A CLUSTER OF SHAKESPEARIAN PROVERBS.

TRUE hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings.

Every subject's duty is the king's, but every subject's soul is his own. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.

Cowards die many times before their deaths

Praising what is lost, makes the remembrance dear.

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.

He is well paid that is well satisfied.

An honest tale speeds best.

Every one can master a grief, but he that hath it.

Spirits are not finely touched, but to fine issues.

The ripest fruit first falls.

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.

The labour we delight in physics pain.

Thrice is he armed, that hath his quarrel just.

Tell truth and shame the devil.

Things without all remedy should be without regard.

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.

A woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.

Make a virtue of necessity.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted!

The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

The sight of means to do ill-deeds, makes ill-deeds done.

Sweet are the uses of adversity.

We that are true lovers, run into strange capers.

He that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends. Frailty, thy name is woman.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

POETRY.

POETRY is, as was said more than two thousand years ago, imitation.

It is an art analogous in many respects to the art of painting, sculpture, and acting. The imitations of the painter, the sculptor, and the actor, are indeed, within certain limits, more perfect than those of the poet. The machinery which the poet employs consists merely of words; and words cannot, even when employed by such an artist as Homer or Dante, present to the mind images of visible objects quite so lively and exact as those which we carry away from looking on the works of the brush and the chisel. But, on the other hand, the range of poetry is infinitely wider than that of any other imitative art, or than that of all the other imitative arts together. The sculptor can imitate only form; the painter only form and colour; the actor, until the poet supplies him with words, only form, colour, and motion. Poetry holds the outer world in common with the other arts. The heart of man is the province of poetry, and of poetry alone. The painter, the sculptor, and the actor can exhibit no more of human passion and character than that small portion which overflows into the gesture and the face, always an imperfect, often a deceitful, sign of that which is within. The deeper and more complex parts of human nature can be exhibited by means of words alone. Thus the objects of the imitation of poetry are the whole external and the whole internal universe, the face of nature, the vicissitudes of fortune, man as he is in himself, man as he appears in society, all things which really exist, all things of which we can form an image in our minds by combining together parts of things which really exist. The domain of this imperial art is commensurate with the imaginative faculty.

Macaulay.

IN

THE MOST TERRIFYING ADVENTURE OF THE

WINDMILLS.

N the midst of this their conversation, they discovered thirty or forty windmills all together on the plain, which the knight no sooner perceived than he said to his squire, "Chance has conducted our affairs even better than we could either wish or hope for: look there, friend Sancho, and behold thirty or forty outrageous giants, with whom I intend to engage in battle, and put every soul of them to death, so that we may begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils; for it is a meritorious warfare, and serviceable both to God and man, to extirpate such a wicked race from the face of the earth." "What giants do you mean?" said Sancho Panza, in amaze. "Those you see yonder," replied his master, "with vast extended arms, some of which are two leagues long." "I would your wor ship would take notice," replied Sancho, "that those you see yonder are no giants, but windmills; and what seem arms to you are sails, which being turned with the wind, make the mill-stone work.". "It seems very plain," said the knight, " that you are but a novice in adventures; these I affirm to be giants, and if thou art afraid, get out of the reach of danger, and put up thy prayers for me, while I join with them in fierce and unequal combat." So saying, he put spurs to his steed Rozinante, without paying the least regard to the cries of his squire Sancho, who assured him that those he was going to attack were not giants, but innocent windmills; but he was so much possessed with the opinion that they were giants, that he neither heard the advice of his squire Sancho, nor would use the intelligence of his own eyes, though he was very near them: on the contrary, when he approached them he called aloud, "Fly not, ye base and cowardly miscreants, for he is but a single knight who now attacks you." At that instant, a breeze of wind springing up, the great sails began to turn, which being perceived by Don Quixote, "Though you wield," sail he, more arms than ever belonged to the giant Briareus, I will make you pay for your insolence." So saying, and heartily recommending himself to his lady Dulcinea, whom he implored to succour him in this emergency, bracing on his target, and setting his lance in the rest, he put his Rozinante to full speed, and, assaulting the nearest windmill, thrust it into one of the sails,

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