like to break!At last she went one morn to see
What he could be about,
And hoped, alone, to find him in,
But he had just popt out.
She ax'd, "Is Mr. Green at home?"
Of one who, with a laugh,
Replied, "He's not! but if you please
I'll fetch his better half."
"His what?" scarce uttered Bridget out,
With uttermost dismay;
And there she stopt, she could no more,
And nearly swoon'd away!
But when at length she was herself,
And saw her faithless clown.
She straightway went to blow him up,
But got a good set down!
"Oh, cold and faithless Tim," quoth she,
"You vowed you couldn't smother
Your burning love for me, but now
You're married to another!"
"Is this the way you treat me, sir?
Too cheaply was I bought!
I loved you dearly, but it seems
That that all went for naught."
She sighed, and gave one parting look,
Then tore herself away
From her false swain and Mrs. Green,
For ever and a day!
And very soon got very ill,
And very quick did die,
And very truly verified
Her love for Timothy!
GREAT BELL OF GLASGOW.
(For the Mirror.)
In the steeple of Glasgow is a great bell, which is twelve feet one inch in circumference, and has a grave and deep tone. In 1789, it was accidentally cracked by some persons who got admission to the steeple. It was, therefore, sent to London, and cast anew. On the outside of it is the following inscription:—
FANCY.
(For the Mirror.)
Me, oft hath Fancy, in her fitful dream,
Seated within a far sequestered dell,
What time upon the noiseless waters fell,
Mingled with length'ning leafy shade, a gleam
Of the departing sun's environ'd beam;
While all was hush'd, save that the lone death-bell
Would seem to beat, and pensive smite mine ear
Like spirit's wail, now distant far, now near:
Then the night-breeze would seem to chill my cheek,
And viewless beings flitting round, to speak!
And then, a throng of mournful thoughts would press
On this, my wild-ideal loneliness.
Me, oft hath Fancy too, in musing hour
Seated (what time the blithesome summer-day
Was burning 'neath the fierce meridian ray)
Within that self-same lonely woodland bow'r
So sultry and still; but then, the tower,
The hamlet tow'r, sent forth a roundelay;
I seem'd to hear, till feelings o'er me stole
Faintly and sweet, enwrapping all my soul,
Joy, grief, were strangely blended in the sound.
The light, warm sigh of summer, was around,
But ne'er may speech, such thoughts, such visions tell,
Then, perfect most, when indescribable!
FINE ARTS
THE PROGRESS OF PAINTING IN FRANCE.
(For the Mirror.)
Whether the French were first indebted to the Roman school for their knowledge of the art of painting is a matter of some doubt; indeed, several celebrated French writers affirm, that they first had recourse to the Florentine and Lombard schools; while others very strenuously declare, on the other hand, that the Venetian artists were alone resorted to, on account of the remarkable splendour of their colouring. A late author, however, observes, that the French do not appear to have imitated any school whatever, but to have adopted a style peculiar to themselves, which though perhaps not a noble one, is nevertheless pleasing. Though it is acknowledged that the French have a particular style, (i.e. a style of their own,) yet their progress in the arts has been exceedingly fluctuating and uncertain, so that it is actually impossible to ascertain who was the first reputable artist amongst them. Cousin was a painter on glass, and certainly obtained a good reputation amongst his countrymen. But he in fact possessed very little merit, and his name would not doubtless have been known to posterity had he not lived in a barbarous age, when the people knew not how to discriminate his errors and defects. He was supposed to be the best artist of his day, and consequently gained a reputation as such, though his works are far beneath mediocrity.
Francis I. was a great encourager of the fine arts, and the artists themselves were liberally paid for their productions, until that king was unfortunately taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia, in the year 1525. After the death of Francis, the kingdom was distracted with civil wars, so that painting was entirely neglected by his immediate successors. In the year 1610, however, Louis XIII. recovered the arts from their languid state. In his reign, Jaques Blanchard was the most flourishing painter; although Francis Perier, Simon Voüet, C.A. Du Fresnoy, and Peter Mignard, were equally gifted.
Of Charles Alphonse Du Fresnoy, author of a Latin poem, entitled De Arte Graphica, I shall attempt a little account. This painter was born at Paris in the year 1611. His father, intending him for the profession of physic, sent him to the university of Paris, where he made great progress in his studies, and obtained several prizes in poetry. He had a great inclination for painting as well as for poetry, and, though much against his father's desire, resolved to leave off the study of physic, and commence that of drawing. The force of his inclination subduing every
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