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 courtesy 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 dapper
green curtain. The front, with its florid reliefs and capacious crater,
has dwindled into a miserable basin.

* * * * *


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._ What dost thou mean?
_Painter._ I'll seek a simile--Some gorgeous cloud
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