ancestors, Robert. To-night you shall be entirely English: you shall read an English book."
"An old English book?"
"Yes, an old English book, one that you like; and I will choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with something in you. It shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music: it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound. Your heart is a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and touch it; you will see how he will draw the English power and melody out of its chords."
"I must read Shakspeare?"
"You must have his spirit before you: you must hear his voice with your mind's ear: you must take some of his soul into yours."
"With a view to making me better; is it to operate like a sermon?"
"It is to stir you; to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly, not only your virtues, but your vicious, perverse points."
"Dìeu! que dit-elle?" cried Hortense, who hitherto had been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not much attended to what was said, but whose ear these two strong words caught with a tweak.
"Never mind her, sister: let her talk; now just let her say anything she pleases to-night. She likes
