“There is,” said he, “somewhat (however we palliate it) in the very frame and make of us, that subjects our minds to chagrin and irresolution on any emergency of time or place.  The difficulty grows on our sickened imagination, under all the killing circumstances of danger and disappointment.  This we see, not only in the men of retirement and fancy, but in the characters of the men of action; with this only difference, the coward sees the danger, and sickens under it; the hero, warmed by the difficulty, dilates, and rises in proportion to that, and in some sort makes use of his very fears to disarm it.  A remarkable instance of this we have in the great Caesar, when he came to the Rubicon, and was entering upon a part, perhaps, the most hazardous he ever bore (certainly the most ungrateful), a war with his countrymen.  When his mind brooded over personal affronts, perhaps his anger burned with a desire of revenge.  But when more serious reflections laid before him the hazard of the enterprise, with the dismal consequences which were likely to attend it, aggravated by a special circumstance, What figure it would bear in the world, or how be excused to posterity.  What shall he do?—­His honour, which was his religion, bids him arm; and he sounds the inclinations of his party, by this set speech: 

#_CAESAR_ to his Party at the Rubicon.#

    Great Jove, attend, and thou my native soil,
    Safe in my triumphs, glutted in my spoil;
    Witness with what reluctance I oppose
    My arms to thine, secure of other foes. 
    What passive breast can bear disgrace like mine? 
    Traitor!—­For this I conquered on the Rhine,
    Endured their ten years’ drudgery in Gaul,
    Adjourned their fate, and saved the Capitol. 
    I grew by every guilty triumph less;
    The crowd, when drunk with joy, their souls express,
    Impatient of the war, yet fear success. 
    Brave actions dazzle with too bright a ray,
    Like birds obscene they chatter at the day;
    Giddy with rule, and valiant in debate,
    They throw the die of war, to save the state;
    And gods! to gild ingratitude with fame,
    Assume the patriot’s, we the rebel’s name. 
    Farewell, my friends, your general forlorn,
    To your bare pity, and the public scorn,
    Must lay that honour and his laurel down,
    To serve the vain caprices of the gown;
    Exposed to all indignities, the brave
    Deserve of those they gloried but to save,
    To rods and axes!—­No, the slaves can’t dare
    Play with my grief, and tempt my last despair. 
    This shall the honours which it won maintain,
    Or do me justice, ere I hug my chain.”