whose circuit the "Hawk" is supposed to hover. The "Short Flights" of William Reade Junior promise to become an important feature of the Magazine: the present one anent the New Forest (of the wild and varied beauty of which we have a keen recollection) is well written and pleasingly descriptive. The paper entitled "Alchemy," is a proof of what we have already said of want of space, and of the good use the writer, who has compressed so much into so limited a number of pages, would have made of the subject, had more been granted to him. An article under the signature of J. K. C; entitled "Low and High Spirits," must find favour with the majority of readers, from its excellent common-sense, and the gentle, and even affectionate tone of its arguments and remonstrances. Altogether this number is an excellent one, as well as a marvel of cheapness, the subscription for one year being only three shillings QUARTERLY MAGAZINE OF ODD FELLOWS. -(Manchester.)-Our notice of the July part of this Quarterly has been obliged to stand over for a longer period than we could have desired; however it is not yet too late to draw attention to it. "A Tale without a Title," by Y. S. N., comes to a close in the present part: like all the writings of the author, it is written with a purpose, and specially calls attention to that most amiable of London charities, the Children's Hospital in Great Ormond-street. Eliza Cook's paper, "A Look behind me," though written in her usual bright, cheery spirit, has nevertheless something sad in its retrospectiveness. Like travellers on ordinary roads, we seldom look back on life's path till we have gone some distance towards the end; and the enchantment of child-life and youth-whatever sorrows we may have found in them-have a pathos and a sweetness for us in recollection that is almost divine. "The Heiress" (a true story, by W. Aitkins) promises to be amusing; but the most interesting feature of the present part is Mr. Ingram's article on the giant cities of Bashan, a brief, but well written, carefully-collated account of the recent discoveries and explorations of the still-existing cities of the plain east of Jordan, and which in the days of Moses were under the dominion of the Amorites.

For some years past, rumours had reached Europe of unknown cities of enormous antiquity, still standing forth grandly, in completeness of preservation, in the midst of those desert solitudes; but vainly, until quite recently, was some authentic account of the mystical land sought for. Seetzen, the renowned Oriental traveller, endeavoured to penetrate into the hidden homes, but was compelled to return without accomplishing his purpose. A few years later Burckhardt, disguised in native costume, succeeded in reaching the ancient Edrei, King Og's capital. Having ascended from thence to the heights of the neighbour

ing mountains, he was gratified with an extensive view over the great plain lying eastward, and to his astonishment, beheld it studded with numerous towns. "Vastness and age! and memories of Eld," left as it were for lessons unto the poor puny mortals of these days, to abate their vanity and pride in the perishable

work of their feeble hands. Unfortunately Burck-
hardt, like his predecessors, was forced to quit the
neighbourhood without completing his investigations,
and thus the world at large was obliged to remain
awhile longer with unsatisfied curiosity.
It remained for two Englishmen, either more
who had preceded them, to penetrate into the
fortunate or more persevering than the traveller
hitherto unkown land, and from the accounts of
these gentlemen (Mr. Porter and Mr. Cyril
Graham) Mr. Ingram has given us the following
description of the giant cities of Bashan:

Upon crossing the broad table-land of the Houran the traveller is startled by a scene of unique and terrible loneliness; an immense oval plain thickly strewed with great dusky-hued rocks is beheld stretching away on either hand, north and south, to the extent of nearly sixty miles. Not a trace of any kind of vegetation is perceptible, and its utter desolation and lifelessness at once suggests to the spectator the idea that all sur rounding nature had suddenly withered under the ban of some awful curse.

When gazing upon those riven chasms, blank abysses, and dismal labyrinths of sombre jagged rocks, the idea suggested itself to Mr. Graham that something similar in appearance must be portions of the moon.

From this tract of black basalic rock it was that the Rephaim gathered the materials with which to prear their imperishable strongholds, and of which it is stated in Deuteronomy, that all these cities were fenced with high walls, gates, and bars, and the country was called "the land of giants." Here then stands Edrei, King Og's royal capital, in all the gloomy grandeur of its sombre-hued walls; and here, built up into the seeming inaccessible recesses of the hills, amid the frowning rocky cliffs, stand the impregnable fortresses of that giant race, whose bones have mouldered into dust so many centuries ago. Still in a marvellous state of preservation, these castellated homes of the world stare down defiantly upon the surrounding desolation, apparently defying Time himself to overthrow them. They are built of massive cubes of black stone, walled up without cement, with one enormous flag of basalt for the ceiling, and another enormous block revolving upon pivots for the door. Such homes, as none but a Herculean race could have wrought for themselves, are they; and there they stand builders, "not for an age, but for all time." in all their funeral majesty, as memorials of their

CONCERNING TEARS.

