ing himself into the very spirit of the scene, he took
up the words:--

"'O my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,
A brother's murder!--Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence;
And what's in prayer but this twofold force--
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardoned, being down? Then I'll look up;
My fault is past. But O what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder?--
That cannot be; since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder,--
My crown, my own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardoned and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but 'tis not so _above_.
There is no shuffling; there the action lies
In its true nature; and we ourselves compelled,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? What rests?
Try what repentance can; what can it not?
Yet what can it when one cannot repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O bruised soul that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels, make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees! And heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe;
All may be well!'

"He repeated this entire passage from memory, with a feeling and
appreciation unsurpassed by anything I ever witnessed upon the stage.
Remaining in thought for a few moments, he continued:--

"'The opening of the play of "King Richard the Third" seems to me often
entirely misapprehended. It is quite common for an actor to come upon
the stage, and, in a sophomoric style, to begi