antagonist, shake hands most cordially, to show that no enmity exists as says the old song "They first shake hands before they box, Then give each other plaguy knocks." The poor culprit too, who, in an hour of strong temptation or ungoverned fury, made himself amenable to the penalty of death, when he stands upon the stage about to take his last farewell of sublunary objects, to launch into that eternity from which there is no return; when he sees the dark grave yawning to receive its victim, and the inhuman crowds that stand around, to see his dying agonies; even then shakes hands with him who is to be the fatal instrument of his destruction. He sees the cord, the running noose, the gallows-tree, and the black night-cap in the hand of the executioner, all waiting for their victim. He gives his hand, and grants pardon ere it is asked; the last act of friendship is the last act of life. We will, before we close our paper, offer some hints as to the best method of shaking, for it is exceedingly awkward to do so simple a thing in an ungainly manner. We know a case where a pupil went to ask some question of a distinguished professor. The master extended his hand, the pupil did so too; but from some unaccountable impulse, both were withdrawn ere they had joined; they were again extended, and this time they met, but in a manner so clumsy, that the professor received a severe scratch, the pupil a nearly dislocated thumb. The hand and arm must be extended rapidly but carefully; the thumb a little separated from the fingers, to act as a kind of stopper, lest the wrist should be grasped by mistake; the hands being then locked, as those appear "On Hand-in-Hand Insurance plates." We leave to each individual, as their temperament may dictate, to give what shake they list. The hearty-the cold-the twofinger-the pump-handle-or the squeeze. Resting sure that whichever they adopt, they cannot do it so gravely, as they will shake their heads, at the presumption of their Most obedient Servant, VOL. I. NO. I. E T. I. THOUGHTS FROM LESSING. THE SPARROW AND THE OSTRICH. "PRIDE thyself as thou wilt on thy size and thy strength," said the Sparrow to the Ostrich ; "after all, I am more of a bird than thou. Thou canst not fly; now I can, though my flight be not high nor of long duration." The light poet of a merry bacchanalian strain, or of a little love song, is more of a genius than the unsoaring, earth-bound writer of a long Hermanniad. ORPHEUS. ORPHEUS, as the story goes, went in search of his wife to the infernal regions. Where but in the infernal regions should the wife of Orpheus have been sought? They say he went down singing. Of that I have not the smallest doubt, for, so long as he was a widower, well might he be rejoiced and sing. Mountains, rivers and stones followed the course of his harmony: had he sung badly they would have followed nevertheless. And when, having arrived below, he told what he came for, all tortures ceased. What torture would one desire beyond the sight of a husband so ridiculously stupid! At length his voice moved the deaf kingdom of the shades :but was it as a reward or a punishment that he carried his wife back with him? MEROPS. 66 "I HAVE a question to ask," said a young Eagle to a learned Owl. They say there's a bird, called Merops, who, when he rises into the air, flies tail foremost, with his head towards the ground. Is that true?" "No," replied the Owl; "that is a silly invention of man. He himself may be such a Merops; for he would be too happy to fly up to heaven, without leaving the earth for an instant out of his sight." THE MUSIC OF THE BELLS. In the stillness of a summer's evening I have oftentimes listened with peculiar pleasure to the music of our village bells; the only sounds to tell of man, to break a teeming nature's silence. There is a witching melody in their soft measured tones, which sweetly accords with her tranquillity, adding a new and placid charm to the sacred evening of her rest. And who can listen to their varied tones unmoved? What mind, with their soft murmuring, can fail to associate that venerable pile to which their notes invite, that fabric whose foundation is in heaven? Varied and many are the recollections their peaceful tones awaken. Time was when darkness reigned supreme, and cruelty dwelt in our midst; when the wailings of an oppressed people, the unholy sports and foul revellings of a dissolute nation, reechoed from her lofty hills and resounded in her valleys; when nature knew no day of rest. Again, they bid us think of brighter days, when the light of knowledge broke through an empire's gloom; when the words of truth and love found utterance in "the habitations of cruelty;" when the burden of the winds was changed, and the whisperings of adoration and praise were wafted heavenwards from the heathclad mountains and the lowly retreats of the