AN ARTIST'S FAME Painter. Let none call happy one whose art's deep source

They know not-or what thorny paths he trode

To reach its dazzling goal!
Marquis.

cloud

What dost thon mean?
Painter. I'll seek a simile- Some gorgeous
Oft towers in wondrous majesty before ye-
It bathes its bosom in pure ether's flood,
Evening twines crowns of roses for its head,
And for its mantle weaves a fringe of gold;
Ye gaze on it admiring and enchanted-
Yet know not whence its airy structure rose !
If it breathe incense from some holy altar,
Or earth-born vapours from the teeming soil,
When rain from Heav'n descends - if fiery

breath

prayers and provender," quoth he,
hinder no man ;" and the cheerful
angler, as he sat under the willow-tree,
watching his quill, trolled out a Christian
catch. "Here we may sit and pray,
before death stops our breath ;" and the
merchant (like the excellent Sutton, of
the Charter House) thought how he
could make his merchandize subservient
to the good of his fellow-citizens and
the glory of his God, and accordingly
endowed some charitable, and learned,
and religious foundation, worthy of the
munificence of a crowned head; and
the grave historian (Lord Clarendon
himself does so) chose a text in his Bible
as a motto for his chapter on politics;
and religion, in short, reached unto every
place, and, like Elisha stretched on the
dead child, (to use one of Jeremy Tay-
lor's characteristic illustrations), gave
life and animation to every part of the
body politic. But years rolled on; and
the original impulse given at the Refor-
mation, and augmented at the Rebellion,
to undervalue all outward forms, has si-
lently continued to prevail, till, with the The sober edifice of mutual bliss!
form of godliness, (much of it, no doubt,
objectionable, but much of it whole-
some), the power in a considerable de-
gree expired too.

Accordingly, our churches are now
closed in the week-days, for we are too
busy to repair to them; our politicians
crying out, with Pharaoh, "Ye are
idle, ye are idle; therefore would
ye go
and do sacrifice to the Lord." Our ca-
thedrals, it is true, are still open; but
where are the worshippers? Instead of
entering in, the citizen avails himself of
the excellent clock which is usually at-
tached to them, sets his watch, and
hastens upon 'Change, where the con-
gregation is numerous and punctual, and
where the theological speculations are
apt to run in Shylock's vein pretty ex-
clusively. If a church will answer, then,
indeed, a joint-stock company springs
up; and a church is raised with as much
alacrity, and upon the same principles,
as a play-house. The day when the
people brought their gifts is gone by.
The "solid temples," that heretofore
were built as if not to be dissolved till
doomsday, have been succeeded by thin
emaciated structures, bloated out by
coats of flatulent plaster, and supported
upon cast-metal pegs, which the cour-
tesy of the times calls pillars of the
church. The painted windows, that
admitted a dim religious light, have given
place to the cheap house-pane and dap-
per green curtain. The front, with its
florid reliefs and capacious crater, has
dwindled into a miserable basin.

Of battle, or the darkly rolling smoke
Of conflagration, thus its giant towers
Pile on the sky-ye care not, but enjoy
Its form and glory, Thus it is with art!
Whether were born amid the sunny depths
Of a glad heart entranced in mutual love-
Or, likelier far, alas the sorrowing child
Of restless anguish, and baptized in tears-
of worse than death-Ye gaze and ye admire,
Or wrung from Genius even amid the throes
Nor pause to ask what it hath cost the heart
That gave it being!
Blackwood's Magazine.

ROMANCE is ever readier
To make unbidden sacrifice, than rear

TRUE PATRIOTISM.

Ibid.

PROMOTE religion-protect public morals-repress vice and infidelity-keep the different classes of the community and cherish the principles, feelings, and in strict subordination to each other-habits, which give stability, beauty, and happiness to society.

