the few minutes of portentous, deathlike silence which reigned throughout the house: the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence: "Socrates died like a philosopher"—then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his "sightless balls" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice "but Jesus Christ-like a God!" If he had been indeed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. LESSON CLXXXII. Scene from the Tragedy of King John.-SHAKSPEARE. Prince ARTHUR, HUBERT, and ATTENDANTS. Scene.-A room in the castle, Northampton. Enter HUBERT and two ATTENDANTS. Hubert. HEAT me these irons hot; and, look thou stand Within the arras: when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, And bind the boy, which you shall find with me, 1 Attendant. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed, Young lad, come forth; I have to say Enter ARTHur. Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Mercy on me Arth. I should be merry as the day is long; Is it my fault that I were Geoffrey's son ? Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day. In sooth, I would you were a little sick; That I might sit all night, and watch with you. I warrant, I love you more than you do me. Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. [Aside. Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out the door! I must be brief; lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.- Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? Arth. Hub. And will you? And I will. head; [Aside. Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, If heaven be pleased that you should use me ill, Hub. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age would do it: Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, Even in the matter of mine innocence: And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c. Do as I bid [Stamps. Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out, Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. [Exeunt Attendants. Arth. Alas, I then have chid away my friend: Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. O heaven! that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! * The two negatives in this line do not amount to an affirmative: they are used to strengthen the negation:-a solecism, tolerated in the age, and often found in the writings, of Shakspeare. Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, And would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it boy. Arth. No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with griefBeing create for comfort-to be used In undeserved extremes: See else yourself: The breath of heaven hath blown its spirit out, Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. That mercy which fierce fire, and iron, extends,- Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes For all the treasure that thine uncle owes;t Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised. Hub. Peace: no more: Adieu !— Arth. O heaven !-I thank you, Hubert. [Exeunt. LESSON CLXXXIII. The Contrasts of Alpine Scenery.—BYRON. Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu ! There can be no farewell to scenes like thine; Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise: More mighty spots may rise-more glaring shine, But none unite, in one attaching maze, The brilliant, fair, and soft,—the glories of old days. The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, In mockery of man's art; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall But these recede. Above me are the Alps, Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. |