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modesties have not craft enough to color; I know the good king and queen have sent for you. Ros. To what end, my lord?

Ham. That you must teach me. But let me conjure" you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether ye were sent for, or no *

Ros. What say you? [To Guildbnstern.]

Ham. Nay, then I have an eye of you; [Aside.] if you love me, hold not off.

Guil. My lord, we were sent for.

Ham. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen inoultH no feather. I have of late (but wherefore I know not) lost al] my mirth, foregone all custom of exercises: and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile prom'ontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form, and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the p&r'agon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? . . . Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands. You are welcome; but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.

Guil. In what, my dear lord?

Ham. I am but mad north-north-west; when the wind ia southerly^ I know a hawk from a hand-saw.

ANOTHER SCENE WITH THE SAME.

Guil. Good, my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.

Ham. Sir, a whole history.

Guil. The king, sir, —

Ham. Ay, sir, what of him?

Guil. Is, in his retirement, marvellous distempered.

Ham. With drink, sir?

Guil. No, my lord, with choler

Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more" richer, to signify this to the doctor; for, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps, plunge him into more choler.

Guil. Good, my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair. Ham. I am tame, sir; pronounce.

Guil. The queen your mother, in most great affliction of spirit hath sent me to you.

Ham. You are welcome.

Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother's commandment; if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business.

Ham. Sir, I cannot.

Guil. What, my lord?

Ham. Make you a wholesome answer; my wit's diseased: but, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or, rather, as you say, my mother; therefore no more, but to the matter. My mother, you say, —

Eos. Then thus she says : Your behavior hath struck her into amazement and admiration.

Ham. O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother's admiration 2 Impart.

Eos. She desires to speak with you in her closet, ere you go to bed.

Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Havo you any further trade with us?

Eos. My lord, you once did love me.

Ham. And do still, by these pickers and stealers! [Showing his fingers.]

Eos. Good, my lord; what is your cause of distemper? You do surely but bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend.

Ham. Sir, I lack advancement.

Eos. How can that be, when you have the voice of the king himself for your succession in Denmark?

Ham. Ay, sir, but, "While the grass grows," — the proverb is something musty. [Enter the Players, with recorders.]" O, the recorders: — let me see one. To withdraw with you : — J To Guil.] Why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

Guil. O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

Ham. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?

Ghal. My lord, I cannot.
Ham. I pray you.

Guil. Believe me, I cannot.

Ham I do beseech you.

Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord.

Ham. 'T is as easy as lying; govern these ventages wkh your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

Guil But these cannot I command to any utterance of haruony; I have not the skill.

Ham. Why, look you, now, how unworthy a thing you mace of me! You would play upon me ;m you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of m/ compass, —and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak. Why, do you think I am easier to be played on than s. pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. Shakspeare

CLXXIII. — POETRY OP THE SEASONS.
PART THIRD.

1. A Beautiful Dav In Autumn. Southey.

Tuere was not, on that day, a speck to stain
The azure heaven; the blessed Sun alono.
In unapproachable divinity,
Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light.
Ilow beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky,
The billows heave! one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst,
Einbathed in emerald glory. All the flocks
Of Ocean are abroad; like floating foam,
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves;
With long, protruded neck, the cormorants
Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.
It was a day that sent into the heart
A summer feeling: even the insect swarms
From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth,
To sport through one day of existence more;
The Bolitary primrose on the bank
Seemed now as though it had no cause to mourn

Its bleak autumnal birth; the rocks and shores,
The forest, and the everlasting hills,
Smiled in that joyful sunshine, — they partook
The universal blessing.

2. An American Autumnal Scene. Anon.

Standing upon this mountain-side, you look

Far down and round on forest beyond forest,

Sweeping through vales profound and up steep hills,

Where every leaf by Autumn's alchemy

Is changed to some rich gem. The maple here

Shoots up its ruby spire, and there the oak

Stands all transmuted into burnished gold.

The woodbine hangs festoons of purple there

Around the yellow sycamore, and here

A shower of amethysts and sapphires bright

Suspended glitters on the drapery

Of the majestic elm. How glorious all

Beneath this unobscured October sun!

And now a breeze sets every tint in motion.

Lakes, cataracts, and streams of painted leaves,

Are heaving, flowing in the admiring light!

The wild birds sing as if their sense partook

The rapture of the poet, and his speech

Essays to utter the unspeakable!

3. November. Bryant.

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!

One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, Ere o'er the frozen earth the loud winds run,

Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,

And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze,

Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee

Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,

And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

4. Hope Amin Decay.

O'er the wild waste the autumnal leaf careers;

Nor vale nor mountain now is ripe with flowers; Nature's fair brow the snow of winter sears,

And all but Hopo hath fled her once green bowers, — Hope, with her sunny hair.

And why thus lonely lingers she, when aii
The glorious gifts of Summer are no more! —

Her foot already treads Spring's leafy hall!

Her eyes see sunbeams gild the distant shore,—
Distant, yet still how fair!

CLXXIV. — TELEGRAPHS.

1. Fi Om the earliest times, men have known how to communicate with those living at a distance, especially in times of urgency by means of the fire-signal. When, however, from hill to hill over a whcle landscape, the beacon-flames arose, these signals could communicate no very definite information. It could only be learned that some great event had occurred. Vastly more useful, therefore, were the telegraphs," which, by varying the positions of their arms, represented letters, syllables, and whole words, and so rendered a regular conversation possible between individuals separated by a hostile army, or other insurmountable obstructions. The language which these telegraphs exchanged with one another, from one tower or steeple to another, before the eyes of the enemy, or thousands of the curious, depended upon an agreement between those who had to converse by these means; to them alone was it intelligible. Others, who lacked the key, could only guess at the meaning of the quickly-changing positions of the machine.

2. Of a quite different character are the telegraphs of which we now propose to speak. By their means the apparently impossible has been made easy. Two persons, living fifty, or, indeed, hundreds of miles apart, may now communicate their thoughts in words, not, as in the case of the ordinary telegraph, in the space of an hour, or a half-hour, but instantly, as if they were seated at the same table. And could a connection by copper wire be established between Washington and Pekin', and the loss of power which the electric fluid would sustain in such a space be avoided, then might a person in the capital of China receive intelligence from the United States in a fraction of a second; and even the man in the moan, if our electric fluid could be carried thither, would hear from the earth in the space of a second, for the transmission of thought by this method is swifter than light. The electric fluid travels in this way about two hundred and eighty-eight thousand miles in a second; a ray of light, only one hundred and ninety-two thousand miles.

3. But, in addition to this all-surpassing speed, such a mode

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