yoke, and thus ensure the final ruin of the cause, so imperatively demanded by the whole design of the play. Then we see Brutus watching in the bitterness of his heart the mad procession of the Lupercalians, with Cæsar at their head, and the servile mob with fickle zeal following at his heels. The wily, fox-like Cassius takes advantage of his mood, and stealthily inflames his mind, already excited against Cæsar. Note now the exquisite skill and tact of Cassius in this interview. He pretends to feel_aggrieved at what he chooses to consider Brutus' late estrangement from him, which in a noble, generous mind like Brutus' would naturally create the desire of disproving the insinuation by more than usual kindness, and would remove any suspicion he might have entertained against Cassius, and convince him of the latter's devotion and friendship. Cassius then assaults his love of popular favour by assuring him that "Many of the best respect in Rome, Groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes." The shout of the populace at Cæsar's refusal to accept the crown, is improved by Cassius to obtain from Brutus an expression of his sentiments and purposes. And how marked the contrast between the two men as exhibited in heir uses of the same word "honour!" Brutus, using it to denote that nobleness of mind springing from inward principle, "loves the name of honour more than he fears death." While Cassius, in the spirit of the modern duellist, exclaims: "I had as lief not be, as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself." To the one it is a subjective quality, to the other an objective appearance. After throwing contempt on Cæsar by the recital of his want of physical endurance and firmness of spirit, Cassius finally appeals to Brutus's ancestral pride in these suggestive lines: "Oh! you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once that would have brooked The blunt Casca then, whose "rudeness is a sauce to his good wit," still farther brings Cæsar into disrepute, by his characteristic account of his triple refusal of the crown, and the abject and loathsome applause of the people. Brutus leaves them, engaging to meet and speak with Cassius on the morrow. So the first wrong step is taken, and Brutus's doom is sealed: he listens and falls. From this his course is downward, and the tragic shadows thicken over him till they are lost in the gloom of black and endless night. Cassius, the author of all his woe; Cassius, whose soul just now over-flowed with tenderness and wounded feeling because Brutus gave him not "that gentleness and show of love as he was wont;" Cassius, type of the serpent fiend, watches his victim as he hastens away, and exclaims: "Smiling in such a sort, As if he mocked himself." "Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet I see And so the plot goes on. Brutus is easily persuaded that he is the chosen instrument of the gods to free his country from her chains; and after many an hour of soul-anguish the one absorbing idea of his life sweeps all before it, and he determines to "slay his best lover for the good of Rome." But there is no rest for him; the "still small voice of his better nature is never silent; and this subjective conflict of right and wrong is in itself far more fearfully tragic than the most desperate struggle with objective fate. Most masterly does Shakspeare describe this conflict when he makes him say: "Since Cassius first did whet me against Cæsar I have not slept ; Between the acting of a dreadful thing Then comes the midnight meeting of the conspirators, at which the plan of action is arranged, and the time for the deed appointed. And a fitting night it was. They came with faces buried in their cloaks, "through a tempest dropping fire, and the cross-blue lightning." The lion glared upon them in the Capitol, and "gliding ghosts" and "men all in fire" walked with them up and down the streets. Even "the complexion of the elements was favoured like to the work they had in hand: most bloody, fiery, and most terrible." As they came, so they went into the "cold raw morning," their reeking hearts as black as the night from which they came. Scarce had their retreating footsteps died upon the ear, when as an angel of light after spirits of darkness, the "gentle Portia" stood beside her lord. The introduction of Portia here is most exquisitely timed. Brutus has just identified himself with the faction, and assumed their leadership. The odium of treachery, ingratitude, and murder is clinging to his skirts; and this garden scene with Portia is needed to restore him to our good "apprehension." The very fact of his being so loved by such an one as she, as well as his own noble language to her, excite our deepest esteem and sympathy. Of Portia's character we cannot speak as fully as we