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Murphian Meanderings

Comrades, and fellow-citizens of this fair land! Kindly favour me with your attention for a few moments. My presence here this afternoon is not indicative of any intention to scatter glowing tributes—verbal bouquets, as it were—with unbridled largesse over the bier of our late comrade, Caesar. But I have come to administer the last rites and shed a few commiserating tears before the final ceremony takes place in the crematorium across the road. When I was a boy, I heard a noted politician remark that the recollection of men's shady transactions always outlived, in the public mind, the sense of gratification promoted by their philanthrophy. That observation may have been the product of a jaundiced outlook upon things in general, but it is nevertheless true, and the post mortem reputation of our esteemed and departed friend will, I am afraid, have to suffer in common with that of myriad generations of his predecessors.

My learned colleague, Professor Belsh—I beg your pardon, Marcus Brutus—has somewhat unjustifiably drawn the inference that Caesar was ambitious. But why should he be ambitious at this stage? Wasn't that precisely why they gave him such a nasty jolt? By the way, I should explain that T am considerably obliged to Brutus and his cronies—quite good fellows; I've got nothing against them—for this valued opportunity of saying a few words, by way of special dispensation, before Caesar's body is consigned to the flames, and evaporates, dust to dust and ashes to ashes, so to speak, into thin air.

Anything Brutus may allege to the contrary notwithstanding, Caesar was a particular friend of mine, and a good cobber he was, in every respect. His frequent military expeditions resulted invariably in the importation, within these ancient walls, of hordes of dusky heathen captives, and, after every trip, he handed over a generous dividend to a gratified public. Was this ambition, or anything like it? Clearly not.

Let me tell you a little story that hits off the situation exactly—and this is a perfectly true one! On the occasion of the recent Lupercal rejoicings, I made several attempts—three, as a matter of fact—to induce Caesar to wear the diadem of royalty upon his aristrocratic brow. Did he? There was absolutely nothing doing; it left him cold. To suggest that the attitude of our late friend in that matter exhibits a scintilla, an iota, one jot or tittle, of ambition, is futile and ridiculous and absurd.?

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Now I want to make it clear that this is a matter in which you must think for yourselves, and that I am not saying anything against Belsh—I mean Brutus. He has to make his living; il fout vivre, if you will excuse the pronunciation, but you know what I mean; and anyway, I often meet him at the club over a friendly cup of tea. This is not a personal contest between Brutus and myself. If it were, I can tell you right away who would come out on top. I can well remember the time when the late Caesar stood upon a pedestal, as it were, of affection and esteem, and justifiably so. Many of those present have, doubtless, recorded their opinions in his favour at the ballot-box in the good old days. But the ebbing tide of public gratitude has long been evident, even to one in my position, and former things have passed. What a crowd of congenital idiots these horny-handed plebians are! What is all this airy badinage about justice? What do they know about it? Bah! Pardon this somewhat unseemly exhibition of my emotions—one's heart has a tendency to dictate to one's intellect under such circumstances. In fact, my heart is not at the moment available; it reposes with the remains of our late friend not far from here.

It will be remembered or, if it will not, it can now be pointed out, that only so recently as at the last elections, the late Caesars' personal undertaking was accepted everywhere as literally as safe as the Bank of England. Modern investigations have shown that view to be effete. By Jove, if I cared to lay myself open to the charge of fostering Bolshevistic and seditious sentiments—not that there's anything intrinsically wrong with Bolshevism—I could point out to Brutus and Cassius just where they get off. But I never allow personal opinions to obtrude in the least upon occasions of such funereal solemnity as this, and I must regretfully deprive you of the pleasure of listening to a tirade of lyrical invective from me. So much for that.

I hold in my hand the authentic last will and testament of our late mutual friend. But do you think I am going to hand it round for general perusal? Not on your life. To do so would inevitably occasion a beastly and contemptible scramble for relics, and turn this sacred spot into a perspiring bargain counter, as it were, of greedy citizens clamouring for even a hair of old Caesar's head, as if he were not bald enough already.

"The will, show us the will!"

Prof. B.E.M.—Would you like to see the will? Hands up all those who would like to see the will.

Prof. B.E.M.—I have not got, by any means, a clear mandate, so I do not propose going into details about the will.

—P.R.