very remarkable, and out of them some modern concordances seem to have been developed. Besides Concordances to the Bible, we now have them to the Book of Common Prayer, to Shakspere's Plays, by a lady; and a German writer has issued one to the Koran. There is an index to Watts's Psalms and Hymns, in which every line is arranged alphabetically, published in 1774, (by D. Guy, of Rye,) and which has been reprinted.

A great amount of labor has been bestowed upon some of the classics. For instance, I have a copy of Cicero in folio, the indexes to which (including their title page, dedication, &c.,) extend to 374 pages.

Some of the German indexes are a very exact epitome of the works they relate to.

In some cases an index requires great labor and skill, patience, and minute discrimination. Some of the finest minds may point to the tables of contents affixed to their books, as monuments of good taste every way worthy of them.

Those who would thoroughly master the subject of a work will find the construction of an index to it, a means which is almost sure not to fail.

I shall not be expected to produce examples in illustration, and therefore will conclude with the following anecdote.

In 1543, a storm fell on the friends of Reformation at Windsor. Among others John Marbeck was informed against, and there was found upon him a Concordance to the Bible in English, written by himself, and also some notes upon it. This was looked upon as the work of a learned man, for they knew Marbeck was illiterate. Marbeck claimed them as his own, and said he had compiled the Concordance by the help of one in Latin (of which he understood a little) and an English Bible. He was not believed, so he was shut up with a Latin Concordance and an English Bible, and told to begin with the letter M where he had brought it to. "By his performance in that, they clearly saw that the whole work was his own, and were not a little astonished at the ingenuity and diligence of so poor a man.” When the King heard of it he said "Marbeck was better employed, than those who examined him ?" And his work saved his life.

London.

B. H. C.

THE MOORISH GOLD.

A LONG while ago, says the legend, when the dominion of the Moors was beginning to decline in Spain, it was rumored on a certain day, in Toledo, that the Christians were coming down in great force to besige the city, and had vowed that they would desecrate the Mosque, and despoil it of its gold and jewels-that they would fight their way over the bridge of the Tagus, and bear away the choicest of its treasures from the great Alcazar of Toledo.

But a few days before these tidings arrived, a marvellous stupor had come upon the Moorish masters of the city-some said it was the heat, but they had never cared for the heat before, since they came from a hotter region. They walked about it is true, but it was slowly, and in the great shadows of their houses, and if any man crossed over the street, he held his hand to his forehead and sighed. A few were so faint, that they lay down to rest on the steps of the Alcazar; they thought the scent of the pomegranate flowers oppressed them, though none had complained of this scent before. Others believed that it was a thin vapour which rose up in the heat from the glassy bosom of the Tagus, and spread out like steam above the highest roofs, making the sun look red and fiery.

But in spite of this, says the legend, they set about defending themselves; and the danger being imminent, they shipped great store of costly merchandize, with jewels, and gold, and coined money, on board their vessels, which lay in the Tagus, and sent them off to the number of five with orders to drop down the river, double the Cape St. Vincent, and sail up the Guadalquiver, that their precious lading might be given over into the keeping of the Moorish King of Seville.

But alas, says the legend, of those five fair vessels, not one ever cast anchor before the walls of Seville, for a great wind took them, scattered and drove them northward as soon as they were clear of the Tagus, and it is supposed that four of the five foundered with their crews and their lading, for they never were heard of more.

It was supposed so, says the legend, but the Moorish masters of Toledo had little time to fret themselves for their sunken

treasure, since that same week the plague broke out, and while the Christians were harrassing them without, they lay in the still heat, and perished in the streets by hundreds and by thousands within.

One vessel was left, and day after day in the wind and the storm she drove still further northward, and that strange lethargy had crept on board with the sailors, though now there was neither any heat, nor scent of pomegranate flowers, to plead as a reason for it. And now the white cliffs of a great island were visible, and they said to themselves that they should never behold the sunny country of Spain any more, but be cast ashore at the end of the earth, in the kingdom of William the Norman.

Still the north wind raged, and the foaming billows brokethat was a long and fearful gale: some of the sailors died at the oar, but it was neither hunger nor toil that killed them, and when at last the wind dropped suddenly, and the vessel drifted on to a sandy shore, only three men sprang out from her. There were but three survivors, for the plague had come on board with them and their treasure.

