O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done, And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come- And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 243.-CHARACTER OF BRUTUS. G. LONG. [WE extract a Character of Brutus' from the notes to the concluding volume of 'The Civil Wars of Rome,' a select translation of Plutarch, from which we have already borrowed. This character will startle many of our readers. But the acknowledged learning of Mr. Long -one of the most distinguished scholars that have been sent forth from that great nursery of scholars, Trinity College, Cambridge-will satisfy the candid that this estimate of one of the great men of antiquity is not a hasty and unsupported theory.] Brutus had moderate abilities, with great industry and much learning: he had no merit as a general, but he had the courage of a soldier; he had the reputation of virtue, and he was free from many of the vices of his contemporaries: he was sober and temperate. Of enlarged political views he had none; there is not a sign of his being superior in this respect to the mass of his contemporaries. When the Civil War broke out, he joined Pompeius, though Pompeius had murdered his father. If he gave up his private enmity, as Plutarch says, for what he believed to be the better cause, the sacrifice was honourable; if there were other motives, and I believe there were, his choice of his party does him no credit. His conspiracy against Cæsar can only be justified by those, if there are such, who think that a usurper ought to be got rid of in any way. But if a man is to be murdered, one does not expect those to take a part in the act who, after being enemies, have received favours from him, and professed to be friends. The murderers should at least be a man's declared enemies who have just wrongs to avenge. Though Brutus was dissatisfie with things under Cæsar, he was not the first mover in the conspiracy. He worked upon by others, who knew that his character and personal relation would in a measure sanctify the deed; and by their persuasion, not his o he became an assassin in the name of freedom, which meant the tr party, and in the name of virtue, which meant nothing. The act was bad in Brutus as an act of treachery; and it w policy. It failed in its object, the success of a party, beca was not enough; other victims were necessary, and Brutus He put himself at the head of a plot, in which there a ne ost d in enius Jasses. by requence exerted a people strong and ngs, unfixed received such object of the thing of Greek e brought to what hoolboy. He used great abilities and literary history, that 5 people ;-that there rinting. Johnson was a He perpetually confounded S. He knew London intiis perfectly astonishing. But ndoners, who did not read, were , who had few or no books, must draymen. reason to believe that, in general inel the lower orders of any community ered, that to be a citizen was to be a whose voice might depend the fate of the eminent public man. The lowest offices, re, in common, performed by slaves. The members with the support of life, the opportuamusement. Books were indeed few, but they curately known. It is not by turning over libraries, intently contemplating a few great models, that the man of letters must now read much that he soon forach he learns nothing worthy to be remembered. The eneral, but a small portion of his time. Demosthenes is ed, six times, the History of Thucydides. If he had been a he present age, he might, in the same space of time, have skimmed papers and pamphlets. I do not condemn that desultory mode the state of things, in our day, renders a matter of necessity. But wed to doubt whether the changes, on which the admirers of modern delight to dwell, have improved our condition so much in reality as in Rumford, it is said, proposed to the Elector of Bavaria a scheme for s at a much cheaper rate than formerly. His plan was simply to ་ Probably he dreaded anarchy and the dissolution of social order, for that would have released his creditors and confiscated his valuable estates. But Cæsar's usurpation was not an anarchy; it was a monarchy, a sole rule; and Brutus, who was ambitious, could not endure that. It may be said that if the political views of Brutus were narrow, he was only like most of his countrymen. But why then is he exalted, and why is his name invoked? What single title had he to distinction, except what Cæsar gave him? A man of unknown family, the son of a woman whom Cæsar debauched, pardoned after fighting against his mother's lover, raised by him to the prætorship, and honoured with Cæsar's friendship—he has owed his distinction to nothing else than murdering the man whose genius he could not appreciate, but whose favours he had enjoyed. His spurious philosophy has helped to save him from the detestation which is his due; but the false garb should be stripped off. A stoic, an ascetic, and nothing more, is a mere negation. The active virtues of Brutus are not recorded. If he sometimes did an act of public justice (chap. 35), it was not more than many other Romans have done. To reduce this philosopher to his true level, we ask, what did he say or do that showed a sympathy with all mankind ? Where is the evidence that he had the feeling of justice which alone can