"La Rochefoucauld n'est Chretien que pour poursuivre notre pauvre coeur jusque dans ses derniers retranchemens; il n'est Chretien que pour verser son poison sur nos joies et sur nos reves les plus chers.... Que reste-t-il donc a l'homme? Pour les ames fortes, il ne reste rien qu'un froid et intrepide mepris de toutes choses, un sec et stoique contentement a envisager le neant absolu; pour les autres, le desespoir ou les jouissances brutales du plaisir comme derniere fin de la vie! "Et voila ce que je deteste dans La Rochefoucauld! Cet ideal dont j'ai soif, il le detruit partout. Ce bien, ce beau, dont les faibles images me ravissent encore sous la forme imparfaite de nos vertus, de notre science, de notre sagesse humaine, il le reduit a un sec interet."--S. De Sacy, _Journal des Debats_, Janv. 28. * * * * * SHROPSHIRE BALLAD. Your correspondent B. H. C. (Vol. viii., p. 614.) gives, from recollection, a Northamptonshire version of the old "Ballad of Sir Hugh of Lincoln." It reminded me of a similar, though somewhat varied, version which I took down, more than forty years ago, from the lips of a nurse-maid in Shropshire. It may interest the author of _The Celt, the Roman, and the Saxon_, to know that it was recited in the place of his birth. Its resemblance to the ballad in Percy's _Reliques_ was my inducement to commit it to paper: It hails, it rains, in Merry-Cock land, It hails, it rains, both great and small, And all the little children in Merry-Cock land, They have need to play at ball. They toss'd the ball so high, They toss'd the ball so low, Amongst all the Jews' cattle And amongst the Jews below. Out came one of the Jews' daughters Dressed all in green. "Come, my sweet Saluter, And fetch the ball again." "I durst not come, I must not come, Unless all my little playfellows come along, For if my mother sees me at the gate, She'll cause my blood to fall." She show'd me an apple as green as grass, She show'd me a gay gold ring, She show'd me a cherry as red as blood, And so she entic'd me in. She took me in the parlour, She took me in the kitchen, And there I saw my own dear nurse A picking of a chicken. She laid me down to sleep, With a Bible at my head, and a Testament at my feet; And if my playfellows come to quere for me, Tell them I am asleep. S. P. Q. * * * * * {321} "OF THE BENEFIT OF THE DEATH OF CHRIST," BY AONIO PALEARIO. The total, or almost total, disappearance of books at one time largely circulated, is a curious fact in the history of literature. One cause of it may be found in the efforts made by the Church of Rome to suppress those works which were supposed to contain unsound doctrine.