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THE MONUMENT,

Once the object of general praise, from fts loftiness and beauty, and till now the subject of censure, even among Protestants, from that inscription of which the Papists always complained, was the offspring of this period, and realized one 6f those decorations which Wren had lavished upon his air-drawn Babylon. This lpfty column was ordered by the Commons, in commemoration of the extinction' of the great fire and the rebuilding of the city: it stands on the site of the old church of St. Margaret, and within a hundred feet of the spot where the conflagration began. It is of the Doric order, and rises from the pavement to the height of two hundred and two feet, containing within its shaft a spiral stair of black marble of three hundred and forty-five steps. The plinth is twenty-one feet square, and ornamented with sculpture by Cibber, representing the flames subsiding on the appearance of King Charles ;—beneath his horse's feet a figure, meant to personify religious malice, crawls out vomiting fire, and above is that unjustifiable legend which called forth the mdignant lines of Pope—

* Where London's column pointing to the skies. Like a tall bully, lifts bis bead and lies.**

The shaft, deeply fluted , measures fifteen feet diameter at the base, and

* The original inscription, nscribing to the Roman Catholics the fire which consumed the city, obliterated during the reign of James II. and restored witb much pomp on the coming of King William, is now ordered, I bear, to be erased by the Common Council. Fiction is truth aiid truth is fiction as party prevails.

G. NORLAND.

H. Morland, wine merchant, brother of the painter, says, " that his brother died while his servant was holding a

flass of gin (his favourite liquor) over is shoulder. And he was So prodigal at times that he had not enough to buy ultra-marine with, althdugh a few hours before he had invited a great number of his associates to a general debauch."

Geo. St. Clair.

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COWLEY'S HOUSE, AT CHERTSEY.

back part of the house, towards the

Cowley retired to these premises, at Chertsey, in Surrey, a few years before his death, which took place here in 1667, in his 49th year. The premises are called the Porch House, and were for many years occupied by the late Richard Clark, Esq., Chamberlain of London, who died a short time since.' Mr. Clark, in honour of the Poet, took much pains to preserve the premises iu their original state, kept an original portrait of Cowley, and had affixed a tablet in front, containing Cowley's Latin Epitaph on himself. In the year 1793, it was supposed that the ruinous state of the house rendered it impossible to support the building, but it was found practicable to preserve the greater part of it, to which some rooms have been added. Mr. Clark also placed a tablet in front of the building where the porch stood, with the following inscription :— "The Porch of this House, which projected ten feet into the highway, was, in the year 1792, removed for the safety and accommodation of the public.

!' Here th* last accents flowed from Cowley's tongue."

We received the substance of this information from the venerable Mr. Clark himself, in the year 1822, about which time there appeared, in the Monthly Magazine, a view of the original premises, from a drawing by the late Mr. Samuel Ireland. The above view was taken by a Correspondent, in the summer of 1828, and represents the original portion of the mansion. Cowley's study is here pointed out, being a closet in the

garden.

How delightfully must Cowley have passed his latter days in the rural seclusion of Chertsey 1 How he must hava loved that earthly paradise—his garden —who could write thus for his epitaph;

From life's superfluous cares enlarg'd,

His debt of human toil discbnrg'd,

Here Cowley lies, beneath this shed.

To ev'ry worldly interest dead:

With decent poverty content;

His hours of ease not idly spent;

To fortune's goods a foe profess'd.

And, bating wealth, by all caress'd

'Tis sure be's dead; for, lo' how small

A spot of earth is now his all I ,

O! wish that earth may lightly lay.

And ev'ry care be far away!

Bring tlow'rs. the short-liv'd roses bring,

To life deceased fit onering!

And sweets around the poet strow.

Whilst yet with life his ashes glow.

Again:

Sweet shades, adieu! here let my dust remain, Covered with flowers, aud free from noise nod pain;

Let evergreens the turfy tomb adorn,
And roseate dews (the glory of the moru)
My carpet deck; Uien let my soul possess
The happier scenes of an eternal bliss.

