depreciated in a like degree.--_Meme's History of Sculpture, &c._

* * * * *

SIGN OF THE TIMES.

One of the singularities of the time is an unwillingness to tell the
truth, even when there is no ground for suppressing or perverting it.
It is so frequently under or overstated by most persons in this
country who speak and write, according to the side they have espoused,
or the inclinations and political principles of those by whom they are
likely to be read or heard, that they at last persuade themselves
there is a sort of impropriety in presenting facts in their proper
colours.--_Quarterly Review_.

* * * * *

A DUTCH TALE.

A ballad of _Roosje_ is perhaps the most touchingly told story
which the Dutch possess. It is of a maid--a beloved maid--born
at her mother's death--bred up 'midst the tears and kisses of her
father--prattling thoughtlessly about her mother--every one's
admiration for beauty, cleverness, and virtue--gentle as the moon
shining on the downs. Her name was to be seen written again and again
on the sands by the Zeeland youths--and scarcely a beautiful flower
bloomed but was gathered for her. Now in Zeeland, when the south-winds
of summer come, there comes too a delicate fish, which hides itself in
the sand, and which is dug out as a luxury by the young people. It is
the time of sport and gaiety--and they venture far--far over the flat
coast into the sea. The boys drag the girls among the waves--and
Roosje was so dragged, notwithstanding many appeals. "A kiss, a kiss,
or you go further," cried her conductor--she fled--he followed, both
laughing:--"Into the sea--into the sea," said all her companions--he
pushes her on--it is deeper, and deeper--she shrieks--she sinks--they
sink together--the sands were faithless--there was no succour--the
waves rolled over them--there was stillness and death:--The terrified
playmates looked--

"All silently,--they look'd again--
And silently sped home--
And every heart was bursting then,
But every tongue was dumb.

"And still and stately o'er the wave,
The mournful moon arose,
Flinging pale beams upon the grave,
Where they in peace repose.

"The wind glanc'd o'er the voiceless sea,
The billows kissed the strand--
And one sad dirge of misery
Fill'd all the mourning land."

_Foreign Quarterly Review_.

* * * * *

EN