valley. And shall not now the ear listen with delight, and the eye behold with admiration, and the tongue with grateful raptures tell the inestimable benefits which have gone forth from that sacred institution-the palladium of our beloved country? The times are changed: the black clouds of darkness have rolled away, the voice of threat is no longer heard, the groanings of the oppressed are stayed; and what do these bells say now? They bid us hasten to the house of prayer, from the rising even to the setting of the seventh-day sun. They tell the lapse of time, and remind us of battles fought and victories won, claiming a passing tear for those who have bled and died in their country's service. They remind us, too, of times when youth and hope were beautiful and bright, of ties formed on earth to be unloosed in the grave; in solemn and sadly-falling tones, they speak of the silent tomb. Yes, many and varied are the recollections their peaceful notes awaken; it may be sad or joyous feeling, yet there is music in their tone. Turn to the village green, and view, at yonder cottage-gate, the happy husband resting from his.week-day toils, surrounded by the wife of his affection and the children of his home. He listens to the ringing of his village bells, and thinks of wedding greetings; and many a proud and smiling look he casts on his fair family; and warm, indeed, the embrace which accompanies the soft whisper,-"They rang for us one day." The lonely widow, too, may hear their "soothing sound," and recollect her wedding-day but now she turns her care-worn face to greet, not the bright partner of her early days, for he is at rest in the tomb, his toils likewise are over; not the fond group of merry prattlers, whose delight it once was to lisp the name of mother, to climb the father's knee, and sun their sturdy limbs on the greensward. Oh, no! it may be they too are gathered to their father's grave, for the stem has been broken, and the bud nipped in the blossom, to wither in the same dark tomb. The falling knell for life departed could scarcely speak more plainly; her thoughts, her looks, are to their lowly grave. But there is music even in the funeral knell. The merry peal may remind us of past and present joys; the funeral knell of joys to come; it bids us value present blessings, and prepare to rejoin those from whom we have been separated. It speaks of life departed, of an immortal life begun, and, if the heart be right, and the mind hath profited from passing scenes, the saddest thoughts will be dispelled by the bright anticipations of a hastening future. It may, perhaps, for a time unseal the barriers of the tomb, and call forth from its innermost recesses visions of its inhabitants, to renew the agonies of an earthly parting with a soul-harrowing minuteness. The quivering grasp the broken utterance-the long, last, dying look may flit before the memory, and cause the scarce healed wound to bleed anew. But even then does it not, at the same time, whisper of an immortal greeting, and tell us all, convincingly, that they for whom we mourn are resting in consecrated ground; that the ills which harass us disturb them not now; that their rest, unlike ours, is sweet and unbroken,—the calm slumber of the dreamless sleeper? Does it not, too, remind us of that great source of all our civil comforts, and eloquently tell the happiness and blessing which the Church of our father-land has secured for us? Can we not look around on our own dear homes, and feel that they are ours; can we not enjoy the sweet society of friends, and with them join in praise "beneath our own vine and fig-tree, none daring to make us afraid?" Such are the thoughts our village bells suggest; and long may they send forth their sacred harmony. Well and truly do I sympathise with all who find music in their tone; and when, above the seventh-day stillness, their melodious voice is heard, may we never be insensible to the language that they speak! Thus peace shall inhabit our dwellings, and prosperity our country; the little Island of the Sea, the great Empire of the World, shall then fearlessly smile on, exempt from a nation's doom: no earthly tongue shall tell of her decay. J. G. G. -PANTHEA'S LAMENTATION OVER THE DEAD BODY OF HER HUSBAND, ABRADATES, KING OF SUSA. ALAS! alas! woe is for ever mine! My husband, Abradates, is no more; Why did this morning's sun so brightly shine To mark the glittering panoply no more! My proud breast gloried as he sought the fight, All clad in golden armour,-yet some fear Stole through my mind, and whispered-'tis too bright! I sighed and checked the involuntary tear. Thousands might safely from the field return, And yet, my husband, since the Gods decreed Long shall the nobles of Assyria mourn, Their king, their glory, never shall return, But in one grave with him his Panthea, too, must sleep. AMICUS. |