These three men sprang ashore; they landed one coffer filled with gold, precious stones, and coined money. It was as much as their failing strength could do. The islanders fell back from them, for they had seen the dark faces of the dead Moors as they lay in the plague-stricken vessel. They did not molest the sailors, but let them sit alone on the shore bemoaning their fate till night came on, and their vessel at high tide drifted out again to sea, while these three desolate men took up the coffer and went inland, up and up, among the Cumberland hills.

It was as much as they could carry, but no man cared to help. They wandered about among the mountains, and the last time they were seen, it was apparent that they had hidden their treasure in some cavern, or sunk it in the earth, or heaved a stone upon it, for the coffer was gone. Soon after, the men disappeared also, but whether they perished among the rocks, or died of the plague, none could tell; but though many and many a cavern has been searched, and many a stone displaced, from that day to this, says the legend, no man has ever set eyes upon the glittering Moorish gold.

An old

You have listened to the legend; now listen to me. gentlemen sat in a boat on one of the loveliest of the English lakes, and looked up at the mountains with delight.

"Glorious!" he exclaimed; "superb! it beats Scotland out and out."

Whether he was right is nothing to the purpose, but he said it. He was stout, had a red face, blue spectacles, and a straw hat tied to his button-hole with black ribbon.

Now, when he exclaimed, "It beats Scotland out and out!" his footman sitting opposite to him, and thinking the observation called for an answer, replied with prompt respect"Certainly, sir, no doubt."

Thereupon his master looked at his fat white face, which expressed no manner of enthusiasm, but rather showed an absorbing interest in the provision basket which he held on his knee.

"Pray, Richard," said the old gentleman, "do you take any pleasure in the beauties of nature ?"

Richard pondered, and answered as before respectfully, "Not in particular, sir."

"It's for want of knowing more about them," said his master, good humouredly; "to-morrow I am going up a mountain to see such a view as everybody must delight in-you shall go too."

Richard touched his hat.

The next morning, the old gentleman with two others, quite as enthusiastic, but by no means so fat; and with a guide, and two hampers containing patties, pigeon pie, hard boiled eggs, potted salmon, new bread, and butter, and water-cresses, set off, his servant accompanying him, to see the beauties of nature among the mountains.

How many times the gentlemen said, "Glorious hot day! fine view! lovely scenery!" it is impossible to say. How many times, the footman wished himself at home, cleaning his plate, waiting at table, or doing anything in the world but climbing a mountain, it is also impossible to say. Happily for him, the path got so steep, and the day got so hot, that all at once the gentlemen bethought themselves of luncheon, and decided that the very spot where they then stood was the right one to take it in.

So the guide, not by any means disinclined to rest, led them a little aside, and turning the angle of a steep rock, suddenly introduced them to a little quiet nook enclosed with high rocks. It was about the size, Richard thought, of the back parlour at home, only it was open to the sky, and its walls were hung with foxgloves, broom, blue-bells-with tufts of heath in blossom, and a few trailing eglantines instead of pictures and looking-glasses. How still the place was, and how blue the sky above!

"Well, Richard," said his master, "what did you think of the view ?"

Richard replied as before, respectfully, "that he had been wondering at it all the way up; everything below looked so small, in particular the haystacks; the round ones, he observed, had reminded him of queen-cakes, and the square ones of penny sponge-cakes or quartern loaves, just exactly that shape, and certainly no bigger."

His master was disappointed to find that Richard's comparison was queer enough to make both the other gentlemen laugh— not, however, at the footman, but at his master, for expecting him to relish the scenery.

They soon rose from their lunch. It was a sin, they said, to waste the sweet weather in that nook; they should go higher; but Richard might stay behind if he liked and pack the baskets; if he had not had enough to eat, either, his master said he was to help himself.

"Thank you, sir, I'm sure," said Richard, gratefully.

Accordingly when they were gone, he did pack the baskets, regaling himself with many a tit-bit meanwhile. This pleasing duty fulfilled, he stretched himself under the steep sandstone walls of his roofless room, basked in the hot sun, looked up into the glowing sky, whistled, and fanned himself with some twigs of broom which were covered thick with flowers like yellow butterflies.

A thicket of broom bushes grew against the side of the rock, and as he stretched out his hand to one of them to pull off another bough, the bush swung back to its place, and a bird flew out so close to him, that she swept his forehead with her wings,