Colonel Molesworth Phillips, glorying in most of the eccentricities of human nature. It is astonishing, considering the active part he took in society, that he should, towards the close of life, have secluded himself so entirely from the world, and those with whom he must have from circumstances have been associated. Colonel Phillips might probably have survived some years longer, had he not fallen a victim to cholera.

APOLOGUES.—(FROM THE GERMAN.)

On the day of the Creation, the trees exultingly extolled themselves one towards another, every one about itself. "The Lord, by whom I was planted," said the lofty Cedar, "has united in me firmness, fragrance, duration, and strength." "Jehovah's affection has rendered me blessed," said the widely-spreading Palm-tree; "in me has He conjoined utility and beauteousness." "Like a bridegroom among the youths," said the Apple-tree, "I parade among the trees of Paradise." "Like the rose among the thorns," said the Myrtle, "I stand among my sisterhood, the lowly shrubs." So all extolled themselves, the Olive, the Fig, and the Pine. The Vine alone was silent, and drooped to the ground. "To me," said he to himself, "appears everything to be denied—trunk, branches, blossoms, and fruit; but such as I am, I will yet hope and wait." He then sank down, and his tendrils wept. He had not long waited and wept, before the friendly man, the godhead of the earth, stepped up to him. He saw that a feeble plant, the sport of the breezes, had sunk, and required help; he compassionately raised him up, and twined the tender tree to his bower. More gladly now the breezes played with his tendrils; the glow of the sun penetrated their hard, greenish buds, preparing in them the sweet juice, the drink for gods and men. Adorned with rich clusters, the Vine soon bowed himself down to his master, and he tasted the enlivening juice, and named him his friend. The proud trees now envied the feeble shoot, for many of them already stood without fruit; but he was glad of his slender form and of his steadfast hope. The juice, therefore, even now gladdens the heart of man, and lifts upwards the courage of the dejected, and refreshes the afflicted. Despair not, forsaken one, and abide enduring. In the unsightly cane springs the sweetest juice, and the feeble tendril brings forth inspiration and rapture.

TEARS.

As Hillel and his disciple Sadi wandered, on a moon and starlight night, among the gardens of the Mount of Olives, "See," said Sadi, "the man yonder, in the ray of the moon; what does he there?"—"It is Zadok," answered Hillel, "he sits at the grave of his son and weeps."—"Cannot he moderate his mourning?" said the youth, "for the people term him the just and wise."—"Shall he therefore," answered Hillel, "not experience pain?"—"But," asked Sadi, "what preference then has the wise man before the fool?" Then answered the teacher, "See, the bitter tear of his eye sinks to the earth, but his countenance is turned up to heaven."

W.G.C.

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

THE OLD SOLDIER.

I have often occasion to pass through a village on the St. Alban's road, at one end of which there is so tidy and convenient a public-house, that I always give my horse his bait there, if I happen to be travelling in my gig. I had frequently observed an old soldier, who having lost an eye, a leg, and an arm in the service of his country, had pretty well earned the privilege of idling away the rest of his life in a manner particularly congenial with the habits of one of his calling. He would sit on a bench, outside the door of this inn, with a pipe in his mouth, and a can of beer by his side; and thus he would pass all the fine months of the year. In winter, he merely changed his seat. He was constant to his pipe and his can; he took both with him to the warm chimney-corner: and thus he enjoyed his out-pension. During the hour of baiting, I have often talked with this old man. He had served last in the early part of the war on the Peninsula. He was loquacious enough on other subjects; but if one questioned him concerning these last military services, he became on the instant morose and uncommunicative, and one could not but perceive, that the topic was disagreeable and painful to him.

What most interested me about this man was his love for young children. He was generally surrounded by a parcel of curly-headed urchins; and often have I seen the mistress of the little inn consign her infant to the protection of his one arm, when, by an arrival, she has been called upon to attend to the business of the house. The old fellow never appeared so contented as when thus employed. His pipe was laid aside, his beer forgotten, and he would only think of amusing and caressing his charge, or of lulling it to sleep. The bigger children would cluster round him, clamber over him, empty his pipe, upset his can, take all sorts of liberties with him, yet never meet with a rebuke. At times, however, he would appear lost in uneasy thought; gazing with earnestness upon the features of the sleeping infant, while tears would course each other down his cheeks.

As I drove one morning up to the door of the inn, and passed the bench on which the old soldier was, as usual, sitting, with his little flock of children playing round him, one of them, a very young one, suddenly backed into the road, and in another moment more would have been crushed: but the old man sprang forward; with a vigorous and wonderful effort he seized the child with his only arm, and threw it several feet out of the way of danger; he fell with the exertion, and was among my horse's feet. In suddenly drawing up, I had unwittingly done my very worst by the poor fellow; for I had caused the animal to trample upon him a second time, and a wheel had likewise passed over his body.

He was taken up insensible. We carried him to a bed, and after a little time he recovered his recollection. But he was so severely injured, that we feared every moment would be his last.

The first words he uttered were, "The child! the child!" We assured him that the child was safe; but he would not believe us, and it became necessary to send into the village to search for the little creature, who had been hurried home with the others upon the confusion that the accident had occasioned. He continued to call for the child, and was in the greatest distress of mind till we had found it, and had taken it to him as he lay. His delight at seeing it alive and unhurt was intense; he wept, he laughed, he hugged it to his bosom, and it was not till he grew very faint and weary that he would suffer us to remove it.

A surgeon arrived; and pronounced that the poor man was so much hurt, inwardly as well as outwardly, that nothing could be done to save him; and desired us merely to give him cordials or cooling drink, as he should appear to wish for either. He lingered for a few days.

I had been the cause, although innocently, of the poor fellow's death: of course I took care that all was done that could alleviate his sufferings; and, as long as he lasted, I went everyday to pass a few hours by his bed-side. The rescued child, too, was brought to him each day by his own desire. From the moment he had first ascertained that it was unhurt, he had been calm and contented. He knew he was dying, but he could part with life without regret; and the cloud which I had so often observed upon his weather-beaten countenance before the accident never after returned.

The day before he died, as I was watching alone by his side, he asked me for a cordial. Soon after he had swallowed it, he laid his hand upon my arm, and said,—"Sir, if you will not think it too great a trouble to listen to an old man's talk, I think it will ease my mind to say a few words to you."

He was of course encouraged to proceed.

"I die contented," he