all countries in corn, as appears both from sacred and profane history. It furnished a good part of the people subject to the Roman empire, and was called the dry nurse of Rome and Italy. For the first discovery and culture of corn, authors are much divided; the common opinion is, that in the first ages men lived on the spontaneous fruits of the earth, as acorns, and the nuts, or mast, produced by the beach. It is added, that they had not either the use of corn, nor the art of preparing or making it eatable. Ceres has the credit of being the first that shewed the use of corn, on which account she was placed among the gods; others give the honour to Triptolemus; others share it between the two, making Ceres the first discoverer, and Triptolemus the first planter and cultivator of corn. Diodorus Siculus ascribes the whole to Isis; in which Polydore Virgil observes, he does not differ from the rest, Isis and Ceres being in reality the same. The Athenians pretend it was among them the art began; and the Cretans, or Candiots, Sicilians, and Egyptians, lay claim Some think the title of the Sicilians best supported, that being the country of Ceres; and authors add, she did not teach the secret to the Athenians till she had first instructed her own countrymen. Others say, Ceres passed first into Attica, thence into Crete, and, last of all, into Sicily. Many of the learned, however, maintain, it was in Egypt the art of cultivating corn first began; and it is certain there was coin in Egypt and the east long before the time of Ceres. The fruits of the product of the earth were offered on her altars, and those who disturbed the mysteries were punished with death. P. T. W. to the same. LINES ON RECEIVING A KEEPSAKE. 'Tis not the chiming in with social mirth, The faithful solace of those thoughts that show crease And though the raging of that storm is past Many a tear the cold world dreams not of, (At which deserv'd dislike perchance might Bursts from its prison, when no soul is nigh. eye Upon me, ne'er affection's voice beguile But I am human-and could scarcely cope This broken heart, dejection stern would crave set, Then cheer thee, drooping heart, thou mayst be happy yet. C. F. The Topographer. No. XXI. TEMPLE-BAR. (To the Editor of the Mirror.) SIR, Amongst the many thousands who are daily passing through the gate of Temple-Bar, there are perhaps few who know any thing concerning the history of it, as the disadvantage of its situation, and the immense traffic which is hourly passing through it, render it almost impossible for any one to stop and examine it. On this account, therefore, I am induced to send you a short description of this edifice, which I trust will not prove unacceptable to your readers. Temple-Bar divides the city of London from the liberty of Westminster. In former times they were merely separated by of Constantine, in Cornestate belonging to A. F. is a most singular stone, he attention of those who interesting county. It is orbicular rock of granite, wo stones, between which ge, and from this circumed the name of Tolmen, ancient Cornish language, hole-stone, or the holedhowever, now only known by the name of the Mên one, when viewed at a disne resemblance to an egg; inspection, the similitude rests on its side on two ch appear to touch it only cted points. The passage een these supporters, and k which rests upon them, et high and as many wide, G can get, contains 750 tons of stone. ting up by a ladder to view the top of we found the whole surface worked li an imperfect or mutilated honeycomb in basins; one much larger than the re was at the south end, about seven fe long; another at the north, about five the rest smaller," &c.-From the summ of this stupendous rock there is a mo extensive view. On the north side it at least sixty feet above the level of t ground beneath, but on the south side n more than twenty. This estate abound with excellent granite, immense quant ties of which are sent to London, and a used in the construction of the new Lo don-bridge, public docks, &c. VIATOR. REMINISCENCES. (For the Mirror.) FIFTEEN.-Miss in her Teens-deter mined to make a Bold Stroke for a Hus band-gained a lover Deaf as a Postultimately discovered my devoted to be Poor Gentleman-would not do-sadl disappointed-Heigho! SIXTEEN. Tried again-encountered a rich West Indian-thought The Worl Well Lost to secure him, condescendingly submitted to the opinion of others in order to be thought amiable—found he was Inconstant-adopted a Belle's Stra tagem-caught him in an Intrigue with a Maid of Paliseau-heart terribly fluttered-vowed hatred to the sex for ever. SEVENTEEN.— Seriously considered the difference between Married and Single-decided in favour of the former envied Lionel and Clarissa, the Constant Couple, and sighed for an Elopement to Gretna Green--wishes all in vain-hopes completely frustrated. EIGHTEEN.