Then, too, the delightful chapter Of Gardens which he addressed to the virtuous John Evelyn.

We quote these few illustrations of Cowley's character from Mr. Felton's very interesting volume "on the Portraits of English Authors on Gardening.''—By the way, at page 100, in a Note, Mr. Felton makes a flattering reference to one of our earliest works, which we are hoppy to learn has not escaped his observation.

SPIRIT OF THE

public journals.

ORIGIN OP PAUL "PRY.,J

(By the Author.) The idea of the character of Paul Pry ;was suggested by the following anec* dote, related to me several years ago, by a beloved friend :—An idle old lady, living in a narrow street, had passed so much of her time in watching the affairs of her neighbours, that she, at length, acquired the power of distinguishing the sound of every knocker within hearing. Jt happened that she fell ill, and was, for several days, confined to her bed. Unable to observe in person what was going on without, she stationed her maid at the window, as a substitute for the performance of that duty. But Betty soon grew weary of the occupation: she became careless in her reports—impatient and tetchy when reprimanded lor her negligence.

. "Betty, what are you thinking about? don't you hear a double knock at No. 9? Who is it?"

"The first-floor lodger, Ma'am."

"Betty! Betty!—I declare I must give you warning. Why don't you tell me what that knock is at No. 54!"

"Why, Lord! Ma'am, it is only the baker, with pies."

"Pies, Betty! what can they want with pies at 54 ?—they had pies yesterday {>'

Of this very point I have availed myself. Let me add that Paul Pry was never intended as the representative of any one individual) but a class. Like the melancholy of Jaques, he is " compounded of many Simples and I could mention five or six who were unconscious contributors to the character.— That it should have been so often, though erroneously, supposed to have been drawn after some particular person, is, perhaps, complimentary to the general truth of the delineation.

With respect to the play, generally, I may say that it is original : it is original , in structure, plot, character, and dialogue—such as they are. The only imitation I am aware of is to be found in part of the business in which Mrs. Subtle is engaged: whilst writing those scenes I had strongly in my recollection Le Vieux Celibataire. But even the little I have adopted is considerably altered and modified by the necessity of adapting it to the exigencies of a different plot.—New Monthly Magazine*

MAUREEN.

The cottage is here es of old I remember,
The pathway is worn as it always hath been ,

On the tnrf-piled hearth there still lives a bright
'ember;—
But where is Maureen t

The same pleasant prospect still lieth before me. The river—the mountain—the valley of green,

And Heaven itself (a bright blessing!) is o'er me;— But where is Maureen?

Lost! Lost!—Like a dream that hath come and departed,

(Ah, why are the loved and the lost ever seen '.) She has fallen—balb flown, with a lover falsehearted ;— So, mourn for Maureen.

And she who so loved her is slain—(the poor mother')

Struck dead in a day by a shadow unseen, And the home we once loved is the home of another. And lost is Maureen.

Sweet Shannon, a moment by thee let me ponder,

. A moment look back at the things that have been,

Then, away to the world where the ruin'd ones wander, To seek for Maureen.

Fale peasant—perhaps, 'neath the frown of high Heaven,

She roams the dark deserts of sorrow unseen, TJnpitied—unknown , but I—J shall know even The ghost of Maureen.

Ntte Monthly Magazine,

THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT.

BY MRS HEMANS.

How weeps yon gallant Band

O'er him their valour could not save!

For the bayonet is red with gore,

And be, the beautiful and brave.

Now sleeps in Egypt's sand.—Wilson.

In the shadow of the Pyramid
Our brother's grave we made.

When the battle-day was done,

And the Desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.

The blood-red sky above us

Was darkening into night, And the Arab watching silently

Our sad and hurried rite.

The voice of Egypt's river

Came hollow and profound. And one lone palm-tree, where we stood,

Rock'd with a shivery sound:

Wlille the shadow of the Pyramid
Hung o'er the grave we made,

When the battle-day was done,

And the Desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.

The fathers of our brother
Were borne to knightly tombs,

With torch-light and with anthem-note.
And many waving plumes:

But he, the last and noblest

Of that high Norman race.
With a few brief words of soldier-love

Was gather'd to his place;

In the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his youthful form we laid.

