Chapter 18

Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in this: You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. Bru. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offense should bear his comment. Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm! You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement! Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be graspe'd thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. Cas. Brutus, bay not me; I'll not endure it: you forget yourself, To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself: Have mind upon your health; tempt me no further. Bru. Away, slight man! Cas. Is't possible? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? Cas. O ye gods! ye gods! must I endure all this? Bru. All this! Ay, more: fret till your proud heart break; Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea for my laughter, When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say you are a better soldier; Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well: for mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus; I said, an elder soldier, not a better: Did I say "better"? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not? Bru. No. Cas. What! durst not tempt him? Bru. For your life, you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;-- For I can raise no money by vile means: By heaven! I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection.--I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with an your thunderbolts; Dash him to pieces! Cas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not: he was but a fool that brought My answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart: A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world; Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a notebook, learned, and conned by rate, To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth: I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. Bru. Sheathe your dagger: Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too. Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

238 ECLECTIC SERIES.

Bru. And my heart, too. Cas. O Brutus! Bru. What's the matter? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful? Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth, When you are over earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

Shakespeare.--Julius Caesar, Act iv, Scene iii.

NOTES.--Ides (pro. idz) was a term used in the Roman calendar. It fell on the fifteenth day of March, May, July, and October, and on the thirteenth of other months. On the ides of March, 44 B. C., Julius Caesar was murdered by Brutus, Cassius, and other conspirators. The populace were aroused to indignation, and the conspirators were compelled to fly.

Indirection; i. e., dishonest means.

Antony and Octavius, who, with Lepidus, formed the triumvirate now governing Rome, were at this time marching against the forces of Brutus and Cassius.

Plutus, in ancient mythology, the god of wealth.

LXII. THE QUACK. (238)

John Tobin, 1770-1804, a solicitor, was born at Salisbury, England, and died on shipboard near Cork. He wrote several comedies, the most popular being "The Honeymoon," from which this extract is taken; it was published in 1805. ###

SCENE--The Inn. Enter HOSTESS followed by LAMPEDO, a Quack Doctor.

Host. Nay, nay; another fortnight. Lamp. It can't be. The man's as well as I am: have some mercy! He hath been here almost three weeks already. Host. Well, then, a week. Lamp. We may detain him a week. (Enter BALTHAZAR, the patient, from behind, in his nightgown, with a drawn sword.) You talk now like a reasonable hostess, That sometimes has a reckoning with her conscience. Host. He still believes he has an inward bruise. Lamp. I would to heaven he had! or that he'd slipped His shoulder blade, or broke a leg or two, (Not that I bear his person any malice,) Or luxed an arm, or even sprained his ankle! Host. Ay, broken anything except his neck. Lamp. However, for a week I'll manage him, Though he had the constitution of a horse-- A farrier should prescribe for him. Balth. A farrier! (Aside. ) Lamp. To-morrow, we phlebotomize again; Next day, my new-invented patent draught; Then, I have some pills prepared; On Thursday, we throw in the bark; on Friday-- Balth. (Coming forward.) Well, sir, on Friday--what, on Friday? Come, Proceed. Lamp. Discovered!

They (Host.,Lamp.) fall on their knees.

Host. Mercy, noble sir! Lamp. We crave your mercy! Balth. On your knees? 'tis well! Pray! for your time is short. Host. Nay, do not kill us. Balth. You have been tried, condemned, and only wait For execution. Which shall I begin with? Lamp. The lady, by all means, sir. Balth. Come, prepare. (To the hostess.) Host. Have pity by the weakness of my sex! Balth. Tell me, thou quaking mountain of gross flesh, Tell me, and in a breath, how many poisons-- If you attempt it--(To LAMPEDO, who is making off) you have cooked up for me? Host. None, as I hope for mercy! Balth. Is not thy wine a poison? Host. No indeed, sir; 'T is not, I own, of the first quality; But-- Balth. What? Host. I always give short measure, sir, And ease my conscience that way. Balth. Ease your conscience! I'll ease your conscience for you. Host. Mercy, sir! Balth. Rise, if thou canst, and hear me. Host. Your commands, sir? Balth. If, in five minutes, all things are prepared For my departure, you may yet survive. Host. It shall be done in less. Balth. Away, thou lumpfish. (Exit hostess.) Lamp. So! now comes my turn! 't is all over with me! There's dagger, rope, and ratsbane in his looks! Baith. And now, thou sketch and outline of a man! Thou thing that hast no shadow in the sun! Thou eel in a consumption, eldest born Of Death and Famine! thou anatomy Of a starved pilchard! Lamp. I do confess my leanness. I am spare, And, therefore, spare me. Balth. Why wouldst thou have made me A thoroughfare, for thy whole shop to pass through? Lamp. Man, you know, must live. Balth. Yes: he must die, too. Lamp. For my patients' sake! Balth. I'll send you to the major part of them-- The window, sir, is open;-come, prepare. Lamp. Pray consider! I may hurt some one in the street.