-Resolved to marry any. body—applied to My Grandmother whe THE SYBIL'S SPELL. CLARA was a well-educated and intelli gent girl, but romantic to an extreme In her ideas of honour, of friendship, o love, she was an enthusiast; but in he observance of them she was faithful and sincere. She was one of those sensitiv creatures that seem born like sweet bu transient flowers, which shed their fra grance and perish in their youth. To a heart like Clara's, love could not long b a stranger, nor could it be a passive in mate in her breast. Her whole soul was fixed on one object. Her wishes, thoughts and actions seemed to have but one ori. gin; but her lover died, and her happi ness died with him. By degrees she grew more calm, but a settled melancholy hung upon her heart, and her spirit was utterly broken. Colonel M- when on the point of leaving Spain, suggested to her father that change of scene might in some degree divert her thoughts from the dan gerous channel which they had taken, and proposed that she should accompany his own family, to all of whom she was very much attached. The offer was accepted. and she came to England. The noise and gaiety of London, however, ill accorded with her wounded feelings, and she fel gratified at accompanying her friends into Lincolnshire. As the autumn advanced she used to wander out alone; and day after day she would sit on Aukborough. hill to watch the sun-rays fading over the its streams sparkling and smiling in the golden light of sunset, and of one who was cold in his grave, and then she would weep and return in sorrow to her home. Her beautiful form gradually wasted away beneath the strong influence of these feelings, and she became more and more wedded to solitude. One evening, as she was walking towards her favourite spot, an old gipsy, who was standing at the foot of the hill, accosted her. The sybil had, no doubt, gained from Colonel M-'s domestics some insight into the poor girl's history, and, as Clara approached, she muttered, in a low and solemn tone-"The maid who repairs to Aukborough-hil! When the stars are out, and the winds are still, Shall see a form, and shall bear a voice That will make her sorrowing heart rejoice. And, if her lover died in a distant land, Let her make three circles with her hand On the green grass turf, and look on the streams That dance in the light of the pale moon-beams; Let her fix her gaze, and hold her breath, And her lover will come from the realms of death, And sit with her when the winds are still, And the stars are out upon Aukborough-hill." As she concluded, she drew towards Clara, and said, "Let me tell your fortune, lady." She then went on her way, and the maiden ascended the hill. A superstitious feeling crept over her as she reflected on the words of the gipsy, which increased as the evening advanced. Her thoughts were entirely engrossed by them. The lowing of the cattle as they were driven home to their stalls, the tinkling bell that called the scattered sheep to the patriarch of the flock, the chime of the village clock, and the farewell song of birds, struck not upon her ear. The distant trees that reflected their autumnal tints on the bright waves; the quiet heavens with their progeny of clouds; the valleys and hills and streams, were not seen by her; she seemed like a statue placed among animated beings, and was, for a time, dead to the living charms of nature. Whilst ruminating on the lines she had heard, the sun went down, and the stars began to speckle the blue sky. For the first time she raised her eyes, and bethought her of the sybil's spell. The winds had sung themselves into tranquil slumbers, and the moon looked calmly on the sparkling waters beneath. Clara remembered the charm, and made three circles on the turf, held her breath, and fixed her gaze upon the rivers. The night was far advanced, and Col. M. became alarmed that Clara had not returned home; but, knowing her favourite haunt, he repaired thither, and stole softly behind her without being observed. She was sitting on the grass, and speaking in a whisper to some one beside her, as the colonel at first thought; but he was soon satisfied that she was alone. As he stood there, he heard her say, "You did not dic then? Oh, Leon! how could you jest so with me? You have nearly broken my heart; and had you not come now, I should have been, to-morrow, cold and dead as my hopes! but you are come to me, and I will not think of sadness. To be sure I do forgive you! Oh, yes! Nay, nay, you must not kiss me! We are not married yet, but we soon shall be; shall we not, my Leon? And we will go to our own country, where the olives grow, and the happy birds sing all day long in the citron groves. Oh, Leon, my heart is so full, and my head burns so; I am too happy. Why is my father not here to meet you? I want to see my poor father, for I did not kiss him last night, and he will think that I have forgotten him. My eyes feel so heavy! No! no! not on your breast; the grass green turf shall be my pillow!