When the battle-day was done,

And the Desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.

But let him, let him slumber1

By the old Egyptian wave t It i> wen with those who tear their toe

Unsullied to the grave!

When brightest names are breathed on,

When loftiest fall so fast,
We would not call our brother back

On dark days to be cast,

From the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his noble heart we lahl.

When the battle-day was done.

And the Desert's pnrtlBS; sun
A field of death survey'd.

Blackwood's Magazine.

THE SNOW-WHITE TIIlGIlt.

(Continued from page 125.)

Her life seemed to be the same in sleep. Often at midnight, by the light of the moon shining m upon her little bed beside theirs, her parents leant over her face, diviner in dreams, and wept as she wept, her lips all the while murmuring, in broken sentences of prayer, the name of Him who died for us all. But plenteous as were his penitential tearspenitential, in the holy humbleness of her stainless spirit, over thoughts that had never left a dimming breath on its purity, yet that seemed, in those strange visitings, to be haunting her as the shadows of sins—soon were they all dried up in the lustre of her returning smiles! Waking, her voice in the kirk was the sweetest among many sweet, as all the young singers, and she the youngest far, sat together by themselves, and within the congregational music of the psalm, uplifted a silvery strain that sounded like the very spirit of the whole, even like angelic harmony blent with a mortal song. But sleeping, still more sweetly sang the " Holy Child r" and then, too, in some diviner inspiration than ever was granted to it while awake, her soul composed its own hymns, and set the simple scriptural words to its own mysterious music-'—the tnnes she loved best gliding into one another, without once ever marring the melody, with pathetic touches interposed never heard before, and never more to be renewed! For each dream had its own, breathing, and many-visioned did then seem to be the sinless creature's sleep!

The love that was borne for her, all over the hill-region and beyond its circling clouds, was almost such as mortal creatures might be thought to feel for some existence that had visibly come from, heaven! Yet all who looked on her saw that she, like themselves, was mortal; and many an eye was wet, the heart wist not why, to hear such wisdom falling frotn her lips; for dimly did it prognosticate, that as short at bright

would be her Walk from the cradle to the grave. And thus for the "Holy Child*' was their love elevated by awe, and saddened by pity—and as by herself she passed pensively by their dwellings, the same eyes that smiled on her presence, on her disappearance wept!

Not in vain for others—and for herself, oh! what great gain f—<for these few years on earth, did that pure spirit ponder on the word of God! Other children became pious from their delight in her piety—for she was simple as the simplest among them all, and walked with them hand in hand, nor spurned companionship with any one that was good. But all grew good by being with her—and parents had but to whisper her name—and in a moment the passionate sob was hushed—the lowermg brow lighted—and the household in peace. Older hearts owned the power of the piety, so far surpassing their thoughts; and time-hardened sinners, it is said, when looking and listening to the "Holy Child,''' knew the errors of their ways, and returned to the right path, as at a voice from heaven.

Bright was her seventh summer—the brightest, so the aged said, that had ever, in man's memory, shone over Scothind. One long, still, sunny, blue day followed another; and in the rainless weather, though the dews kept green the hills, the song of the streams was low. But paler and paler, in sunlight and moonlight, became the sweet face that had been always pale; and the voice that had been always something mournful, breathed lower ahd sadder still from the too perfect whiteness of her breast. No need—no fear—to tell her that she was about to die! Sweet whispers had sung it to her in her sleep', and waking she knew it in the look oif the piteous skies. But she spoke not to her parents of death more than she had often done—and neterof her own. Only she seemed to love them with a more exceeding love—and was readier, even sometimes when no one was speaking, with a few drops of tears. Sometimes she disappeared—nor, when sought for, was found fn the woods about the hut. And one day that mystery was cleared; for a shepherd saw her sitting by herself on a grassy mound in a nook of the small, solitary kirkyard, miles off among the hills, so lost in reading the Bible, that shadow or sound of his feet awoke her not; and, ignorant of his presence, she knelt down and prayed —for awhile weeping bitterly—but soon comforted by •a heavenly calm—that her sins might be forgiven her!

