was he was in want of. The woodman replied, that he only desired a small piece of wood, in order to make a handle to his hatchet. This seemed so modest a request, that the trees unanimously decided that he should have a piece of good, sound, tough ash. But the woodman, as soon as he had received it and fitted it to his purpose, began to lay about him most unmercifully; hacking and hewing, and laying prostrate some of the noblest trees in the forest: upon which the oak is said to have spoken thus to the beech, in a low whisper: Brothers, we must take our fate for our pains.' MORAL.-Though we are commanded to forgive and love our enemies, yet we are not foolishly or inadvertently to put the means of injuring us into their power. THE CID AND HIS CREDITORS.1 THIS little incident in the life of the Cid Ruy Dias of Bivar is taken from the well-known Spanish Metrical Chronicle of the great hero. Muller's Ed. § 39. "What a pleasure it is," said the poet Shenstone, "to pay one's debts!" And he gives seven good reasons for the pleasure; which reasons it is of less consequence to transcribe, because they are best discovered by making the experiment. It will be seen by the gallant Cid's own candid confession, that he did not think his conduct in this transaction altogether fit for imitation; he seems to have somewhat too confidently also taken money for the hide, before he had killed the bear. But he seems to have been in no danger of forgetting, what some great men have forgotten in later times, that a reputation, however brilliant, is worth nothing to a man who does not pay his debts. WOULD you hear of brave Rodrigo, Is the test of gentle blood. One sole doubt it was that vex'd him,- For his road against the Moor. Seated at his friendly board: Ere your prudence answers nay. Ye would count it worth your gold. Ere a twelvemonth and a day, Each away their coffers bore, They were fill'd with shifting sand. (1) From Lays of Faith and Loyalty; or, Narratives in Verse, selected from History, by Edward Churton, M. A. Cambridge, Walters. 1815. A volume of poems of very considerable merit, founded pon historical incidents illustrative of the virtues of faith and loyalty. They are intended chiefly for the young. Days and months pass on unheeded, And Rodrigo, brave as bold, Banish'd, wrong'd, despoil'd, heart-wounded,-- Fell to his victorious sword, From a true and constant knight. "And to my right-honour'd masters, Riguel and Menezes old, Bear two hundred marks of silver, And two hundred marks of gold; Bow'd beneath Misfortune's hand. Miscellaneous. "I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne. ORIGIN OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF MUSICIANS. NEAR the beginning of the last century, an eminent German oboist, named Kaitch, came to England, where his performance was for a long time in great request; but, being of improvident habits, he died in great poverty, leaving his family destitute. Soon afterwards, Festing, the famous violinist of that day, with Weidemann the flute-player, and Vincent the oboist, happened to observe two interesting little boys, who had an appearance above their condition, driving milchasses down the Haymarket; and found, on inquiry, that they were the orphan sons of poor Kaitch. Struck with pity for the children of their brother professor, these musicians instantly raised a subscription for their relief; and it was to the consideration suggested by this circumstance, of the necessity of establishing a fund for the benefit of the families of indigent musicians, that the profession owes the existence of "The Royal Society of Musicians," which excellent and most useful institution was founded in the year 1738. SAGACITY OF A DOG. DURING the American war, Captain Gregg, and a brother officer, returning from hunting, were fired upon by an ambush of Indians. Both fell, and the Indians coming up, struck them on the forehead with the tomahawk, and scalped them. Captain Gregg, in describing the operation, said, he felt as if molten lead were poured on his head; yet he had the hardihood to lie still, suppressing his breath, to make them suppose he was dead. When they had left him, he felt as if something cooling were applied to his burning head; this was caused by the coldness of the tongue of his dog, which was licking it. The dog, after fawning upon him, left him, and disappeared in the woods. Captain Gregg, in attempting to rise, found he was wounded in the back by a musket-shot, and severely bruised on the forehead by See page 126. the stroke of a tomahawk, which would most probably, have knocked out his brains, had not its force been broken by his hat. He crawled to his brother officer, who lay dead near him, and opening his waistcoat, laid his throbbing head upon his warm bosom ; for the sticks and stones among which he lay were torture to him. Here he expected death to put an end to his sufferings. In the mean time, the dog hastened home to the captain's friends, and by his manner showed that some accident had befallen his master. They followed the dog, which guided them to the scene described, where they arrived just in time to save the life of Captain Gregg, who, under the care of a skilful surgeon, ultimately recovered. BATHS AND WASH-HOUSES FOR THE LABOURING CLASSES. THE baths and wash-houses for the labouring classes in the parish of St. Pancras, now in course of erection around the base of the extensive reservoir belonging to the New River Company, in the Hampstead-road, have been thrown open for the inspection of the public. The site for this building, occupying about 7,000 square feet, has been handsomely presented to the Committee by the New River Company, at the nominal rent of 58. per year, and the sum raised by voluntary contributions for the purpose of the erection amounts to about 6007. The building (the entrance to which is in Georgestreet, Hampstead-road) extends around the east, south, and northern sides of the reservoir, and the arrangements made, and rapidly progressing towards completion, will provide thirty single baths, twenty for men and ten for women, five vapour baths, and two large plunging baths. In the washing department, accommodation is provided for sixty-four washing