Characters of Shakespeare's Plays - William Hazlitt

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of Cassius on hearing of the death of Portia, which he does not learn till after the reconciliation, 'How 'scap'd I killing when I crost you so?' gives double force to all that has gone before. The scene between Brutus and Portia, where she endeavours to extort the secret of the conspiracy from him, is conceived in the most heroical spirit, and the burst of tenderness in Brutus:

      You are my true and honourable wife;

       As dear to me as are the ruddy drops

       That visit my sad heart—

      is justified by her whole behaviour. Portia's breathless impatience to learn the event of the conspiracy, in the dialogue with Lucius, is full of passion. The interest which Portia takes in Brutus and that which Calphurnia takes in the fate of Caesar are discriminated with the nicest precision. Mark Antony's speech over the dead body of Caesar has been justly admired for the mixture of pathos and artifice in it: that of Brutus certainly is not so good.

      The entrance of the conspirators to the house of Brutus at midnight is rendered very impressive. In the midst of this scene we meet with one of those careless and natural digressions which occur so frequently and beautifully in Shakespeare. After Cassius has introduced his friends one by one, Brutus says:

      They are all welcome.

       What watchful cares do interpose themselves

       Betwixt your eyes and night?

      Cassius. Shall I entreat a word? [They whisper.]

      Decius. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?

      Casca. No.

      Cinna. O pardon, Sir, it doth; and yon grey lines,

       That fret the clouds, are messengers of day.

      Casca. You shall confess, that you are both deceiv'd:

       Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises,

       Which is a great way growing on the south,

       Weighing the youthful, season of the year.

       Some two months hence, up higher toward the north

       He first presents his fire, and the high east

       Stands as the Capitol, directly here.

      We cannot help thinking this graceful familiarity better than all the formality in the world. The truth of history in Julius Caesar is very ably worked up with dramatic effect. The councils of generals, the doubtful turns of battles, are represented to the life. The death of Brutus is worthy of him—it has the dignity of the Roman senator with the firmness of the Stoic philosopher. But what is perhaps better than either, is the little incident of his boy, Lucius, falling asleep over his instrument, as he is playing to his master in his tent, the night before the battle. Nature had played him the same forgetful trick once before on the night of the conspiracy. The humanity of Brutus is the same on both occasions.

      —It is no matter;

       Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.

       Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies,

       Which busy care draws in the brains of men.

       Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

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