One Sabbath evening, toon after, as she was sitting beside her parent*, at the door of their hut, looking first for a long while on their faces, and then for u long while on the sky, though it was not yet the stated honr of worship, she suddenly knelt down, and leaning on their knees, with hands clasped more fervently than her wont, she broke forth into tremulous singing of that hymn, which from her lips they now never heard without unendurable tears.

* The liour of my departure'i come,
I bear the voice that raits me home;
At last, O Lord! let trouble ceaae.
And let thy servant die in peace.*

They carried her fainting to her little bed, and uttered not a word to one another till she revived. The shock was sudden, but not unexpected, and they knew now that the hand of death was upon her, although, her eyes soon became brighter and brighter, they thought, than they had ever been before. But forehead, cheeks, lips, neck, and breast, were, all as white, and, to the quivering hands that touched them, almost as cold, as snow. Ineffable was the bliss in those radiant eyes; but the breath of words was frozen, and that hymn was almost her last farewell. Some lew words she spake, and named the hour and day she wished to be buried. Her lips could then just faintly return the kiss, and no more—a film came over the now dim blue of her eyes—the father listened for her breath—and then the mother took his place, and leaned her ear to the (mbreathing month, long deluding herself with its lifelike smile; but a sudden darkness m the room, and a sudden stillness—most dreadful both—convinced their unbelieving hearts at last—that it was death!

All the parish, it may be said, attended her funeral—for none staid away from the kirk that Sabbath—though many a. voice was unable to join in the psalm. The little grave was soon filled up, and you hardly knew that the turf h»d been disturbed beneath which she lay. The afternoon service consisted but of a prayer— for he who ministered, had loved her with love unspeakable— and, though an old grey-haired man, all the time he prayed he wept. In the sobbing kirk her parents were sitting, but no one looked at them—and when the congregation rose to go, there they remained sitting—and an hour afterwards, came out again into the open air—and parting with their pastor at the gate, walked away to their hut, overshadowed with the blessing of a thousand prayers! And did her parents, soon after she

was buried, die of broken heart", or pine away disconsolately to their graves ?— Think not that they, who were Christians indeed, could be guilty of sueh ingratitude. "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away—blessed be the name of the Lord I" were the first words they had spoken by that bedside; during many, many long years of weal or woe, duly every morning and night, these same blessed words did they utter when on their knees together in prayer—and many a thousand times besides, when they were apart, she in her silent hut, and he on the hill—neither of them unhappy in their solitude, though never agam, perhaps, was his 'countenance so cheerful as of yore—and though often suddenly amidst mirth or sunshine, her eyes were seen to overflow! Happy had they been—as we mortal beings eve* can be happy—during many pleasant years of wedded life before she had been born. And happy were they—on to the verge of old age—after she had here ceased to be! Their Bible had indeed been an idle book—the Bible that belonged to " the Holy Child,"—and idle all their kirk-goings with "the Hofy Child," through the Sabbath-calm—had those intermediate seven years not left a> power of bliss behind them triumphant over death and the grave!

Blackwood's Magazine.

Jtotes of a RtaUer.

FAMILIAR IAW.

Wr cordially add our note of commendation to those already bestowed on a little Manual, entitled " Plain Advice to Landlords and Tenants, Lodging-house Keepers, and Lodgers; with a comprehensive Summary of the Law of Distress," 'fec. It is likewise pleasant to see " third edition " in its title-page. Accompanying we have "A Familiar Summary of the Laws respecting Masters and Servants," 'tec .

On looking into these little books we find mnch of the plain sense of law. There is no mystification by technicalities, but all the information is practical, all ready to hand, we mean mouth; so that, as Mrs. Fixture says in the farce of A Roland for an Oliver~" If there be such a thing as la' in the land," you may" ha' it." Joking apart, they are sensible books, and of good authority.

Suppose we throw ourselves back in our chair, and for a minute or two think of the goad which the spread of common sense by such means aa the

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