move
In mystic dance, not without

song,

resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's wombXthat in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things, let

et your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author, rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance his praise. X
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines
With every plant, in sign of worship, wave.
Fouutains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds,
That singing up to heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. X
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still

To give us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

MILTON.

95. The Idiot.

A poor widow, in a small town in the north of England, kept a booth or stall of apples and sweetmeats. She had an idiot child, so utterly helpless and dependent, that he did not appear to be ever alive to anger or self-defence. He sat all day at her feet, and seemed to be possessed of no other sentiment of the human kind, than confidence in his mother's love, and a dread of the schoolboys, by whom he was often annoyed. His whole occupation, as he sat on the ground, was in swinging backwards and forwards, singing “ Pal-lal,” in a low, pathetic voice, only interrupted at intervals on the appearance of any of his tormentors, when he clung to his mother in alarm.

From morning till evening, he sung his plaintive and aimless ditty. At night, when his poor mother gathered up her little wares to return home, so deplorable were his defects, that, while she carried her table on her head, her stock of little merchandise in her lap, and her stool in one hand, she was obliged to lead him by the other. Ever and anon, as any of the school-boys appeared in view, the harmless thing clung close to her, and hid his face in her bosom for protection. A human creature so far below the standard of humanity, was nowhere ever seen : he had not even the shallow cunning which is often found among

such unfinished beings; and his simplicity could not even be measured by the standard we would apply to the capacity of a lamb. Yet he had a feeling rarely manifested even in the

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