that is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother, the new duke.

Oli. Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished with her father?

Cha. O, no, for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her, that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court.

Oli. Where will the old duke live?

Cha. They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him.

Oli. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke? Cha. Marry,* do I, sir, and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand, that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguised against me to try a fall: To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he that escapes me without some broken limb, shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him: therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you with all; that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into.

Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me. I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein, and have labored to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee Charles-it is the stubbornest young fellow in the world; full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret and villanous contriver against me his natural brother; therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger.

Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you: If he come to-morrow, I'll give him his payment: If ever he go alone again, I'll never wrestle for prize more and so, Heaven keep your worship! [Exit CHARLES.]

Oli. Farewell, good Charles.-Now I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul hates nothing more than he :-nothing remains but that I'll kindle the boy thither,† which I'll new go about. [Exit.]

*This word contains a strong asservation: it is supposed to stand for "by Mary," a form of swearing used in the Popish times. + Encourage him to engage in the wrestling.

CLXVIX.-AUFIDIUS AND CORIOLANUS.

From the Tragedy of "Coriolanus," by Shakspeare. Act 4-Scene 5. [CORIOLANUS enters disguised.]

Auf. Whence comest thou? What wouldst thou? Thy

name?

Cor.

Why speak'st not? Speak, man: what's thy name?
If, Tullus,* [Unmuffling.
Not yet thou know'st me, and seeing me, dost not
Think me for the man I am, necessity
Commands me name myself.

Auf.

What is thy name?

Cor. A name unmusical to the Volcians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine.

Auf.

Say, what's thy name?
Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face
Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's† torn,
Thou show'st a noble vessel: What's thy name?

Cor. Prepare thy brow to frown: Know'st thou me yet?
Auf. I know thee not:-thy name?

Cor. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done
To thee particularly, and to all the Volces,
Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may
My surname, Coriolanus: The painful service,
The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood
Shed for my thankless country, are requited
But with that surname ;-

The cruelty and envy of the people,

hath devoured the rest;

·

•

And suffered me by the voice of slaves to be
Whoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity
Hath brought me to thy hearth.
Then if thou hast
A heart of wreak‡ in thee, . . . . speed thee straight,
And make my misery serve thy turn; so use it,
That my revengeful services may prove

> Tullus Aufidius.

t Dress.

Resentment.

As benefits to thee; for I will fight

Against my canker'd country with the spleen
Of all the under* fiends.

Auf.

O, Marcius, Marcius,

Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart
A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter

Should from yon cloud speak divine things, and say,
'Tis true, I'd not believe them more than thee,
All noble Marcius.-I clasp thine hand,

and here do I contest

As hotly and as nobly with thy love,
As ever in ambitious strength I did
Contend against thy valor.... Worthy Marcius,
Had we no quarrel else to Rome, but that

Thou art hence banish'd, we would muster all
From twelve to seventy; and, pouring war
Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,
Like a bold flood o'er-beat. O, come, go in,
And take our friendly senators by the hands.
Cor.
You bless me, gods!
Auf. Therefore,
if thou wilt have
The leading of thine own revenges, take
The one half of my commission;
Set down thine own ways:
Whether to knock against the gates of Rome,
Or rudely visit them in parts remote.

But come in:

a thousand welcomes ! And more a friend than e'er an enemy.

Your hand! Most welcome !

[Exeunt, clasping each other by the hand.

* Infernal.

CLXX. THE SPIRIT OF SEVENTEEN HUNDRED AND SEVENTY.

SIX.

Extract from the Speech of Josiah Quincy, upon Foreign Relations, delivered in the House of Representatives of the United States, November 28, 1808.

Mr. Chairman.-THE gentleman from North Carolina has exclaimed "Where is the spirit of "76?" Ay, sir, where is it? Would to heaven, that at our invocation it would condescend to alight on this floor. But let gentlemen remember, that the spirit of '76 was not a spirit of empty declaration, or of abstract propositions. It did not content itself with nonimportation acts, or non-intercourse laws. It was a spirit of active preparation, of dignified energy. It studied both to know our rights, and to devise the effectual means of maintaining them. It never presented to the people of the United States the alternative of war, or a suspension of our rights, and recommended the latter rather than to incur the risk of the former. What was the language of that period, in one of the addresses of Congress to Great Britain? "You attempt to reduce us by the sword to base and abject submission: on the sword, therefore, we rely for protection." In that day there were no alternatives presented to dishearten; no abandonment of our rights, under the pretence of maintaining them; no gaining the battle by running away. At that time we had a navy: that name so odious to the influences of the present day. Yes, sir, in 1776, though but in our infancy, we had a navy scouring our coasts, and defending our commerce, which was never for one moment wholly suspended. In 1776, we had an army also; and a glorious army it was! Not composed of men halting from the stews, or swept from the jails; but of the best blood, the real yeomanry of the country-noble cavaliers-men without fear and without reproach. Yes, sir, we had such an army in 1776, and Washington at its head.

At every corner of this great city, Mr. Chairman, we meet some gentlemen of the majority, wringing their hands, and exclaiming "What shall we do? Nothing but embargo will save us, Remove it, and what shall we do ?" Sir, it is not

for me, an humble and uninfluential individual, at an awful distance from the predominant influences, to suggest plans of government. But to my eye, the path of our duty is as distinct as the milky way; all studded with living sapphires; glowing with cumulating light. It is the path of active preparation; of dignified energy. It is the path of 1776. It consists not in abandoning our rights, but in supporting them, as they exist, and where they exist-on the ocean, as well as on the land. It consists in taking the nature of things as the measure of the rights of your citizens; not the orders and decrees of imperious foreigners. Give what protection you can. Take no counsel of fear. Your strength will increase with the trial, and prove greater than you are now aware.

But I shall be told, "this may lead to war." I ask, sir, “are we now at peace ?" Certainly not, unless retiring from insult be peace; unless shrinking under the lash be peace. The surest way to prevent war is not to fear it. The idea that nothing on earth is so dreadful as war, is inculcated, sir, too studiously among us. Disgrace is worse. of essential rights is worse.

Abandonment

CLXXI.-THE HORRORS OF A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.

Extract from the Argument of Daniel Webster, on the trial of John F. Knapp, for the murder of Joseph White.

Gentlemen of the Jury,-THE present is a most extraordinary case. In some respects, it has hardly a precedent any where, certainly none in New England history. An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay.

The deed was executed with a degree of self-possession and steadiness, equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. The circumstances, now clearly in evidence, spread out the whole scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet, the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong em