Than I will wrong such honorable men.
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar;
I found it in his closet; 'tis 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;

'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 stabbed,
And, as he plucked his cursed 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, ye 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 statue,

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.
Oh! 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 ye here!
Here is himself, marred, as you see, by 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 all know me, 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!

Shakspeare.

GRIZZLY GRUMBLER'S ADVICE.

MY DEAR FELLOW-GRUMBLERS:-Poets, philosophers, and fools, in all ages, have been writing and preaching on the art of being happy, without a mighty sight of seals to their ministry, I guess.

But, as many can't be satisfied unless miserable in body and mind, I am going to show all such persons the several means to be used for the attainment of such a desirable end.

In the first place, my beloved whiners, in order to attain any end, you must get up a stiff resolution and determination to conquer. Yes, my hearers, you must set down your foot, grit your teeth, let your resolution be as stiff as boiler-plate, let your firmness be as unwavering as the rocks of Gibraltar. Be determined to be miserable, and you shall get your desires. Never mind what people tell you about the bounties of Providence and the beauties of Nature, the balmy breezes of spring, the twittering and warbling of birds,-you must sheer off from them like a wealthy upstart from a poor relation.

Put on a sour, savage, snapping-turtle physiognomy; look daggers, and act out your feelings; this is the first great commandment with misery: Think you are the most forsaken mortal that misery ever held a mortgage Hate mankind; call 'em all liars, cheats, swindlers, villains. Look at everything on the wrong side. If it

on.

has no dark side, make one, just so as to enjoy yourself looking at it. Take it for granted that everybody about is especially interested to torment you. Fight everybody and everything. You can't hit amiss. The world is all wrong. Everybody is a villain but yourself, and it is your duty to teach mankind manners. can't fail to be miserable.

Go at 'em. You

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

I'm thinking that to-night, if not before,
There'll be wild work, Dost hear old Chewton roar?
It's brewing up down westward; and look there!
One of those sea gulls! ay, there goes a pair;
And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,

As threats, the water will be out anon.
That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way,—

Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.

The children join in this request; but the mother resolves that they shall set out,-the two girls, Lizzy and Jenny, the one five, the other seven. As the dame's will was law, so,-One last fond kiss,

"God bless my little maids," the father said,

And cheerily went his way to win their bread.

Prepared for their journey, they depart, with the mother's admonition to the elder:

'Now, mind and bring

Jenny safe home," the mother said.

To pull a bough or berry by the way;.

"Don't stay

And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast
Your little sister's hand till you're quite past;

That plank is so crazy, and so slippery,

If not overflowed, the stepping-stones will be;
But you're good children,-steady as old folk,-
I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak,-
A good gray duffle,-lovingly she tied,
And amply little Jenny's lack supplied
With her own warmest shawl.
"Be
"To wrap it round, and knot it carefully,
Like this, when you come home, just leaving free
One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away;
Good will to school, and then good right to play."

sure,

"said she,

The mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows not why. In a little while the threatened storm sets in. Night comes, and with it comes the father from his daily toil; There's a treasure hidden in his hat,

A plaything for his young ones. -he has found

A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,

And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,

When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer,
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.

No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his hurried question,

"Are they come ?" 'twas "no."

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook

The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,

And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word

That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone

To where a fearful foresight led him on.

A neighbor goes with him, and the faithful dog follows the

children's tracks.

"Hold the light

Low down, he's making for the water. Hark!

I know that whine; the old dog's found them, Mark;"

So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on

Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!

And all his dull, contracted light could show,

Was the black void, and dark swollen stream below.

"Yet there's life somewhere, more than Tinker's whine, That's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog,—and hark!”

"O dear!"

And a low sob came faintly on the ear,

Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,
Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught
Fast hold of something,-a dark, huddled heap,-
Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee-deep
For a tall man, and half above it propped
By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopped,
Endways, the broken plank, when it gave way
With the two little ones, that luckless day.

"My babes, my lambkins!" was the father's cry;
One little voice made answer, "Here am I;"

'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as white,

More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light,

Than sheeted corpse; the pale blue lips drawn tight,

Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,
And eyes on some dark object underneath,
Washed by the turbid waters, fixed like stone;
One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.
There she lay, drowned.

*

*

They lifted her from out her watery bed;
Its covering gone, the lovely little head
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside,

*

And one small hand; the mother's shawl was tied,
Leaving that free, about the child's small form,
As was her last injunction, "fast and warm;"
Too well obeyed,-too fast! A fatal hold
Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold,

That caught and pinned her to the river's bed;
While, through the reckless water overhead,
Her life breath bubbled up.

"She might have lived,

Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived
The wretched mother's heart when she heard all,
"But for my foolishness about that shawl."
"Who says I forgot?

Mother, indeed, indeed I kept fast hold,

And tied the shawl quite close,-she can't be cold;
But she wont move-we slept, I don't know how,
But I held on, and I'm so weary now,

And it's so dark and cold! Oh dear! oh dear!-
And she won't move-if father were but here!"
All night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then the murmur, "She won't move;"
And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
Shone on that pillow,-passing strange the sight,-
The young head's raven hair was streaked with white!
Caroline A. Southey.

THE PARTING HOUR.

There's something in "the parting hour"
Will chill the warmest heart,-

Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends,

Are fated all to part;

But this I've seen,-and many a pang

Has pressed it on my mind,

The one who goes is happier

Than those he leaves behind.