Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious :
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,
For Brutus is an honorable man;

So are they all, all honorable men,-
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept : Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause:

What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?

O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! - Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

But yesterday the word of Cæsar might
Have stood against the world: now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O Masters, if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honorable men.

I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honorable men.

But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar; I found it in his closet, 't is his will:

Let but the commons hear this testament,
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,

And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,

Unto their issue.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever Cæsar put it on;

'T was on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through :
See what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabb'd;
And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it! -
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no:
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;

For, when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statua,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
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, with 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 reasons 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.

From "Julius Cæsar."

THE TWO ROADS.

JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER was born in 1763 at Wunsiedel, in the principality of Bayreuth, where his father was at different times schoolmaster, organist, and preacher. His passion for letters developed at an early age, and he read by stealth 5 in his father's library at times when severer tasks were appointed him.

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He attended the gymnasium at Hof and in 1781 matriculated as a student of theology in the University of Leipsic. He soon abandoned the study of theology for that of literature.

That his early works did not suit the popular taste is shown by the fact that in 1784 he was obliged to flee from Leipsic to escape the debtor's prison. He persevered, however, with his writings, earning a bare livelihood by tutoring. He called the books he wrote "his own children," as contrasted with those he 15 taught.

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Success came with hard work, and he was honored with a pension, was made Councilor of Legation, and received the degree of Doctor of Philosophy from Heidelberg.

He was an original thinker, a humorist, and a true poet.
His death occurred in 1825.

IT was New Year's night; and Von Arden, having fallen into an unquiet slumber, dreamed that he was an aged man standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes toward the deep blue sky, where the stars were 25 floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear calm

lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few