would. Beautiful and pure, she stands before her humbled husband with the true dignity of wounded love, an ideal Roman "You are my true and honourable wife, Render me worthy of this noble wife." Great and all-absorbing indeed must have been the struggle that could have made him fail in his wonted courtesy to such a wife. But her wifely bosom will take no repulse, and soon she wins him to his former self by the touching earnestness with which she pleads to share his burden: "And upon my bended knees, I charge you, by my once commended beauty, The Ides of March, the mysterious time appointed by the soothsayer at the feast of the Lupercal, has come. The great Cæsar, soldier and philosopher though he be, is deterred from going to the Capitol by the portentous dream of his anxious wife. But when Decius tells him that "The Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Cæsar," his love of power and fear of ridicule induce him to change his mind. The conspirators met him there, and with the words of arrogance and pride upon his lips, pierced by friendly daggers, "Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell!" So was Pompey's fate avenged, and so "Ambition's debt was paid." And now, when Brutus is called to the management of affairs, his unfitness becomes most manifestly evident. He is too honest, and consequently too trustful in others, to deal with such men as Antony and the fickle mob. In the kindness of his soul he lets Antony "speak in Cæsar's funeral," and as a consequence, the conspirators are forced to flee for their lives. Of the speeches of Brutus and Antony, volumes almost might be written. Considered in themselves as representative ideals of eloquence and oratory, or in their perfect contrast with each other, they claim our most exalted admiration, as well as our patient and scrutinizing study. The speech of Brutus, written in prose a most noteworthy fact, by the way, for Shakspeare evidently wrote with greater ease and fluency in blank verse-is the outgushing of his inmost life, the expression of its | ruling powers. He stands before the people for whose liberty he has shed the life-blood of his best friend, and is now ready to shed his own; and they despise the heavenly boon he proffers. His defence is calm, deliberate, and weighty, as becomes a Roman senator; but withal, it has the resistless energy of an honest, life-absorbing purpose. It is a great speech, for it is the concentrated utterance of a great life. The populace, in their reception of his speech, will to Brutus and respect for his character, are evidently more influenced by their goodthan by its exalted sentiments; for in total disregard of its whole spirit, they cry out to Brutus "Let him be Cæsar." Antony finds them strongly prejudiced in. favour of the conspirators by the speech, but more by the character of Brutus, and consequently extremely jealous of any attempt to disparage him. But as clay is moulded in the hands of the skilful potter, so he moulds their minds to the pattern of his own choosing. Soon those who before were ready to "bring Brutus with triumph home unto his own house;" to give him a statue with his ancestors," and make him Cæsar," now join their willing cry: "We will be revenged! voices to raise the Revenge! about! seek! burn! fire! kill! slay! let not a traitor live!" 66 Admirably fitted was Antony to move the popular mind. A man of the world, a soldier of fortune; accustomed to deal with the lower order of mind; engaging in his address; a polished, speaker of consummate art; wonderful in his knowledge of human nature; having, doubtless, much affection for Cæsar, but knowing well how to turn it to the best account to give zest and life to the part he was acting. As an exquisite work of art, his speech is without an equal, and it is probably the finest example of rhetorical climax known. To enter here upon a full analysis of it, were foreign to the scope of this article. No more profitable study for the English scholar could be found. Every sentence is replete with interest, every word has its hidden store of wealth and beauty, revealed only to him who labours in the love of it. But we turn to follow Brutus to his speedy and mournful end. The fatal deed is done, and Cæsar's blood cries from the ground for vengeance. Now new actors are needed on the stage, and Octavius, Lepidus and Antony the soldier, with their followers, the avengers of Cæsar's fate, come forward to act their parts. Brutus, the chief conspirator, for whose development all the others have their dramatic life. Cassius, his fellow-conspirator, bringing out in bold relief the sterling worth of Brutus's character, playing the part of tempter and false friend. Cæsar, the noble victim, by his own tragic fate enforcing, in episode, the grand moral of the play. Antony, the "golden-mouthed orator" and revelling soldier; with Octavius, There is also now a peculiar significance in the conduct of Cassius. The two have become identified by a common sin and a common doom. Cassius, the instigator of the whole affair, has played his part, and failed of his object. There is no necessity, then, for the further development of the low cunning in his nature. On the other hand, it adds greatly to the effect of the plot that his better traits are now shown us; our interest is excited to this heretofore hidden phase of his character, and so another element is added to the tragic end. This softening of the character of Cassius is with Shakspeare a labour of love. So far in the play, there is scarcely a word he has uttered, a trait he has developed, that claims in the least degree our sympathies. The cold, calculating, deceitful conspirator; the embodiment of perverted intellect, or rather of sly cunning, he seems totally lacking in moral and social qualities. Such an one was demanded by the action of the play. But now his mission is fulfilled; and before he disappears from the stage, it seems as if Shakspeare hastens to throw the mantle of a kindly humanity over his cold, repulsive character. And this trait of Shakspeare is evident in all his creations. It was this that put the touching words "Et tu Brute ?" into the mouth of the dying tyrant; and that represents Antony as eulogizing Brutus over the dead body of Cæsar. He seems to see in every fallen brother and sister of his race only what he himself might have been; and while he holds up to our disapprobation sin and error, he engages our pity and compassion for the sinning and the erring. None of his characters are either perfectly pure or perfectly depraved; in the best and the noblest are the traces of one common sin, and in the lowest and the most abandoned gleam here and there some lingering lineaments of their God. In all we are reminded of one common humanity, fallen, yet magnificent in its ruins! This view of the scene is abundantly borne out by the language of Cassius. It is evidently heart-felt; and, when compared with that of his first interview with Brutus, shows an unmistakable change of motive. In the first he speaks the language of the head; in the last, the kindly speech of a full heart. After this exciting scene, Brutus seeks the soothing influence of music to calm his troubled breast; and herein develops another engaging trait, very prominent in Shakspeare's characters. His treatment of the tired Lucius, who from sheer fatigue drops asleep as he plays the lute to him, most beautifully brings out his kind consideration for the feelings and comfort of his inferiors, at a time when he himself is bowed to the earth with his mighty load of sorrow. The music ceasing, he betakes himself to reading; when suddenly the ghost of Cæsar, the phantom of his diseased brain, appears before him. The memory of Cæsar, in very truth, is his "evil spirit," never leaving him, and continually asserting its growing influence over his fevered mind. He acknowledges this himself when, at the death of Titinius, he says: "O Julius Caesar! thou art mighty yet : Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails." And again, the last utterance of his life is : It is observable that as the tragic end draws near, its retributive nature is constantly alluded to by the avengers as well as their victim. In the meeting of the hostile generals it forms the burden of the burning reproaches which Octavius and Antony heap upon Brutus and Cassius. Cassius, as he dies, proclaims it: Cæsar, thou art revenged Thus the leading, ruling thought intensifies The manner of the death of Brutus, so apparently contradictory to our conception of his character and to his own express declaration, claims our lingering notice. It will be remembered that on the eve of that disastrous battle, Cassius says: BRU.: "If we do lose this battle, then is this The very last time we shall speak together: By which I did blame Cato for the death For fear of what might fall, so to prevent CAS. Then, if we lose this battle, : You are contented to be led in triumph Through the streets of Rome ? BRU.: No, Cassius, no; think not, thou noble Roman, That even Brutus will go bound to Rome! He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end the work, the ides of March begun." Here, then, we have it as the fixed determination of Brutus most emphatically expressed, not to be taken alive. He probably intended, if the day went against him, to die, as a noble Roman ought, fighting in his armour. We have also the expression of his philosophic creed on the abstract question of suicide. In the one speaks the high-toned Roman citizen and soldier, to whom death was sweeter than dishonour; in the other, the speculative