earlier, which is indicated by the capital letters,
which are in gold. The seventh codex
contains the Gallic, Roman, Hebrew, and Greek
Psalmody, as edited by St. Jeronimus—"a most
rare and valuable codex."

The twelfth codex, in elegant foglio, adorned
with many illuminations and annotations of the
eighth century, comprises the four Gospels.

Codex one hundred and forty-three deserves
particular mention. As frontispiece, there is
a portrait of Archbishop Evergerus in his
episcopal robes. It is richly illuminated, and set
with jewels.

The above quotations, which we have translated
from the Latin, in which language the
catalogue is written, will suffice to give such of
our readers as are bibliophiles some idea of a
treasure which will shortly be restored to the
shelves of the library attached to the Cologne
Cathedral.

We may mention another restoration which
is on the eve of accomplishment. The
celebrated collection of pictures, known as the
Düsseldorf collection, will shortly be returned
to Prussia, negotiations having already
commenced for that purpose. The collection, which
comprises some of the finest specimens of the
German and Dutch schools, is at present at
Munich.

                   MY SONGS.

      TRANSLATED FROM PETÖFI.

I'm lost in thought, I cannot understand
   What's passing round me. On swift wings I fly,
Perplexed and restless, o'er the fatherland,
   Through the wide world and the o'erhanging sky,
And then strange dreary dreams inspire my lays,
              Like lunar rays!

But why should vain chimeras fill my mind?
   A brighter future I'll anticipate;
Why to hope's promises should I be blind?
   God rules above us, and our God is great;
And then my songs up to Heaven's portals rise
              Gay butterflies!

And when a lovely maid I chance to meet,
   how I revel in her smiles of grace!
O how I look into those eyes so sweet,
   As looks a star upon the lake's calm face!
And then my song with rapturous fragrance glows
             Like a wild rose!

And am I loved? I feel a joy divine—
   I dwell enraptured on a thought like this;
Come! fill my glass with rosy sparkling wine,
   And celebrate with me the mighty bliss!
Then are my songs inspired by hope and love,
             Rainbows above!

But while I hold the glass I look around,
   And see the manacles my country wears,
Then, not the clinking glasses' music-sound,
   But the harsh clang of fetters shocks my ears.
What is the song which then I sing aloud?
              A misty cloud!

Will not the people, in a burst sublime,
   Break through these chains? Can no release be
              wrought
Till they are rusted by corroding time?
   Forbid it, Heaven! I cannot bear the thought;
Then do my songs burst forth in shame and ire,
              Like lightning's fire!

              ON THE WALLABY.

I FOUND myself one morning on a certain,
diggings in New South Wales, with five
pounds in my pocket, and no horse. My mind
was soon made up, loafing not being in my
creed. I bought a pair of blankets, a blue serge
shirt, moleskin trousers, and a billycock hat,
and thus arrayed in the unaccustomed but
orthodox costume, I bade a long farewell to swelldom,
and started on the Wallaby in search of
any kind of employment, which, as Mr. Micawber
has it, might turn up.

Birds of a feather, &c. On my first night
out, I fell in with an unfortunate individual
who, like myself, had "seen better days," and
we chummed. Very useful poor Sam proved to
me, for he had had a previous experience of
"travelling."

As long as my remaining few shillings lasted,
we did not ask a squatter for food; but after
walking about five hundred miles my stock came
to an end, and afterwards we were obliged to
cadge like the rest.

For thirteen weeks I prowled about the
country, asking at every station for employment,
and during that time I was offered but one job,
and that was to make bricks. This, in
consequence of a practical knowledge of the art of
brickmaking not having been considered necessary
as a part of my education, I was most
reluctantly forced to decline. And until
eventually, after walking over fourteen hundred
miles, I got a job "rolling fleeces," I had to
continue my vagrant existence. "Misfortune
makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows,"
and truly this proverb is fully exemplified "on
the Wallaby." I have met men from almost
every quarter of the globe, and almost every
grade in society supplies its representative—
literally from the peer to the peasant. A noble
viscount, whom I have met "bullock-driving,"
was, upon his coming to the title, discovered,
after some difficulty, hut-keeping for two shepherds,
at a sheep station on the Burrowa River,
New South Wales. He is now, I believe, living
on his estate in the old country. Lawyers
and "old lags," doctors and "Pentonvilles,"
B.A.s and agricultural labourers, counter-
jumpers, mechanics, and indeed "all sorts of
men," are to be seen "on the Wallaby." Worn-
out old men, who are only fit for the Benevolent
Asylum, and "cranky men" form by no means
a small quota of the whole. There is an
incredible number of the latter constantly going
the rounds; pitied and fed by the settlers, and
unmercifully chaffed by their "fellow-travellers."
I have met these unfortunates in the depth of
winter, wet and miserable, with scarcely a rag