LESSON XCVII.

CASSIUS AGAINST CESAR.

SHAKSPEARE

1. WELL, honor is the subject of my story;
I cannot tell what you, and other men,
Think of this life; but for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.

2.

I was born free as Cæsar; so were you,
We have both fed as well; and we can bota
Endure the winter's cold as well as he.

For, once upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber, chafing with its shores,
Cæsar says to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me, into this angry flood,

And swim to yonder point?"

Upon the word,

Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,

And bade him follow; so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roared, and we did buffet it;
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,
And stemming it, with hearts of controversy.
But ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Cæsar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink."

I, as Eneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder

The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber

Did I the tired Cæsar; and this man

is now become a god; and Cassius is

A wretched creature, and must bend his body,

If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.

3. He had a fever when he was in Spain,

4.

And when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake;
His coward lips did from their color fly;

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its luster; I did hear him groan,

Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
"Alas! it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius,"
As a sick girl.

Ye gods! it doth amaze me,

A man of such a feeble temper, should

So get the start of the majestic world,

And bear the palm alone.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world,
Like a Colossus, and we, petty men,

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about,
To find ourselves dishonorable graves.

Men, at some time, are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

5. Brutus, and Cæsar! What should be in that Cæsar!
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together: yours is as fair a name;
Sound them: it doth become the mouth as well;

Weigh them it is as heavy; conjure with 'em
Brutus will start a spirit, as soon as Cæsar.

6. Now, in the name of all the gods at once,

Upon what meats doth this our Cæsar feed,

That he hath grown so great? Age, thou art shamed;
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods.
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was famed with more than with one man ?

When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,
That her wide walls encompassed but one man?
Oh! you and I have heard our fathers say,

There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked
The infernal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king.

LESSON XCVIII.

HORACE GREELEY.

BUNGAY.

I NOTWITHSTANDING his wayward whims-his eccentric manners-his love of the intangible ideal-his faith in Fourierism-his responses to spirit-rappers-his man-worship when Henry Clay was the human god-he is still the model editor, and the leader of the "press gang;" and the columns of The Tribune afford a panoramic view of the American world as it is. Greeley is a pen pugilist, (but never a bully,) and woe betide the unlucky wight that begins the assault. Is he a clergyman? then duodecimos, octavos, and quartos of ecclesiastical history will be hurled at his head, and he cannot dodge them, though he makes a coward's castle of the pulpit.

He has

2. Is he a political man? then he must be right, or he will be flagellated, if he ventures to measure lances with one who is a walking register, and familiar with every important political event that has transpired for the last twenty years. more than a usual knowledge of the past. His writings embrace every variety of style-classic beauty, exquisite poetry, graphic description, vapid commonplace, the full sun-blaze of originality, the moon in the mist, and the ignis fatuus light of whimsical nonsense.

3. It is but just, however, to say, that he rarely troubles his

readers with verbiage or pedantry. He gives us his iminedi ate impressions of things, and his style depends somewhat upon the state of his health, and the leisure at his disposal. He does not stop to tack on syllables to make a sentence even, nor measure periods so that they will be as mathematically correct as the vibrations of a pendulum; but he dashes on, heedless of consequences. His widely circulated journal contains good specimens of acute wit, critical reasoning, solid argument, bril liant invective, profound philosophy, beautiful poetry, and moving eloquence, mixed with the opposites of these.

4. Mr. Greeley is entirely free from heartless bigotry or hypocritical obstinacy. He is benevolent in his disposition, affable and sociable in his manners, often speaks in public, and, owing to his fame as a writer, attracts considerable attention; but he is pretty sure to disappoint his hearers, for he has not sufficient eloquence as an orator, to buoy up the reputation he has won as a writer. His manner is uncouth, his matter often dry, and his person by no means prepossessing.

5. Here permit me to say, that his careless, slipshod, slovenly way of dressing his person, has rendered him a man of mark and remark. His white hat and white coat have been immortalized, because they are ever worn and everlasting. If this whig prophet had more dignity and more dandyism, he would be less popular with the masses, but a great favorite with uppercrustdom.

LESSON XCIX.

TELL ON THE ALPS.

KNOWLES.

1. ONCE more I breathe the mountain air; once more

I tread my own free hills! My lofty soul
Throws all its fetters off; in its proud flight,

2.

3.

'Tis like the new fledged eaglet, whose strong wing
Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon
With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race
That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard
My own proud land; why did ye not hurl down
The thundering avalanche, when at your feet

The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath,
Nay, even the breath of prayer, ere now, has brought
Destruction on the hunter's head; and yet

The tyrant passed in safety. God of heaven!
Where slept thy thunderbolts?

O, liberty!

Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which
Life is as nothing; hast thou then forgot
Thy native home? Must the feet of slaves
Pollute this glorious scene? It cannot be.

Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths
Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom
In spots where man has never dared to tread;
So thy sweet influence still is seen amid

These beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee
And bow alive to Heaven; thy spirit lives,

Aye, and shall live, when even the very name
Of tyrant is forgot.

Lo! while I gaze

Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes

A crown of glory on his hoary head;

O! is not this a presage of the dawn

Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vow To live for freedom, or with her to die!