philosopher, earnest, doubtless, but still only the philosopher. And now when all is over, when he has fought his desperate way through the thickest of the fight, and yet remained unhurt; when he has dared death, who, craven, had turned away; when his best friends have fallen before his eyes, his army routed, and Roman liberty gone forever; when his " "brother Cassius" had put an end to his own life, and his only choice is capture, flight, or suicide: is it to be wondered at that the man is stronger than the philosopher, and the honour of a Roman than a speculative creed? So, in the gloom of the approaching night he plunges into the untried blackness that lies beyond. A word or two of those errors for which he paid so dear a penalty. He erred morally, most of all in that great sin, the murder of Cæsar; but his whole life was a continual sin, in that he lived it for man and not for God; from this he reaped anguish and unutterable remorse. He erred intellectually, in that he attempted to "drag history in leadingstrings:" he sinned against that great principle of political philosophy, that when a nation is down-trodden and oppressed, the people must rise in their majesty and trample the oppressor under foot; no clique, no party of conspirators, however honest, however patriotic, can ever do it. Liberty is too precious a boon to be won by proxy. He erred also, in that he comprehended not the signs of the times. Rome was degenerate; she had "lost the breed of noble bloods."" lived, and yet he saw it not. For these errors, He was above the age in which he these "sins against history," he was doomed to see the ruin of his cause, and his last fond hopes of his country's liberty extinguished forever on the bloody field of Philippi. Here we must leave this fruitful subject, its As to the pale student of the heavens, through beauties half-developed, its treasures all untold. patient labour and unwearied vision, are revealed worlds above worlds and systems above space: so to the earnest student of Shakspeare, systems reaching far off into immeasurable who step by step, with pleasurable toil, gains his way into the universe of the master's mind, are revealed fresh worlds of thought and beauty, teeming with priceless jewels of knowledge and delight. We have endeavoured to confine ourselves to the unfolding of the character of Brutus, noticing only those points which mark most directly its development. Striving to shut our eyes to the myriad beauties that crowd our pathway, we have tried to "keep boldly on" in the course we marked out. Of the philology of the said nothing, nor of the minor characters, nor play, an almost inexhaustible subject, we have of the up-growth of the plot in the mind of Shakspeare. But we forbear, and leave our hero to the eulogistic eloquence of the "noble Antony," his honourable adversary : "This was the noblest Roman of them all. LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE THE TWO DUCKS. (A Legend). Amidst green and pleasant meadows, one glorious summer, there ran a stream, whose course lay among the water-lilies and through green fairy forests of bulrushes. On its clear breast there was often to be seen a brood of ducks headed by an old drake; they were happy and very fat; they were also beautiful, and gems of radiant colours glanced in the sunlight on their crested heads, ONES. These two were But two of them were white. ever to be seen side by side. At noon they rested upon the green banks or amidst the rushes, and rejoiced in the sunshine. At evening-tide they swam to and fro on the large golden mirrors which the setting sun flung on that stream, pluming their wings and arching their necks, then sailed among the water-lilies till the inoon came out. Many a night they would fain have lingered in its gentle light, but the old drake had issued a decree that a certain time by the evening star every duck should be on shore. It was one summer's day that, being overcome with heat, he forgot his usual energy, and left these two giddy sentimental ducks to themselves. The stream sailed on, and with it the snowwhite ducks. "Pearl," said the younger of the two, "I do so hate going to bed at the same time every night, just when the moon is brightest, the water coolest, and the flowers are sweetest. So I'm quite resolved to enjoy myself to-night: and I'll tell you a secret, as we always have shared each other's joys and sorrows, dearest Pearl." "Ah, Snowflake," said the elder, "what a wild, and I fear, wicked little duck you are. Go on, however, you know I shall stand by you to the last." me like those of another land, and a better. Farewell. To-day I murmured at the quiet that reigns here, to-night I think it Paradise. We have met but once, let it not be the last time. I shall wait you again to-morrow night.' As I turned away a feather flew from