Balth. Why, then, I'll rattle thee to pieces in a dicebox, Or grind thee in a coffee mill to powder, For thou must sup with Pluto:--so, make ready! Whilst I, with this good smallsword for a lancet, Let thy starved spirit out (for blood thou hast none), And nail thee to the wall, where thou shalt look Like a dried beetle with a pin stuck through him. Lamp. Consider my poor wife. Balth. Thy wife! Lamp. My wife, sir. Balth. Hast thou dared think of matrimony, too? Thou shadow of a man, and base as lean! Lamp. O spare me for her sake! I have a wife, and three angelic babes, Who, by those looks, are well nigh fatherless. Balth. Well, well! your wife and children shall plead for you. Come, come; the pills! where are the pills? Produce them. Lamp. Here is the box. Balth. Were it Pandora's, and each single pill Had ten diseases in it, you should take them. Lamp. What, all? Balth. Ay, all; and quickly, too. Come, sir, begin-- (LAMPEDO takes one.) That's well!--Another. Lamp. One's a dose. Balth. Proceed, sir. Lamp. What will become of me? Let me go home, and set my shop to rights, And, like immortal Caesar, die with decency. Balth. Away! and thank thy lucky star I have not Brayed thee in thine own mortar, or exposed thee For a large specimen of the lizard genus. Lamp. Would I were one!--for they can feed on air. Balth. Home, sir! and be more honest. Lump. If I am not, I'll be more wise, at least.

NOTEs.--Pluto, in ancient mythology, the god of the lower world.

Pandora is described in the Greek legends as the first created woman. She was sent by Jupiter to Epimetheus as a punishment, because the latter's brother, Prometheus, had stolen fire from heaven. When she arrived among men, she opened a box in which were all the evils of mankind, and everything escaped except Hope.

LXIII. RIP VAN WINKLE. (242)

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded around him, eying him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired on which side he voted. Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear "whether he was Federal or Democrat."

Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat, penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village.

"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!" Here a general shout burst from the bystanders.--"A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well, who are they? name them."

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "Where's Brom Dutcher?" "Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. Some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know; he never came back again."

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" "He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia general, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand--war, Congress, Stony Point. He had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to be sure! That's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded; he doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name.

"God knows!" exclaimed he, at his wit's end. "I'm not myself; I'm somebody else; that's me yonder; no, that's somebody else got into my shoes. I was myself last night; but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name or who I am!"

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment, a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip!" cried she, "hush, you little fool! the old man won't hurt you."

The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. "Judith Gardenier." "And your father's name?" "Ah, poor man! Rip Van Winkle was his name; but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since; his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice: "Where's your mother?" "Oh, she, too, died but a short time since; she broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler." There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he. "Young Rip Van Winkle once, old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?"

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and, peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle! it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor! Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night.

To make a long story short, the company broke up and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her. She had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time, and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. --Irving.

NOTES.--Rip Van Winkle, according to Irving's story in "The Sketch Book," was a great drunkard, and was driven from his home in the Catskill Mountains, one night, by his wife. Wandering among the mountains, he fell in with the ghosts of Hendrick Hudson and his crew, with whom he played a game of ninepins. Upon drinking the liquor which they offered him, however, he immediately fell into a deep sleep which lasted for twenty years. The above lesson recounts the events that befell him when he returned to his native village. In the meantime the Revolution of 1776 had taken place.

The Federals and the Democrats formed the two leading political parties of that time.

Stony Point is a promontory on the Hudson, at the entrance of the Highlands, forty-two miles from New York. It was a fortified post during the Revolution, captured by the British, and again retaken by the Americans under Wayne. Anthony's Nose is also a promontory on the Hudson, about fifteen miles above Stony Point.

LXIV. BILL AND JOE. (246)

Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-1894, was the son of Abiel Holmes, D.D. He was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and graduated at Harvard in 1829, having for classmates several men who have since become distinguished. After graduating, he studied law for about one year, and then turned his attention to medicine. He studied his profession in Paris, and elsewhere in Europe, and took his degree at Cambridge in 1836. In 1838 he was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Dartmouth College. He remained here but a short time, and then returned to Boston and entered on the practice of medicine. In 1847 he was appointed professor at Harvard, filling a similar position to the one held at Dartmouth. He discharged the duties of his professorship for more than thirty years, with great success. Literature was never his profession; yet few American authors attained higher success, both as a poet and as a prose writer. His poems are lively and sparkling, abound in wit and humor, but are not wanting in genuine pathos. Many of them were composed for special occasions. His prose writings include works on medicine, essays, and novels; several appeared first as contributions to the "Atlantic Monthly." He gained reputation, also, as it popular lecturer. In person, Dr. Holmes was small and active, with a face expressive of thought and vivacity. ###

Come, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by-- The shining days when life was new, And all was bright as morning dew, The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail, And mine as brief appendix wear As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare; To-day, old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize, And grand you look in people's eyes, With HON. and LL. D., In big, brave letters fair to see,-- Your fist, old fellow! Off they go!-- How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe; You've taught your name to half the globe; You've sung mankind a deathless strain; You've made the dead past live again: The world may call you what it will, But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say, "See those old buffers, bent and gray; They talk like fellows in their teens; Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means" And shake their heads; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe--

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-- Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill, As Joe looks fondly up to Bill.

Ah! pensive scholar, what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe.

The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go-- How vain it seems, this empty show!-- Till all at once his pulses thrill: 'T is poor old Joe's, "God bless you, Bill!"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears; In some sweet lull of heart and song For earth born spirits none too long, Just whispering of the world below When this was Bill, and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here, No sounding name is half so dear; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say? Read on the hearts that love us still, Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

NOTE.--Hic jacet (pro. hic ja'cet) is a Latin phrase, meaning here lies. It is frequently used in epitaphs.

LXV. SORROW FOR THE DEAD. (249)