bad husbands, bad children, what cemeteries are appointed for these? Do they not sleep in consecrated ground-or is it a pious fiction, a generous oversight in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who in their lifetime discharged the offices of life perhaps but lamely? Their feelings, with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. Man wars not with the dead. It is a trait of human nature, for which I love it.

CHARLES LAMB.

HUBERT AND ARTHUR.

Good morrow, little prince,

Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert.
Hubert.

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be.-You are sad.
Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.

Mercy on me!

Arth.
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practices more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him :

Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son?
No, indeed is't not; and I would to heaven

I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden and despatch.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day;
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,

[Aside,

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.

[Showing a paper.

Read here, young Arthur.
[Aside.]
How now, foolish rheum !
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!

I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
Hub. Young boy, I must.

Arth.

Hub.

And will you?

And I will.

Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my hand-kerchief 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;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;

Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning; do, an if you will:

If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,

Why, then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did nor never shall

So much as frown on you?

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! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation,

Even in the matter of mine innocence;
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
An if an angel should have come to me,

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believed him,-no tongue but Hubert's.
Hub. Come forth.

Do as I bid

Enter Attendants, with Cords, Irons, etc.

you

do.

[Stamps.

Arth. Oh, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous-rough?

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ;

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly:

Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

First Attend. I am best pleased to be from such a deed. [Exeunt Attendants. Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend!

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart :-
Let him come back, that his compassion may

Give life to yours.

Hub.

Arth. Is there no remedy?

Hub.

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

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!

Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Hub. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue. Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes: Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert ; Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use, but still to look on you! 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 grief, Being create for comfort, to be us'd

In undeserv'd extremes: see else yourself;

There is no malice in this burning coal;

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,

And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes; And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office: only you do lack

That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes For all the treasures that thine uncle owes :

Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy,

With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth. Oh, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised.

Peace: no more.

Adieu;

Hub.
Your uncle must not know but you are dead :
I'll fill these doggèd spies with false reports,
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.

Arth.

O heaven!-I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence; no more; go closely in with me: Much danger do I undergo for thee.

W. SHAKESPEARE.

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.

WILLIAM, king of the English and duke of the Normans, bears a name which must for ever stand forth among the foremost of mankind. No man that ever trod this earth was ever endowed with greater natural gifts; to no man was it ever granted to accomplish greater things. If we look only to the scale of a man's acts, without regard to their moral character, we must hail in the victor of Val-ès-dunes, of Varaville, and of Senlac, the restorer of Normandy, the Conqueror of England, one who may fairly claim his place in the first rank of the world's greatest men. No man ever did his work more effectually at the moment; no man ever left his work behind him as more truly an abiding possession for all time. And, when we consider all the circumstances of his life, when we judge him by the standard of his own age, above all, when we compare him with those who came after him in his own house, we shall perhaps be inclined to dwell on his great qualities, on his many undoubted virtues, rather than to put his no less undoubted crimes in their darkest light. As we cannot refuse to place him among the greatest of men, neither will a candid judgment incline us to place him among the worst of men. If we cannot give him a niche among pure patriots and heroes, he is quite as little entitled to a place among mere tyrants and destroyers.