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 cry'd, Cæsar hath weptAmbition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious:
And Brutus is an honourable 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 honourable 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 with-holds 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.
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 ;

Twas 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-beloved Brutus stabb'd:
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar follow'd it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no :-
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:-
Judge, O you gods! how dearly Cæsar lov'd him!
This was the most unkindly cut of all:

For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

Quite vanquish'd him. Then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle.muffling up his face,

Even at the base of Pompey's statue,

Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.

Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!Then, I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish'd 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-marr'd, 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 honourable!
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it :-they are wise, and honourable!
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 loves his friend;-and that they know full welk
Who 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;
Shew you sweet Cæsar's wounds, (poor, poor dùmb
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.

VI. The Eulogium of the perfect Speaker.,

IMAGINE to yourselves a Demosthenes addressing the most illustrious assembly in the world, upon a point whereon the fate of the most illustrious of nations depended. How awful such a meeting! How vast the subject! Is man possessed of talents adequate to the great occasion? Adequate-yes, superior. By the power of his eloquence, the augustness of the assembly

is lost in the dignity of the subject, for a while, superseded, by the admiration of his talents.--With what strength of argument, with what powers of the fancy, with what emotions of the heart, does he assault and subjugate the whole man, and at once captivate his reason, his imagination, and his passions!-To effect this must be the utmost effort of the most improved state of human nature. Not a faculty that he possesses, is here unemployed; not a faculty that he possesses, but is here exerted to its highest pitch. All his internal powers are at work; all his external, testify their energies. Within, the memory, the fancy, the judgment, the passions, all are busy; without, every muscle, every nerve, is exerted; not a feature, not a limb, but speaks. The organs of the body, attuned to the exertions of the mind, through the kindred organs of the hearers, instantaneously, and as it were with an electrical spirit, vibrate those energies from soul to soul.-Notwithstanding the diversity of minds in such a multitude, by the lightning of eloquence, they are melted into one mass-the whole assembly, actuated in one and the same way, become, as it were, but one man, and have but one voice. The universal cry is-Let us march against Philip-let us fight for our liberties let us conqueror die!

VII. Eulogium of Antoinette, the late Queen of France.

Ir is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just began to move in,-glittering like the morning-star; full of life, and splendor, and joy..

Oh! what a revolution!and what a heart must I have, to contemplate, without emotion, that elevation and that fall!

Little did I dream that, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp anti

dote against disgrace concealed in that bosom ;-little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men,-in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult.-But the age of chivalry is gone.-That of sophisters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex,that proud submission,-that dignified obedience,—that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprize, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle,-that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound,-which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity,-which ennobled whatever it touched; and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness.

VIII. Panegyric on the British Constitution.

By a constitutional policy working after the pattern of nature, we receive, we hold, we transmit our government, and our privileges, in the same manner in which we enjoy and transmit our property and lives.-The institutions of policy, the goods of fortune, the gifts of providence, are handed down to us and from us, in the same course and order. Our political system is placed in a just correspondence and symmetry with the order of the world, and with the mode of existence decreed to a permanent body composed of transitory parts;—wherein, by the disposi tion of stupendous wisdom, moulding together the great mysterious incorporation of the human race, the whole, at one time, is never old, or middle-aged, or young; but, in a condition of unchangeable constancy, moves on through the varied tenour of perpetual decay, fall, renovation, and progression. Thus, by preserving the method of nature in the conduct of the state, in what we improve we are never wholly new; in what we retain we

are never wholly obsolete.-By adhering in this manner and on these principles to our forefathers, we are guided, not by the superstition of antiquaries, but by the spirit of philosophic analogy. In this choice of inheritance we have given to our frame of polity the image of a relation in blood;-binding up the constitution of our country with our dearest domestic ties ;-adopting our fundamental laws into the bosom of our family affections ;-keeping inseparable, and cherishing with the warmth of all their combined and mutually reflected charities, our state, our hearths, our sepulchres, and our altars.

IX. Mr. Sheridan's Invective against Mr. Hastings.

HAD a stranger, at this time, gone into the province of Oude, ignorant of what had happened since the death of Sujah Dowla, that man, who, with a savage heart, had still great lines of character, and who, with all his ferocity in war, had still, with a cultivating hand, preserved to his country the riches which it derived from benignant skies and a prolific soil. If this stranger, ignorant of all that had happened in the short interval, and observing the wide and general devastation, and all the horrors of the scene of plains unclothed and brown-of vegetables burnt up and extinguished-of villages depopulated and in ruin of temples unroofed and perishing-of reservoirs broken down and dry, he would naturally enquire what war has thus laid waste the fertile fields of this once beautiful and opulent country-what civil dissentions have happened, thus to tear asunder and separate the happy societies that once possessed those villages— what disputed succession-what religious rage has, with unholy violence, demolished those temples, and disturbed fervent, but unobtruding piety, in the exercise of its duties?-What merciless enemy has thus spread the horrors of fire and sword-what severe visitation of providence has dried up the fountain, and taken from the face of the earth every vestige of verdure?-Or rather, what monsters have stalked over the country, tainting and poisoning, with pestiferous breath, what the voracious appetite could not devour? To such questions, what must be