Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio!
My father—methinks I see my father.

Hor. Where, my lord ?
Ham. In my



Hor. I saw him once; he was a goodly king,

Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.

Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
Ham. Saw! who?
Hor. My lord, the king, your father.
Ham. The king, my father!

Hor. Season your admiration for a while,
With an attent ear; till I may deliver
This marvel to you.

Ham. For heaven's love let me hear.

Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch, In the dead waist and middle of the night, Been thus encountered: a figure, like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-à-piè, Appears before them, and, with solemn march, Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walked By their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon's length; whilst they, distilled Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me, In dreadful secrecy, impart they did; And I with them, the third night, kept the watch: Where, as they had delivered, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes. I knew your father; These hands are not more like.

Ham. But where was this?

Hor. My lord, upon the platform where we watched.

Ham. Did you not speak to it?

Hor. My lord, I did; But answer made it none. Yet once, methought, It lifted up its head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak: But, even then, the morning cock crew loud;

And, at the sound, it shrunk in haste away,
And vanished from our sight.

Ham. 'Tis very strange.

Hor. As I do live, my honoured lord, 'tis true; And we did think it writ down in our duty, To let


know of it. Ham. Indeed, indeed, Sir, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night?

Hor. We do, my lord.
Ham. Armed, say you?
Hor. Armed, my lord.
Ham. From top to toe?
Hor. My lord, from head to foot.
Ham. Then saw you not his face.
Hor. O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.
Ham. What, looked he frowningly?

Hor. A countenance more
In sorrow than in anger.

Ham. Pale, or red?
Hor. Nay, very pale.
Ham. And fixed his eyes upon you?
Hor. Most constantly.
Ham. I would I had been there!
Hor. It would have much amazed you.
Ham. Very like, very like;-Staid it long?
Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a

Ham. His beard was grizzled ?-no?

Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silvered.

Ham. I will watch to-night; Perchance 'twill walk again.

Hor. I warrant 'twill.

Ham. If it assume my noble father's person,
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape,
And bid me hold my peace. I pray you, Sir,
If you have hitherto concealed this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still;
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue;
I will requite your love: so, fare you well.

Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve,

I'll visit you.

PARABLE OF THE PRODIGAL SON, A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said unto his father, “Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living. And, not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And, when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled himself with the husks that the swine did eat; but no man gave unto him.

And, when he came to himself, he said, “How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough, and to spare;—and I perish with hunger! I will arise, and go to my father, and will say unto him-Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants.

and came to his father. But, when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son." But the father said to his servants, “ Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet;-and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry:—for this, my son, was dead, and is alive again;-he was lost, and is found.”

Now his elder son was in the field and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing And he called one of the servants, and asked what these things meant. And he said

And he arose,


unto him, “ Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound."

And he was angry; and would not go in: therefore came his father out and entreated him. And he, answering, said to his father, "Lo, these many years have I served thee, neither transgressed I, at any time, thy commandment; and yet-thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry

friends: But, as soon as this thy son was come, who hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.”

And the father said unto him "Son, thou art ever with me; and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry and be glad; for this--thy brother-was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.”

with my


Character of John Playfair, Professor of Natural Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh.

JEFFREY. It has struck many people, we believe, as very extraordinary, that so eminent a man as Mr. Playfair should have been allowed to sink into his grave in the midst of us, without calling forth almost so much as an attempt to commemorate his merit, even in a common newspaper; and that the death of a man so celebrated and beloved, and at the same time so closely connected with many who could well

appreciate and suitably describe his excellencies, should be left to the brief and ordinary notice of the daily obituary. No event of the kind certainly ever excited more general sympathy; and no individual, we are persuaded, will be longer or more affectionately remembered by all the classes of his fellow-citizens: and yet it is to these very circumstances that we must look for an explanation of the apparent neglect with which his memory has been followed.

We beg leave to assure our readers, that it is merely from an anxiety to do something to gratify


this natural impatience, that we presume to enter at all upon a subject, to which we are perfectly aware, that we are incapable of doing justice. For, of Mr. Playfair's scientific attainments—of his proficiency in those studies to which he was peculiarly devoted, we are but slenderly qualified to judge; but, we believe, we hazard nothing in saying that he was one of the most learned mathematicians of his age, and among the first, if not the very first, who introduced the beautiful discoveries of the later continental geometers to the knowledge of his countrymen,

and gave their just and true place, in the scheme of European knowledge, to those important improvements by which the whole aspect of the abstract sciences has been renovated since the days of our illustrious Newton.

If he did not signalize himself by any brilliant or original invention, he must at least be allowed to have been a most generous and intelligent judge of the achievements of others, as well as the most eloquent expounder of that great and magnificent system of knowledge which has been gradually evolved by the successive labours of so many gifted individuals. He possessed, indeed, in the highest degree, all the characteristics both of a fine and a powerful understanding—at once penetrating and vigilant—but more distinguished, perhaps, for the caution and sureness of its march, than for the brilliancy or rapidity of its movements—and guided and adorned through all its progress by the most genuine enthusiasm for all that is grand, and the justest taste for all that is beautiful, in the truth or the intellectual energy with which he was habitually conversant.

Mr. Playfair was not merely a teacher; and has fortunately left behind him a variety of works, from which other generations may be enabled to judge of some of those qualifications which so powerfully recommended and endeared him to his contemporaries. It is, perhaps, to be regretted that so much of his time, and so large a proportion of his publications, should have been devoted to the subjects of the In

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