North. (To WORCESTER.) Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad. Worcester. Who struck this heat up, after I was gone? Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners; And when I urged the ransom once again Of my wife's brother, then his cheek looked pale, Wor. I cannot blame him. Was he not proclaimed North. He was: I heard the proclamation; And then it was when the unhappy king (Whose wrongs in us God pardon !) did set forth Upon his Irish expedition : From whence he, intercepted, did return To be deposed, and shortly, murdered. Wor. And for whose death we in the world's wide mouth Live scandalized and foully spoken of. But now I will unclasp a secret book, or sink or swim, Hot. If he fall in good-night! North. Imagination of some great exploit Hot. By Heaven! methinks it were an easy leap To pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon; Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honor by the locks, But out upon this half-faced fellowship! Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here, By Heaven! he shall not have a Scot of them : SHAKESPEARE. GOOD READING THE GREATEST ACCOMPLISH MENT. THERE is one accomplishment, in particular, which I would earnestly recommend to you. Cultivate assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to particularize this, because it is a thing so very much neglected, and because it is such an elegant, and charming accomplishment. Where one person is really interested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. Where one person is capable of becoming a skilful musician, twenty may become good readers. Where there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of musical talent, there are twenty for that of good reading. The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conversation. Good reading is the natural exponent and vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of all commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit down familiarly with the great and good of all ages. Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy Scriptures have when well read? Have you ever heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading to them the parable of the Prodigal Son? Princes and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and murderers, merely to share with them the privilege of witnessing the marvellous pathos which genius, taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story. What a fascination there is in really good reading! What a power it gives one! In the hospital, in the chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic and in the social circle, among chosen friends and companions, how it enables you to minister to the amusement, the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument of man's devising can reach the heart as does that most wonderful instrument, the human voice. It is God's special gift and endowment to his chosen creatures. not away in a napkin. Fold it If you would double the value of all your other acquisitions, if you would add immeasurably to your own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, this divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man or woman of high culture. JOHN S. HART. THE BALLAD OF BABIE BELL. HAVE you not heard the poets tell The gates of heaven were left ajar; She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even,— Its bridges running to and fro, O'er which the white-winged angels go, She touched a bridge of flowers, those feet, They fell like dew upon the flowers, Into this world of ours. She came and brought delicious May, The swallows built beneath the eaves; The robins went the livelong day; The lily swung its noiseless bell, And o'er the porch the trembling vine, How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! Came to this world of ours! O Babie, dainty Babie Bell, Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright, Of those oped gates of Paradise. Was love so lovely born: We felt we had a link between The land beyond the morn. And for the love of those dear eyes, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ—our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. And now the orchards, which were white, The grapes hung purpling in the grange; Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In softened curves, her mother's face! Her angel-nature ripened too. We thought her lovely when she came |