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Bru. Go to! you are not, Cassius.
Cas. Urge me no more; I shall forget myself:
Bru. Away, slight man!
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Cas. Must I endure all this?
break: Go, show
slaves how choleric you are,
Cas. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say, you are a better soldier:
Cas. You wrong me every way-you wrong me, Brutus:
better? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved
Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him.
Cas. What! durst not tempt him?
I did send to you
I did send
for gold to pay my legions,
Cas. I denied you not.
Cas. I did not: he was a fool
Bru. I do not. Still you practise them on me.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they did appear As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony! and young Octavius, come!
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius:
Bru. Sheath your dagger.
Cas. Hath Cassius lived
Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.
[Embracing. Cas. O Brutus! Bru. What's the matter?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour 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.
FEELINGS OF AN AMERICAN IN ENGLAND.
England is as classic ground to an American, as Italy is to an Englishman; and old London teems with as much historical association as mighty Rome. Indeed, it is difficult to describe the whimsical medley of ideas that throng upon his mind on landing among English scenes. H for the first time, sees a world about which he has been reading and thinking in every stage of his existence. The recollected ideas of infancy, youth, and manhood; of the nursery, the school, and the study, come swarming at once upon him; and his attention is distracted between great and little objects; each of which, perhaps, awakens an equally delightful train of remembrances.
But what more especially attracts his notice, are those peculiarities which distinguish an old country, and an old state of society, from a new one.
I have never yet grown familiar enough with the crumbling monuments of past ages, to blunt the intense interest with which I at first beheld them. Accustomed always to scenes where history was, in a manner, in anticipation; where every thing in art was new and progressive, and pointed to the future rather than to the past; where, in short, the works of man gave no ideas but those of young existence and prospective improvement; there was something inexpressibly touching in the sight of enormous piles of architecture, gray with antiquity, and sinking to decay. I cannot describe the mute but deep-felt enthusiasm, with which I have contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like Tintern Abbey, buried in the bosom of a quiet valley, and shut up from the world, as though it had existed merely for itself; or a warrior pile, like Conway Castle, standing in stern loneliness on its rocky height, a mere hollow, yet threatening phantom of departed power. They spread a grand, a melancholy, and, to me, an unusual charm over the landscape. I for the first time beheld signs
of national old age, and empire's decay, and proofs of the transient and perishing glories of art, amidst the everspringing and reviving fertility of nature.
But, in fact, to me every thing was full of matter: the footsteps of history were every where to be traced; and poetry had breathed over and sanctified the land. I experienced the delightful freshness of feeling of a child, to whom every thing is new. I pictured to myself a set of inhabitants, and a mode of life, for every habitation that I saw; from the aristocratical mansion, amidst the lordly repose of stately groves and solitary parks, to the strawthatched cottage, with its scanty garden, and its cherished woodbine. I thought I never could be sated with the sweetness and freshness of a country so completely carpeted with verdure; where every air breathed of the balmy pasture, and the honeysuckled hedge. I was continually conning upon some little document of poetry, in the blossomed hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the primrose, or some other simple object, that has received a supernatural value from the muse. The first time that I heard the song of the nightingale, I was intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of remembered associations, than by the melody of its notes; and I shall never forget the thrill of ecstacy with which I first saw the lark rise, almost from beneath my feet, and wing its mercurial flight up to the morning sky.
Nay, tell me not of lordly halls!
My minstrels are the trees,
Earth's sounds my symphonies.
There's music sweeter to my soul
In the weed by the wild wind fann'da