compartments, &c. The whole of these compartments are exceedingly commodious, having steam-pipes, and all other necessaries for boiling and cold water, as occasion may require. The plunging baths are very capacious, the larger being sixty feet long and thirty feet wide, and the smaller, forty feet by twenty. To a poor man or woman, the charge for a separate cold bath, containing sixty gallons of water, will be one penny, and a warm bath twopence, fresh water and clean towels being provided for each bather. There are a few higher priced baths, differing only from the others in having more expensive fittings. The charge for the use of a double washing-tub, with an ample supply of hot and cold water, of the coppers, dryingroom, and ironing apparatus, will be at the rate of one penny for three hours. There is but little doubt the establishment, when completed, will prove of great bement is expected to be got into operation in the course nefit to the poor of the neighbourhood. The establishof a few weeks, although it is stated that 3007. more is required to effect its completion.-From a Newspaper. CONTENTS. Page Nature's Farewell, (with 11- Palfrey The Lunatic Asylum..... The History of Sir John Fastolf Page North American Indian Tra125 dition of the Deluge....... Reading for the YoungRiver Steamers The Woodman and the Farest (with an Illustration)The Cid and his Creditors 126 127 123 Miscellaneous.. 120 London:-Published by T.B.SHARPE, 15, Skinner Street, Snow-hill. Gird thee now to meet the fray; Seek the battle's heaviest shock; I am feeble now, and lone; Yet would thy disgrace, my son, Fear not, then, though death be nigh, So thou bravely fight, my boy, A Song of the Thirteenth Century. DETACHED THOUGHTS FROM JEAN PAUL RICHTER. "Of differing themes the veering song was mixed." WHO has followed and examined reality, even to its deepest valleys, like the twin stars of poesy, Homer and Shakspeare? As art ever labours in the school of nature, so were the richest poets of old her most attached and industrious children, transmitting her portrait to succeeding generations. If we would picture to ourselves a truly great poet, we must grant to genius a metempsychosis through all nations, times, and circumstances, and send him to circumnavigate the world. What higher and bolder representations of its infinite form would he not project? The poets of the ancients were men of business and warriors, before they were bards; and the epic poets in particular steered the helm through the waves of life, before they took up the pencil to describe the voyage. It is with the children of the mind, as the Romans thought of the children of the body-they must touch the earth, if they would learn to speak. The praters about the happy consciousness that rewards good actions, have themselves performed none; else they would have experienced, that, in proportion to the cultivation of the moral taste, it becomes more delicately susceptible of falling below its high standard; and, therefore, the best men reproach themselves more than the worst. When the heart is made the altar of God, then the head-the mental faculties, are the lights on that altar. He who, when calm and cool, presses his rights to the utmost, will, when actuated by passion, over-step them. The good man feels no injustice so strongly, as that done to others; that committed against himself, he sees not so clearly; the bad man feels only injury to himself. This deep and irrepressible craving, this singular pining of the soul for yet untrodden lands, comes upon us, not as we might expect, in times of suffering, (for then the soul has no power to expand-it only asks removal of present pressure,) but in joy, and that only in joy of a certain kind. The enjoyment of food, of drink, of warmth, and refreshing coolness, of motion, of rest, call for nothing beyond the highest degree of that enjoyment-it asks no ascending into the infinite; on the contrary, rather a falling back into contraction. But, in the enjoyment of the sun's noon-tide radiance of the crimson splendours of its setting, and of the moon's silver beams-in the contemplation of the sublime in nature, and the sublime in art-in the giving way to tender sensibility-in the sweet tears of happy emotion-in all, and through all this, is to be traced the yearning after something higher; and the overflowing heart overflows, and yet is not filled. The heart in joy resembles those birds of passage, which, though caged in warm apartments, still, at the season when their fellows migrate, pine for, and pant to wing their flight to the distant land of genial warmth and vernal beauty. This indefinable feeling in human nature is especially developed by the power of an art, the peculiar properties of which, and superiority to all other arts, we know not rightly yet. I speak not of poetry, or of painting, but of music. Why do we forget, while acknowledging that music heightens joyous and sad emotions-yea, itself produces them that the soul loses itself in the magic of its sweet sounds, as in a labyrinth-that more mightily, more powerfully, than any other art, it makes us experience, momentarily, rapid transitions from joy to sorrow-why, while conscious of all this, do we forget its still higher property-its power of making us pine for some other land, and of drawing from the soul a sigh, full of pantings for the future, which yet do but seem yearnings for some familiar longloved home of the spirit? Why music should thus, above all other arts, thrill upon the inner man, is beyond my power to explain. Singularly do its material movements erect themselves into certain regular forms of sounds, which are carried forward to the finelyfashioned nerves; but from these, to the soul's depths which music stirs so powerfully, we have still a vast interval. But to what end is it that man, while growing at the root which draws him down, and is fully satisfied in the earth, must also be growing at the stalk, which presses upwards to heaven's air and light? To what end serves this double direction in man? Manifestly not merely to his earthly happiness. Would Heaven do that which is forbidden to us, subject the higher to the service of the lower, and plant flowers only to strew them | upon the