Descend from the clouds of political economy, and travel in safety on your mother earth; cast away the blinding spectacles of the philosophers, and use the eyes you have received from nature. Practise the vulgar principles, that it is erroneous to ruin immense good markets, to gain petty bad ones that you cannot carry on losing trade-that you cannot live without profit-and that you cannot eat without income. And pule no more about individual economy, but eat, and drink, and enjoy yourselves, like your fathers. What! in these days of free trade, to tell the hypochondriacal Englishman that the foaming tankard, the honest bottle of port, and the savoury sirloin, must be prohibited articles! You surely wish us to hang and drown ourselves by wholesale.—Ibid.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

THE following account of the origin of the name "Forget-me-not," is extracted from Mill's History of Chivalry, and was communicated to that work by Dr. A. T. Thomson:-"Two lovers were loitering on the margin of a lake on a fine

summer's evening, when the maiden espied some of the flowers of Myosotis growing on the water, close to the bank of an island, at some distance from the shore. She expressed a desire to possess them, when the knight, in the true spirit of chivalry, plunged into the water, and swimming to the spot, cropped the wished for plant, but his strength was unable to fulfill the object of his achievement, and feeling that he could not regain the shore, although very near it, he threw the flowers upon the bank, and casting a last affectionate look upon his lady-love, he cried Forget me not!' and was buried in the waters."-Gardener's Magazine.

HOME.

Leonhard. See here what spacious halls! how
all around

Ús breathes magnificence!
Spinarosa.

A princely pile!

But ah! how nobler far its daring site!

It rears its tow'rs amid these rocks and glaciers,

As if proud man were in his might resolved
To add his rock to those that spurn the vale.

Leon. All here is beautiful! but 'tis not home!

'Tis true I was a child scarce eight years old
When led by Pietro into Italy

Yet are my home's green lineaments as fresù
As when first painted on my infant soul;
This castle bears them not.-My home lay hid
In the deep bosom of gigantic oaks,

That o'er its roof their guardian shadows flung.
Nor towers, nor gates, nor pinnacles, were
there ;

With lowly thatch and humble wicket graced,
Smiling, yet solitary, did it stand.
Blackwood's Magazine.

IRISH SONGS.

which, like the breath of nature, from whose fresh inspiration they were caught, are alike refreshing to the monarch and the clown!-Ibid.

A REAL MIRACLE.

THE fable of Dr. Southey's Pilgrim of
Compostella, is as follows:-

A family set forth from Aquitaine to visit the shrine of St. James, at Compostella, whither, according to the Catholic faith, the decapitated body of that saint was conveyed from Palestine, (miraculously of course,) in a ship of marble. At a certain small town by the way, their son Pierre is tempted by the innkeeper's daughter. Like a second Joseph, he resists the immodest damsel; like Potiphar's wife, she converts her love to hate, and accuses the virtuous youth of a capital crime. Her false oaths prevail, and he is condemned to the gallows. Rejoicing in his martyred inuocence, he exhorts his parents to pursue their pilgrimage, and pray for the peace of his soul. Sorrowing, they proceed, and returning, find their son hanging by the neck alive, and singing psalms-in no actual pain-but naturally desirous to be freed from his extraordinary state of suspended animation. They repair to the chief magistrate of the town, by whose authority the youth was executed-find his worship at dinner-relate the wonderful preservation of their son-and request that he The magistrate is incredulous, and declares that he would sooner believe that the fowls on which he was dining would rise again in full feather. The miracle is performed. The cock and hen spring from the ocean of their own gravy, clacking and crowing, with all appurtenances of spur, comb, and feather. Pierre, of course, is liberated, and declared innocent. The cock and hen become objects of veneration-live in a state of chastity—and are finally translated-leaving just two eggs, from which arise another immaculate cock and hen. The breed is perhaps still in existence, and time hath been, that a lucrative trade was carried on in

It is impossible to conceive any trash may be restored.
more despicable than the slang songs
which are current amongst the common
people in Ireland; and this is the more
to be lamented, as the extreme suscep-
tibility of the people makes them liable
to be easily moved to either good or
evil by their songs. Even the native
Irish songs, as we are informed in Miss
Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry, are
sadly interpolated with nonsensical pas-
sages, which have been introduced to
supply the place of lost or forgotten
lines; and of humorous lyrical poetry,
she says there was none in the language
worth translating. Moore has given to
the beautiful airs of Ireland beautiful
words; but Moore is a poet for ladies
and gentlemen, not for mankind.
may be, that there are not materials in
Ireland, for a kindred spirit to that of
Burns to work upon; but the fact is
but too true, that the poor Irishman
has no song of even decent ability, to
cheer his hours of merriment, or soothe
the period of his sadness. Honour and
undying praise be upon the memory of
Burns, who has left to us those songs

It

their feathers!!!-Ibid.

The Gatherer.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
SHAKSPEARE.

Or Hogarth's first attempt at satire, the following story is related by Nichols, who had it from one of Hogarth's fellow workmen. 'One summer Sunday, during his apprenticeship, he went with