Brutus and Cassius.

SHAKSPEARE.

Cas. WILL you go see the order of the course?
Bru. Not I.

Cas. I pray you, do.

Bru. I am not gamesome: I do lack some part
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.

Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;
I'll leave you.

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late :
I have not from your eyes that gentleness,
And show of love, as I was wont to have:
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you.

Bru. Cassius,

Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look,
I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am

Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,

Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviours:
But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd,
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one);
Nor construe any further my neglect,

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion;

By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?
Bru. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,
But by reflection from some other things.
Cas. 'Tis just :

And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
That you have no such mirrors, as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,

That you might see your shadow. I have heard,
Where many of the best respect in Rome
(Except immortal Cæsar), speaking of Brutus,
And groaning underneath this age's yoke,
Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes.

Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself

For that which is not in me?

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself

So well as by reflection, I, your glass,

Will modestly discover to yourself

That of yourself which yet you know not of.
And be not jealous of me, gentle Brutus ;
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love
To every new protester: if you know
That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard,
And after scandal them; or if you know,
That I profess myself in banqueting

To all the rout; then hold me dangerous.

Bru. What means this shouting! I do fear the people Choose Cæsar for their king.

Cas. Ay? do you fear it?

Then must I think you would not have it so.

Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well.

But wherefore do you hold me here so long?
What is it that you would impart to me?
If it be aught toward the general good,
Set honour in one eye, and death i' the other,
And I will look on death indiff'rently:
For let the gods so speed me, as I love
The name of honour more than I fear death.
Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
As well as I do know your outward favour.
Well, honour 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.

I was born as free as Cæsar; so were you;
We both have fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold, as well as he.
For once upon a raw and gusty day,

The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores,
Cæsar says to me, "Dar'st 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 roar'd, 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 Æneas, 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.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,
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 colour fly;

And that same eye, whose bend does awe the world,
Did lose its lustre: I did hear him groan:

Ay, 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.

Bru. Another general shout!

I do believe that these applauses are

For some new honours that are heap'd on Cæsar.
Cas. 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 dishonourable 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.

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 them,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meats does this our Cæsar feed,
That he is 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 encompass'd but one man?
O! you and I have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus, one that would have brook'd
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome
As easily as a king.

Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous:
What you would work me to, I have some aim:
How I have thought of this, and of these times,
I shall recount hereafter: for this present,
I would not (so with love I might entreat you)
Be any farther mov'd. What you have said,
I will consider; what you have to say,
I will with patience hear; and find a time

Both meet to hear, and answer, such high things.
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this;

Brutus had rather be a villager,

Than to repute himself a son of Rome
Under such hard conditions, as this time

Is like to lay upon us.

Cas. I am glad, that my weak words

Have struck but this much show of fire from Brutus.

The Rescue.

CAPTAIN MARRYATT.

Ir was the end of March, and the weather was mild for the season. Humphrey arrived at the pit, and it was sufficiently light for him to perceive that the covering had been broken in, and therefore, in all probability, something must have been trapped. He sat down and waited for daylight, but at times he thought he heard a heavy breathing, and once a low groan. This made him more anxious, and he again peered into the pit, but could not for a long while discover anything, until at last he thought that he could make out a human figure lying at the bottom. Humphrey called out, asking if there was any one there. A groan was the reply, and now Humphrey was horrified at the idea that somebody had fallen into the pit, and had perished, or was perishing, for want of succour. Recollecting that the rough ladder which he had made to take the soil up out of the pit was against an oak tree, close at hand, he ran for it, and put it down the pit, and then cautiously descended. On his arrival at the bottom, his fears were found to be verified, for he found the body of a lad halfclothed, lying there. He turned it up as it was lying with its face to the ground, and attempted to remove it and to ascertain if there was life in it, which he was delighted to find was the case. The lad groaned several times, and opened his eyes. Humphrey was afraid that he was not strong enough to lift it on his shoulders and carry it up the ladder; but on making the attempt, he found that from exhaustion, the poor lad's body was so very light that he experienced no difficulty in getting up to the surface in safety.

Recollecting that the watering-place of the herd of cattle was not far off, Humphrey then hastened to it, and filled his hat half full of water. The lad, although he could not speak, drank eagerly, and in a few minutes appeared much recovered. Humphrey gave him some more, and bathed his face and temples. The sun had now risen, and it was broad daylight. The lad attempted to speak, but what he did say was in so low a tone, and evidently in a foreign language, that Humphrey could not make it out. He therefore made signs to the lad that he was going away, and would be back soon; and having, as he thought, made the lad comprehend this,