dunghill? Can the instinct which we feel so strongly within after a higher world, a deeper love can the idea of the divine, of the moral, be implanted within us, only to enhance the pleasures of earthly life, and, like tropic fruits and spices, to give more relish to the joys of sense? But no, it is exactly the contrary. The sharpest and deepest sorrows are the lot of the nobler spirits; and the finely-fashioned nerve that most quickly thrills to the breath of heaven, is most alive to the touch of pain. But surely these indistinct and undefinable apprehensions of a more noble birth-right were not given us in vain; and yet, if disappointed hereafter, they avail us little here below. What instinct of the millions of different animals has been suffered by Infinite Goodness to fall short of its promise, even to the unconscious and unexpectant? and shall the Divine instinct of the soul be suffered to be objectless and aimless by Him who shapeth all things to their uses? Then, too, what a distinction is there between the mere instinct of the animal, and that plan of a future world that is drawn upon the soul of man! The animal instinct has more feelers, the human more antennae. Animal instinct utters its prophetic promises, and its requisitions, with a dim vagueness, and draws and impels to the end it has in view, in the dark, with an invisible hand: as, for instance, in the secret powerful impulse to build the nest, and lay up a store for the insect brood, for unknown and totally dissimilar offspring. In man, on the contrary, the instinct of immortality has its fulfilment, even here below, for what we call hope of it, and desire after it, is but the development of that immortality. Our pure joys are but the commencement of that happiness for which we pant; and, though the heart lie low upon this earth's horizon, like the mass of cloud that, with its varied colouring, does but portend rain, and gives no presage of fine earthly days, yet is this very cloud the beginning of the rainbow which spreads itself over the dark earth, and the glowing tints of which are the bright beams of that very sun, of whose future undimmed glories it is the promise. More truths than we look for are to be found in the old comparison between the development of the soul and that of the butterfly; for, in the caterpillar, instinct finds the plan of the future fabric which it has to work out. In the caterpillar lies hid, according to Swammerdam, the chrysalis; and this, again, contains the butterfly, with its folded wings, and antennæ. And this pale imprisoned form goes through its successive labours, casting its skin, spinning for itself new bonds. and immuring itself in the cocoon, only that it may, at length, break forth to freedom, and, leaving behind it its slough, and renouncing for ever its coarse diet of leaves, sport henceforth amid the flowers, feed upon honey, and live for love. Oh! how do these similitudes speak the desires of the soul! How gladly would it, in its pupa state, be permitted to burst the chrysalis, and widely, fully expand those soft tender wings, that are bruised in its dungeon-tenement! For is not this the consummation for which it bears a thousand sufferings for which it undergoes privation and pain? Surely, it were a waste of energies, a harsh contradiction, if the butterfly, after its long imprisonment in the unsightly larva, after all its painful casting off of its skin, its narrow swathingbands, the dark dungeon of an almost torpid pupa, should come forth-nothing; or come forth in corruption, with its foul slough hanging around it as a shroud. But men can believe all this-ready to believe all against God, but slow of heart to receive all that would speak of His infinite wisdom and infinite goodness! One cloudy day is sufficient to obscure from our view a whole life full of divine sunshine; and the short, dark hour of death shuts out from us the long, bright future. We do, indeed, live in a wonderful night of existence; and these anticipations, these presentiments are our moonlight. But does not this pre-suppose a Sun! hands of Him who bears up the world—of Him How calmly may we commit ourselves to the who has created, and who provides for the joys even of insects, as carefully as if He were their little father! No one learns to think by getting rules for thinking, but by getting materials for thought. Every one has in his youth something of a poetic genius-its folly and its enthusiasm. The poetic genius itself lives in an eternal youth. I have never had such a peculiar feeling of the narrowness of the human heart, as when, in one afternoon, I have had to write six friendly letters to six different persons. It does not follow that he who deceives us, considers us, therefore, as fools. He ascribes his success rather to his resistless powers. There are comforters by profession, to whom nothing worse could happen than that others should be consoled: they could then talk the less. much better one to self-knowledge. The more If self-knowledge be a path to virtue, virtue is a pure the soul becomes, it will, like certain precious stones that are sensible to the contact of poison, shrink from the fetid vapours of evil impressions. The pursuit of pleasure makes us as earthlyminded as engrossment in business. We would rather discover truth than hear it. Domestic life is the most delightful, because it repeats our childhood. In order not to be made servile by the great, let us place before our minds a still greater. Man despises the man most with whom he is most frequently brought into contact; for instance, the publisher the author, &c. A single odour awakens a whole host of old associations; it has more influence than even the eye upon the imagination. We have a certain complacency in witnessing an air of defiance in a criminal before his judges, because he thereby lessens our consciousness of subjection to authority. We sympathize more readily with excess of sorrow than with exuberance of joy. Sympathy increases with the former, not with the latter. Our dislike to the sight of our faults we vent upon the way in which our friend has discovered them to us. If he have done it boldly, we cry out against his abruptness, his roughness; if delicately, |