regenerate a nation? But it may be said, why seek in a Roman of his age what we cannot expect to find? Why then elevate him above the rest of his age and consecrate his name? Why make a hero of him who murdered his benefactor, and then ran away from the city which he was to save-from we know not what? And why make a virtuous man of him who was only austere, and who did not believe in the virtue that he professed? As to statesmanship, nobody has claimed that for him yet. The deputy of Arras [Robespierre], poor, and despised even by his own party, won the confidence of the people by their belief in his probity; and he deserved it. Fanatical and narrow-minded, he was still a man of principles. Untiring industry, unshaken faith, and poverty, the guarantee of his probity, raised him slowly to distinction, and enabled him to destroy all who stood between him and the realization of an unbending theory. Though he had sacrificed the lives of others, he scorned to save his own by doing what would have contradicted his principles: he respected the form of legality, when its substance no longer existed, and refused to sanction force when it would have been used for his own protection (Lamartine, Histoire des Girondins, livr. lxi. 9). A great and memorable example of crime, of fanaticism, and of virtue; of a career commenced in the cause of justice, in truth, faith, and sincerity; of a man who did believe in virtue, and yet spoiled the cause in which he embarked, and left behind him a name for universal execration. Treachery at home, enmity abroad, and misconduct in its own leaders, made the French revolution result in anarchy, and then in a tyranny. The Civil Wars of Rome resulted in a monarchy, and there was nothing else in which they could end. The Roman monarchy or the Empire was a natural birth. The French Empire was an abortion. The Roman Empire was the proper growth of the ages that had preceded it: they could produce nothing better. In a few years after the battle of Philippi, Cæsar Octavianus got rid of his partner Antonius; and, under the administration of Augustus, the world enjoyed comparative peace, and the Roman Empire was established and consolidated. The genius of Augustus, often ill appreciated, is demonstrated by the results of his policy. He restored order to a distracted state, and transmitted his power to his successors. The huge fabric of Roman greatness, resting on its ancient foundations, only crumbled beneath the assaults that time and new circumstances make against all political institutions. 244.-ON THE ATHENIAN ORATORS. [THE following is an extract from an article which appeared in 'Knight's Quarterly Magazine' some quarter of a century ago. We trace in it the same antithetical style, and the same affluence of illustration, which distinguish most of the productions of one of the most brilliant writers of our age.] It may be doubted whether any compositions which have ever been produced in the world are equally perfect in their kind with the great Athenian orations. Genius is subject to the same laws which regulate the production of corn and molasses. The supply adjusts itself to the demand. The quantity may be diminished by restrictions, and multiplied by bounties. The singular excellence to which eloquence attained at Athens is to be mainly attributed to the influence which it exerted there. In turbulent times, under a constitution purely democratic, among a people educated exactly to that point at which men are most susceptible of strong and sudden impressions, acute, but not sound reasoners, warm in their feelings, unfixed in their principles, and passionate admirers of fine composition, oratory received such encouragement as it has never since obtained. The taste and knowledge of the Athenian people was a favourite object of the contemptuous derision of Samuel Johnson; a man who knew nothing of Greek literature beyond the common school-books, and who seems to have brought to what he had read, scarcely more than the discernment of a common schoolboy. He used to assert with that arrogant absurdity which, in spite of his great abilities and virtues, renders him, perhaps, the most ridiculous character in literary history, that Demosthenes spoke to a people of brutes;-to a barbarous people;-that there could have been no civilization before the invention of printing. Johnson was a keen, but a very narrow-minded, observer of mankind. He perpetually confounded their general nature with their particular circumstances. He knew London intimately. The sagacity of his remarks on its society is perfectly astonishing. But Fleet Street was the world to him. He saw that Londoners, who did not read, were profoundly ignorant; and he inferred that a Greek, who had few or no books, must have been as uninformed as one of Mr. Thrale's draymen. There seems to be, on the contrary, every reason to believe that, in general intelligence, the Athenian populace far supassed the lower orders of any community that has ever existed. It must be considered, that to be a citizen was to be a legislator a soldier-a judge-one upon whose voice might depend the fate of the wealthiest tributary state, of the most eminent public man. The lowest offices, both of agriculture and of trade, were, in common, performed by slaves. The commonwealth