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Approaching ncar these eyes, would drink my tears,
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron ?
I would not have believed him. Notongue but Hubert's -* 10 Hub.Come forth.
[Stamps. Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c. Do as I bid you do.
ARTH. O, 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. 15 Arth. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous-rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
Nor look upon the iron angerly;
HUB. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 25 1st 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. 30 HUB.
Come, boy, prepare yourself.
* This line has been read variously. We give it as it is printed in Charles Knight's pictorial edition. “Arthur begins a fresh sentence, which is interrupted by Hubert's stamping. He is about to say, ' No tongue but Hubert's would have made me believe it.'"
HUB. None, but to lose your eyes.
grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,
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 : 10 Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert !
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
I can heat it, boy. .
In undeserved extremes: See else yourself: 20 There is no malice in this burning coal ;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
ARTI. And if you do, you will but make it blush, 25 And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert;
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ;
All things, that you should use to do me wrong, 30 Deny their office ; only you do lack
That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, --
Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes
* Urge or set him on.
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
Arth. O, now you look like Hubert ! all this while You were disguised. 6 HUB.
Peace: no more. Adieu ;
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 10 Will not offend thee.
ARTH. O heaven!— I thank you, Hubert.
HUB. Silence: no more. Go closely in with me:
XLII. - ETERNITY OF GOD.
GREENWOOD, (FRANCIS WILLIAM PITT GREENWOOD was born in Boston, February 5. 1797, was graduated at Harvard College, in 1814, and settled in 1818 as pastor over the New South Church, in Boston. But he was soon obliged to leave this post of duty, on account of his failing health. In 1824, he was settled as colleague to the late Dr. Freeman, over the church worshipping in King's Chapel. He died August 2, 1843. He was a man of rare purity of life, who preached the gospel by his works as well as his words. His manner in the pulpit was simple, impressive, and winning; and his sermons were deeply imbued with true religious feeling. His style was beautifully transparent and graceful, revealing a poetical imagination under the control of a pure taste. He was a frequent contributor to the “ North American Review” and the " Christian Examiner," and for a time was one of the editors of the latter periodical. A volume entitled “Sermons of Consolation," appeared during his lifetime, and a selection from his sermons, with an introductory memoir, was published after his death.
Dr. Greenwood was an attentive student of natural history, and was an accurate observer of nature, with remarkable powers of description. Some of his lighter productions, contributed to the gift annuals of the day, have great merit as vivid and picturesque delineations of natural scenes and objects. The following extract is from one of his sermons.]
We receive such repeated intimations of decay in the world through which we are passing, — decline, and change, and loss, follow decline and change and loss, in
such rapid succession, — that we can almost catch the sound of universal wasting, and hear the work of desolation going on busily around us. “The mountain falling
cometh to nought, and the rock is removed out of his place. 5 The waters wear the stones, the things which grow out of
the dust of the earth are washed away, and the hope of man is destroyed.”
Conscious of our own instability, we look about for something to rest on; but we look in vain. The heavens 10 and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end.
The face of the world is changing, daily and hourly. All animated things grow old and die. The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, and the grass withers.
The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing, away 15 from us.
The firmest works of man, too, are gradually giving way. The ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower
springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these 20 perishable works have shared the same fate, long ago. If
we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as well as the dwellings of former times, they become immediately associated in our imaginations, and only make the
feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before. 25 In the spacious domes which once held our fathers, the
serpent hisses and the wild bird screams. The halls which once were crowded with all that taste, and science, and labor could procure, which resounded with melody and
were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own 30 ruins, mocked by their own desolation. The voice of mer
riment and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle, have ceased in the deserted courts, and the weeds choke the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth
stone. The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, 35 the very ashes they contained, are all gone.
While we thus walk among the ruins of the past, a sad
feeling of insecurity comes over us; and that feeling is by no means diminished when we arrive at home. If we turn to our friends, we can hardly speak to them before
they bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments, 5 and in a few moments more their countenances are
changed, and they are sent away. It matters not how near and dear they are. The ties which bind us together are never too close to be parted, or too strong to be
broken. Tears were never known to move the king of 10 terrors, neither is it enough that we are compelled to sur
render one, or two, or many, of those we love ; for though the price is so great, we buy no favor with it, and our hold on those who remain is as slight as ever. The shad
ows all elude our grasp, and follow one another down the 15 valley.
We gain no confidence, then, no feeling of security, by turning to our contemporaries and kindred. We know that the forms which are breathing around us are as
short-lived and fleeting as those were which have been 20 dust for centuries. The sensation of vanity, uncertainty,
and ruin is equally strong, whether we muse on what has long been prostrate, or gaze on what is falling now, or will fall so soon.
If everything which comes under our notice has en25 dured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be
no more, we cannot say that we receive the least assurance by thinking on ourselves. When they, on whose fate we have been meditating, were engaged in the active scenes
of life, as full of health and hope as we are now, what 30 were we? We had no knowledge, no consciousness, no
being there was not a single thing in the wide universe which knew us. And after the same interval shall have elapsed, which now divides their days from ours, what
shall we be ? What they are now. 35 When a few more friends have left, a few more hopes
deceived, and a few more changes mocked us, “we shall