In one of those gorgeous books which, some thirty-five years ago, were as much a part of Christmas and the New Year as the holly and mistletoe, the snow and the frost-I mean the "Keepsake for 1831' are some beautiful verses by Lord Morpeth, written to one of the fine engravings contained in that annual, entitled "The Use of Tears," and commencing:

"How little of ourselves we know

Before a grief the heart has felt!
The lessons that we learn of woe
May brace the mind as well as melt."

It may be worth while to moralize, for a few moments, as to the use of tears; or, rather, of the sorrow which causes that effect. How do its influences act on individuals? that is to say, Do we welcome the visitant, when he comes to us, as an angel whose errand it is to refine and purify, or do we unwisely loathe and repudiate the unbidden guest whose presence mars the self-pleasure of the time, and whom we endure either with sullen apathy or with that despair of grief which refuses to be comforted, and which seeks refuge so often in self-extinction; oftener in the selfish hardness of soul which shuts out love-sympathy, which deadens even regret itself, and which tries to lessen pain by a moral oblivion that acts on the spirit just like opium on the physical frame, rendering it insensible to the aches and pains incident to humanity. The poet said well:

"How little of ourselves we know

Before a grief the heart has felt!"

Sorrow reveals to us the secrets of our inmost soul. It comes, too, in such various forms. The rich man is reduced to poverty; the loving lose there beloved ones; the doting father his child whom, in blind idolatry, he believed invulnerable; the mother her ailing infant, whose feeble existence she prized far beyond that of her other and healthier children; others, who rejoiced in apparently unfailing health, experience some calamity which robs them of this blessing for the rest of their miserable lives. If a chronicle of railroad accidents could be given, what a series of moving and pathetic stories would be found in actual facts! The bride of a few days, or may-be hours, killed in her husband's arms; that husband himself rendered a wretched cripple for life. Love, health, energy-all dashed from the lips which a moment previously had quaffed such rich draughts of life's happiest and best ingredients! Or, again, a lover hastening to claim a long-parted betrothed, from whom poverty and iron fortune had separated him for such a space that meeting seemed a dream-that dream at length to be realized the meeting one never again to part,

| The carelessness of a day-labourer, the neglect of some over-worked official, and death parts the expectant lovers, the hoarse scream of the engine seeming, like Poe's raven, to shriek out, for requiem, "Nevermore." Yes! to all of us, in some shape or other, Sorrow, forerunner of Death, comes in turn! Where is the man or woman who never tasted the cup which Sorrow holds to human lips. Show me such a being, and I should turn away as from one incapable of comprehending humanity-even the humanity of self: incapable, in fact, of feeling for another's woes-of bearing another's burdens; one whose own existence is a void in feeling.

True sensibility-not sentiment-is always awakened by a great grief; and a soul without sensibility is, indeed, a flower without perfumea creation without its true life. But, in its best and truest sense, sensibility is exactly what so many human beings lack; and the want of it mars all efforts at self-progression, whether in art, religion, or moral beauty of life. There is no capacity for loving in these insensible natures, and love and benevolence are the keys which unlock the portals of the heart. To such, when the visitation of sorrow does, at last, come, it acts on the soul like a new birth, arousing slumbering interests and dormant affections, refreshing the drowsy and lethargic spirit, even as a gentle summer-shower revives decaying vegetation into new life, activity, and beauty. It is not too much to say that if there were no sorrow in the world, there would be little virtue, and the world's master-passion is proverbially allied with it.

"Hand-in-hand with Sorrow
Love e'er is wont to go."

But

Who that hath loved has not experienced the
truth of the above lines? Even if death does
not divide two hearts that love, yet comes
distrust, doubt, or the grief of one of these
hearts fearing and trembling at the unworthiness
of the being to whom it has linked itself.
such sorrow is mostly of an unpurifying char-
acter, passion, itself being selfish, its incidental
grief must necessarily partake more of the
earthly than the usual heavenly nature of the
visitant. When Chloe's whole being is wrapped
up in Corydon's life and reputation, she grieves
as much for the wreck of her own happiness as
for her lover's moral short comings. This how-
ever is mere digression. The sorrow whose ten-
dencies are to refine, purify, and save, are of
another nature, and born of deeper grief than
that usually transient one caused by affairs of
the heart. Produced by death, it leads the heart
to examine itself, and brings the creature on its
knees confessing to the Creator, the store of
secret sins and faults, which the conviction of
grief has brought to light. Regeneration comes