Cassius to remember the ides of March, and then launches into a eulogy of his motives in striking Caesar. But he is not sure that the motives of all the conspirators were above reproach. He is slowly being disillusioned, and with the disillusionment comes something of bitterness:

"for mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men."

The quarrel lasts only until Brutus gains control of himself. The excuse for his show of temper is this confession:

"O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.

Portia is dead.”

The death of Portia is only the one grief added to the “many” which makes him sink for a moment beneath the weight. But only for a moment. His philosophy asserts itself and when Cassius would lament for Portia he cuts him off, "Speak no more of her," and again, "No more, I pray you." It is a task to control himself but Brutus is schooled in this line and he succeeds to the admiration of his friend. Cassius says:

"I have as much of this in art as you,
And yet my nature could not bear it so."

Immediately there is talk of the morrow's engagement. Cassius would remain at Sardis and let the enemy seek him out. Brutus would march to Philippi. Why? Ostensibly to anticipate the augmentation of the opposing army and to take the tide in his own affairs at flood, but really to be engaged, to decide the issue at once and relieve the terrible anxiety of his soul. When "the deep of night is crept upon their talk" Brutus calls in the guards and tells them to sleep in his tent-perhaps he will otherwise bethink himself. He is restive and uneasy. Then he finds the book about which he had spoken harshly to Lucius and shows his troubled mind in this apology:

"Bear with me good boy, I am much forgetful.'

But he cannot read. He asks for music and the lad falls asleep. And always Brutus is thinking-thinking as only a man thinks

when remorse is preying upon his conscience and when selfaccusation is driving him to despair. The strain becomes unbearable and as he feels himself giving way his evil spirit takes shape before his eyes as the ghost of Caesar. Only for a moment is Brutus disconcerted. Here is occasion for self-exertion. He gets hold of himself but in that very act the ghost vanishes. Now action is more necessary than ever. He wakens the sleepers, sends the guards to Cassius, and busies himself in preparation for the march-outwardly the same Brutus as before.

Anticipating the outcome of the battle Brutus says his philosophy teaches him to endure with patience whatever may come, but when Cassius reminds him that, if defeated, he will be led captive through the streets of Rome, he cries out,

Must end that work the ides of March begun.”

From this time forth his conduct and words afford an unbroken revelation of a mind harassed by the spirit set in motion by that evil deed on the ides of March. Cassius dies acknowledging the power of Caesar, and as Brutus looks upon his dead friend he gives voice to the one thought that is burned into his brain:

"O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!
Thy spirit walks abroad."

Cassius is dead, the battle is lost, and Brutus is firmly resolved on his end. The strong nature is overwhelmed. His servants see him weep. He calls one of them to him and unburdens himself:

"The ghost of Caesar hath appear'd to me
Two several times by night; at Sardis once,
And, this last night, here in Philippi fields:
I know my hour is come."

He runs upon his sword and his dying words are a tribute to the

spirit of Caesar and at the same time an acknowledgment that this spirit has driven him to the deed:

"Caesar, now be still:

I kill'd not thee with half so good a will."

If the foregoing sketch is true to the facts we may conclude that Brutus's conscience troubles him from the very day he strikes Caesar until the hour when he falls upon that same sword and dies with Caesar's name on his lips. It is shown in his actions as he flees from the mob and as he rushes feverishly into the war; in his suspicious, irritable attitude toward Cassius and the servants; and most important of all, in his own words as he talks to the ghost in the solitude of night, as he expresses his fear of that spirit in the light of day, and as he confesses that his death is due to its mighty influence. And with this uneasiness of conscience there comes in his death a moral catastrophe-not to such a degree as in Macbeth, to be sure-but a moral catastrophe none the less. When he came to think on his deed it was the moral complexion of it which showed itself most conspicuously, and argue with himself and his friends as much as he might, he could not drive from his mind the fact of his own guilt-that he was a murderer.

All of which points to the fact that the Nemesis which pursued Brutus was not merely in the form of physical disaster. That is most prominent at first glance, but there is a retributive justice above and beyond it which in contrast we may call spiritual. Brutus the philosopher, Brutus the idealist, Brutus the student and man of books struck the blow which made him a criminal just as much in his ideal realm as in the practical world, and the inevitable retribution was the recognition of this fact and, consequently, the destruction of his ideal, the blasting of his philosophical creed, and his own spiritual as well as physical death.

Learning to Spell-Particularly ie and ei

FANNIE WILDER BROWN, BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS.

A

CCURACY or inaccuracy in one's habits of spelling may seem to be quite accidental, or to depend upon the amount of education one has had, and whether he is or is not a close observer, a ready reader or a frequent writer; or the ability to spell may seem to be an inherited trait, as if it came, for instance, from one's maternal grandmother with the curve of her cheek-bone or the color of her hair. But constant practice will soon show that whatever one's habit has been, correct spelling may be acquired by fixing the attention firmly upon the right form and holding it there for a sufficient length of time to make the record indelible. How long a time "a sufficient length" is, will of course vary according to the receptivity of the student's mind and the strength of the impression.

For example: A group of young people once formed a little club, calling themselves "The Inseparables." One of the girls who painted prettily made badges, twelve of them, of blue satin ribbon, painting the name on each one in white letters. She felt quite proud of her work until one of the boys in the club cautiously suggested that a would look better than the e she had painted in the third vowel's place. Although she had worked over those badges a long, long time, constantly misspelling "Inseparables", she never again forgot how it should have been spelled.

The effectiveness of various systems of memory-training depends upon this principle of fixing the attention, concentrating it, upon point after point of what is to be learned; and all training, if not too artificial, proves valuable not only for the particular case it covers, but for the whole faculty as well. We use one form of memory-training every time we make a child look up a spelling or a meaning for himself, instead of telling him what it is. "You will remember it better," we say, we say, "if you look

it up for yourself." That is, the effort required in the search stimulates the attention, and the desire to avoid the same effort again concentrates the mind upon the bit of information required. "C-e-i-l-i-n-g, ceiling" (or whatever the word may be), the child says: "c-e-i-l-i-n-g. I'll never forget that again. C-e-i-l-i-n-g." If the concentration is sharp enough, or is continued for a sufficient length of time, a permanent record of the information is made.

In the days of "spelling bees," the incentive rivalry made spelling an art. The art was mastered by learning "by heart" long columns of words given in spelling books of those days. To hold spelling bees is an excellent way to teach children of any age and any generation to spell, but the greater part of their drill should be given upon the written form of the words.

A knowledge of "the new psychology," of value in all education, is a great help in this particular branch. In general, we can most readily learn and teach by calling attention to likenesses; in particular, by linking together words which are spelled similarly, in order to make group-distinctions definite and the relations between them close; Herbert Spencer says, "Knowledge is classification." So far as is possible, in general we should avoid directing the attention of the child to that which we wish him to forget; specifically, avoid looking at misspelled words. If we write a word both ways, to see which one "looks right," promptly rub out the one which is wrong, and re-write the proper form times enough to fix it permanently in the memory.

In learning to spell English words, one of the greatest difficulties is to learn to distinguish between ie and ei. The only rule commonly taught is:

"I before e,
Except after c.

Or when sounded as a,

As in neighbor and weigh."

The rule as it stands is misleading, since besides those words having c before ei, and those having ei pronounced as long a, more than half as many words are found in ei as in ie. The rule does hold, however, as to words in which the sound of long a