my wing as I flapped it in token of adieu. He seized it. I stayed no longer; but as I turned to look at him in the distance, I saw the long silver track upon the water, and he was gone.' And that was not the last time Snowflake and Emerald-Crest met near the wild rose-bower, whose branches cast shadows upon the stream from beneath the willow-tree on the banks of their favourite islet. Their dream of happiness was fair, but, like the roseate tints the sunset leaves, it was too fair to last. Summer waned. The time was coming, too, when their rosy dream must become a chilly, drear reality. It is ever so. As Snowflake's beauty became the pride of the old drake, and the ducks her companions, it came to pass that, one of their number, an ugly young drake with a sandy head and a very dient to fall in love with her. His name was impertinent way of swimming, thought it expeSwallow-Frog. "Well, Pearl," said Snowflake, playfully fanning Pearl with her white wing, and perhaps Pearl was sent on a visit to a neighbouring casting a glance at its beauty with a pardonable brook with an elderlyduck named Gobbel-all, as pride, "do listen before you say anything, and it was thought expedient by the old drake that don't be quite so prudish, or I shall shock she should see a little of the world. Sad was your sensibility. Last night I vowed I the parting between the friends; and when would go out; the air was so refreshing, and Pearl went, and her restraining presence and such a delicious breeze rang the little flower- advice were lost for a time to her less thoughtbells, and made sweet music among the stems ful friend, Snowflake sought consolation, and of the tall bulrushes, that I could bear it no found it in communion with the kindred soul longer, and as you slept at some little distance of the young and handsome Emerald-Crest. I durst not call you. I went, and determined None as yet knew their love-it burnt so much to sail slowly by the copse where the honey- the brighter in secret. Earth was nothing to suckle blows. Ah! how sweet it was, and how them; of its trials they recked not, and its often I wished for you Pearl, dear. I had just pleasures they loathed; for the evening brought reached the little islet where we so often sit joys which none could share, whilst the world's under the shade of our own favourite willow-cold heart lay sleeping away the hours which to tree, and was about to turn, resolving to run all them were life's existence. risks and fetch you, when I heard a faint quack, converted into a sighing groan, close to me. I was startled, and on looking round perceived a young drake, the handsomest I ever beheld; so different from Swallow-Frog and Lovefly, our old companions. He told me his name was Emerald-Crest. He persuaded me with soft words to sail with him round the far islet where in spring-time the violets grow on the old ashroot. At first I would not; but, when he talked to me, as I thought none but ourselves could talk, Pearl, I could not resist; and he told me of strange and beautiful things; of other lands where he said our wings might carry us, where storms never come, and where birds with jewelled wings sleep amongst flowers sweeter than roses and fairer than the waterlilies we love. He whiled away the time thus till we came to the Hazel Copse, where the blackbirds build; and as we sailed by such a flood of sweet melody burst from thence, that when it ceased methought the blackbird had waked from its sleep in the still night-watch to greet this new friend amongst us. I told him so. He quacked softly, and Icould see in the moonlight that the feathers on his breast rose as if the wind had ruffled them. But there was no wind. By this time the evening star began to pale, and I feared to stay. He said to me as we parted, The days of young life are short at best, 'tis fitting we should enjoy them. My life has begun to-night; these waters seem to He was rather favoured by the old gentleman, who had it strongly in his mind that Snowflake should not marry out of the family, and constantly got into a passion when anyone mentioned the ducks of the neighbouring farms and ponds, declaring they were common, vulgar birds, and priding himself immensely on the Muscovite breed of his own family. He had once caught three daring intruders who, hearing of Snowflake's beauty, had come to look at her whilst diving for frogs. He flew at them in person, bodily, and worried the head of one of them almost to a mummy before he would let him go. As may be supposed, the society of SwallowFrog was very distasteful to Snowflake. His conversation too was mostly upon the number of fat frogs and toads he caught in the season, and of the delicacy of a water-newt as compared with a land one, with other details of the kind, He was ignorant as well as idle, and knew no |