-and yet, again, I think I shall lie softer in your arms, my Leon, than on the cold ground." She sank, with a sigh, upon the earth, and Colonel M. hastily advanced to the spot where she lay. He spoke to her, but she gave no answer. He took her hand, but it returned not his pressure. The moonbeams fell on her pale and beautiful face, where a smile of tenderness still lingered, and the stars looked brightly down upon her; but she felt not their power, and she saw not their light, for her heart was still, and her eyes were closed for ever. The Gondola. which was at that time frequented by most of the respectable tradesmen in the neighbourhood, who, from Joe's imperturbable gravity, whenever any risible saying was recounted, derisively ascribed it to him. After his death, having left his family unprovided for, advantage was taken of this badinage. A Mr. Motley, a wellknown dramatist of that day, was employed to collect all the stray jests then current on town. Joe Millar's name was prefixed to them, and from that day to this, the man who never uttered a jest has been the reputed author of every jest, past, present, and to come. PUFFING BURLESQUED. THE following whimsical account of Mrs. Siddons's first appearance in Dublin, is extracted from an old Irish newspaper:-"On Saturday, Mrs. Siddons, about whom all the world has been talk ing, exposed her beautiful, adamantine, soft, and lovely person, for the first time, at Smock-Alley Theatre, in the bewitch ing, melting, and all-tearful character of Isabella. From the repeated panegyrics in the impartial London newspapers, we were taught to expect the sight of a heavenly angel; but how were we supernaturally surprised into the most awful joy at beholding a mortal goddess. The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star of Melpomene! this comet of the stage! this sun of the firmament of the Muses! this moon of blank verse! this queen and princess of tears! this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol and dagger! this chaos of Shakspeare! this world of weeping clouds! this Juno of commanding aspects! this Terpsichore of the curtains and scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake ! this Katterfelto of wonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above all the natural powers of description! She was nature itself! She was the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy, primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gilliflower, wallflower, cauliflower, aurica, and rosemary! in short, she was the bouquet of Parnassus! Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she would be injured by her appearance; but it was the audience who were injured; several fainted before the curtain drew up! but, when she came to the scene of parting with her wedding-ring, ah! what a sight was there! the very fiddlers in the orchestra, "albeit unused to the melting mood," blubbered like hungry children crying for their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran from the bassoonplayers' eyes in such plentiful showers, that they choked the finger-stops, and, making a spout of the instrument, poured in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn from the smellingbottles, prevented the mistake between the flats and sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted! forty-six went into fits! and ninety-five had strong hysterics! The world will scarcely credit the truth, when they are told that fourteen children, five old women, one hundred tailors, and six common-councilmen, were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, the slips, and the boxes, to increase the briny pond in the pit; the water was three feet deep, and the people that were obliged to stand upon the benches were in that position up to their ankles in tears! An act of parliament against her playing any more will certainly pass,' &c. &c. &c.-This jeu d'esprit, which was written by the facetious Peter Seguin, is said to have given vast offence to the lady's friends at the time; why, we cannot see. The ridicule fairly levelled, not at Mrs. S., whose merits no one could deny, or did deny, but at the insatiable aptitude of the public mind for puff! THE RULING PASSION. THE anecdote of Anne Oldfield, a celebrated actress, who, in her last moments, was so entirely engrossed with the dress in which she should be arrayed after her death, puts us in mind of a similar anecdote of the French Princess de Charolais. Although, in the agonics of death, it was easier to bring her to receive the last sacra. ments, than to take off her rouge: no longer able to resist the entreaties of her confessor, she at length consented. "But in this case," said she to the attendant woman, give me some other ribands; you know that, without rouge, yellow ribands look frightful upon me." The last words of Mrs. Oldfield were, " One would not look a fright after one's death;" or, according to Pope, 66 "One would not sure look ugly when one's dead, And-Betty!-give these cheeks a little red!" Sir Joshua Reynolds declared as follows to Mr. Northcote, "That to procure a really fine picture, by Titian, he would be content to sell every thing he possessed in the world to raise money for its pur |