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,
And on my face he turned an eye of death,
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer.

Wor. I cannot blame him. Was he not proclaimed
By Richard that dead is, the next of blood?

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,
And to your quick-conceiving discontents
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and advent'rous spirit
As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

or sink or swim,

Hot. If he fall in good-night!
Send danger from the East unto the West,
So honor cross it from the North to South,
And let them grapple. Oh, the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

North. Imagination of some great exploit
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

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,
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear,
Without corrival, all her dignities:

But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.
Good cousin, give me audience for a while,
And list to me.

By Heaven! he shall not have a Scot of them :
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not:
I'll keep them, by this hand!

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
How came the dainty Babie Bell
Into this world of ours?

The gates of heaven were left ajar;
With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
Wandering out of Paradise,

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,
Bearing the holy dead to heaven.

She touched a bridge of flowers,
So light they did not bend the bells
Of the celestial asphodels!

those feet,

They fell like dew upon the flowers,
Then all the air grew strangely sweet-
And thus came dainty Babie Bell

Into this world of ours.

She came and brought delicious May,

The swallows built beneath the eaves;
Like sunlight in and out the leaves,

The robins went the livelong day;

The lily swung its noiseless bell,

And o'er the porch the trembling vine,
Seemed bursting with its veins of wine.

How sweetly, softly, twilight fell!
Oh, earth was full of singing-birds,
And opening spring-tide flowers,
When the dainty Babie Bell

Came to this world of ours!

O Babie, dainty Babie Bell,
How fair she grew from day to day!
What woman-nature filled her eyes,
What poetry within them lay!

Those deep and tender twilight eyes,

So full of meaning, pure and bright,
As if she yet stood in the light

Of those oped gates of Paradise.
And so we loved her more and more
Ah, never in our hearts before

Was love so lovely born:

We felt we had a link between
This real world and that unseen

The land beyond the morn.

And for the love of those dear eyes,
For love of her whom God led forth
(The mother's being ceased on earth.
(When Babie came from Paradise), –
For love of Him who smote our lives,

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,
And red with blossoms when she came,
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime.
The clustered apples burnt like flame,
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell,
The ivory chestnut burst its shell,

The grapes hung purpling in the grange;
And time wrought just as rich a change
In little Babie Bell.

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
But she was holy, saintly now: —
Around her pale, angelic brow
We saw a slender ring of flame.