supplied its meanest members with the support of life, the opportunity of leisure, and the means of amusement. Books were indeed few, but they were excellent, and they were accurately known. It is not by turning over libraries, but by repeatedly perusing and intently contemplating a few great models, that the mind is best disciplined. A man of letters must now read much that he soon forgets, and much from which he learns nothing worthy to be remembered. The best works employ, in general, but a small portion of his time. Demosthenes is said to have transcribed, six times, the History of Thucydides. If he had been a young politician of the present age, he might, in the same space of time, have skimmed innumerable newspapers and pamphlets. I do not condemn that desultory mode of study which the state of things, in our day, renders a matter of necessity. I may be allowed to doubt whether the changes, on which the admirers of modern institutions delight to dwell, have improved our condition so much in reality as in appearance. Rumford, it is said, proposed to the Elector of Bavaria a scheme for feeding his soldiers at a much cheaper rate than formerly. His plan was simply to But compel them to masticate their food thoroughly. A small quantity, thus eaten, would, according to that famous projector, afford more sustenance than a large meal hastily devoured. I do not know how Rumford's proposition was received; but, to the mind, I believe. it will be found more nutritious to digest a page than to devour a volume. Books, however, were the least part of the education of an Athenian citizen. Let us, for a moment, transport ourselves, in thought, to that glorious city. Let us imagine that we are entering its gates, in the time of its power and glory. A crowd is assembled round a portico. All are gazing with delight at the entablature, for Phidias is putting up the frieze. We turn into another street; a rhapsodist is reciting there; men, women, children, are thronging round him: the tears are running down their cheeks; their eyes are fixed; their very breath is still; for he is telling how Priam fell at the feet of Achilles, and kissed those hands-the terrible the murderous-which had slain so many of his sons. We enter the public place; there is a ring of youths, all leaning forward, with sparkling eyes, and gestures of expectation. Socrates is pitted against the famous Atheist, from Ionia, and has just brought him to a contradiction in terms. But we are interrupted. The herald is crying-"Room for the Prytanes.' The general assembly is to meet. The people are swarming in one very side. Proclamation is made-"Who wishes to speak." There is a shout, and a clapping of hands: Pericles is mounting the stand. Then for a play of Sophocles; and away to sup with Aspasia. I know of no modern university which has so excellent a system of education. Knowledge thus acquired, and opinions thus formed, were, indeed, likely to be, in some respects, defective. Propositions, which are advanced in discourse, generally result from a partial view of the question, and cannot be kept under examination long enough to be corrected. Men of great conversational powers almost universally practise a sort of lively sophistry and exaggeration, which deceives, for the moment, both themselves and their auditors. Thus, we see doctrines, which cannot bear a close inspection, triumph perpetually in drawing-rooms, in debating societies, and even in legislative or judicial assemblies. To the conversational education of the Athenians, I am inclined to attribute the great looseness of reasoning, which is remarkable in most of their scientific writings. Even the most illogical of modern writers would stand perfectly aghast at the puerile fallacies which seem to have deluded some of the greatest men of antiquity. But the very circumstances which retarded the growth of science were peculiarly favourable to the cultivation of eloquence. From the early habit of taking a share in animated discussion, the intelligent student would derive that readiness of resource, that copiousness of language, and that knowledge of the temper and understanding of an audience, which are far more valuable to an orator than the greatest logical powers. Horace has prettily compared poems to those paintings of which the effect varies as the spectator changes his stand. The same remark applies with at least equal justice to speeches. They must be read with the temper of those to whom they were addressed, or they must necessarily appear to offend against the laws of taste and reason; as the finest picture, seen in a light different from that for which it was designed, will appear fit only for a sign. This is perpetually forgotten by those who criticise oratory. Because they are reading at leisure, pausing at every line, reconsidering every argument, they forget that the hearers were hurried from point to point too rapidly to detect the fallacies through which they were conducted; that they had no time to disentangle sophisms, or to notice slight inaccuracies of expression; that elaborate excellence, either of reasoning or of language, would have been absolutely thrown away. To recur to the analogy of the sister art, these connoisseurs examine a panorama through a microscope, and quarrel with a |