that the original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews: the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet: my soul kindled with a flame of indignation; and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiv ing meekness of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven; his voice breathing to God, a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do"-the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual, but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive, how he would be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall. Butno: the descent was as beautiful and sublime, as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastick. The first sentence, with which he broke the awful silence, was a quotation from Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ, like a God!" I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before, did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher: his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian and Milton, and associating with his performance, the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and then, 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 scarce ly have been more divine. LESSON CLXXXII. · Scene from the Tragedy of King John.-SHAKSPEARE. 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, Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. 1 Attendant. I hope, your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to’t.— [Exeunt Attendants. Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter ARTHUR. Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert. Arth. I should be merry as the day is long; Is it my fault that I were Geoffrey's son? [Aside. Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day. In sooth, I would you were a little sick; I warrant, I love you more than you do me. Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.— Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now fool ish 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. [Aside. Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows, (The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) And I did never ask it you again: And with my hand at midnight held your head; Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief? 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: Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron? And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c. Do as I bid you do. [stamps. Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of the bloody men. 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. 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. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief— Being create for comfort to be used In undeserved extremes: See else yourself: There is no malice in this burning coal; 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 Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this while Hub. Arth. O heaven!-I thank you, Hubert. [Exeunt. |