They are indications of wealth-articles of luxury-bought far more with reference to what others will think, than to what we ourselves will feel. A gentleman fills his gallery with paintings, and his sideboard with plate, on the same principle. Then, as to objects of art that attain the greatest popularity among us -which are they? Portraits of ourselves, our wives, children, brothers, uncles, nephews, nieces, and cousins. We like paintings of horses, bulls, dogs, &c.; or we like small scenes from common life-children, especially if they are naughty-and a set of breakfast or tea-things are irresistible. In sculpture, who will deny our preference for busts, or our passion for monuments? What are the casts which enjoy most plaster-of-Paris popularity? Napoleon in his cocked hat-the Duke of Wellington-Tam-o'Shanter and Souter Johnnythough even these yielded in attraction to china Madame Vestris or Liston as broomgirls."

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"The prettiest casts that ever found favour in our island eyes," added Lorraine, were the reading and writing Cupids. People bought them out of compliment to their own little chubby cherubs. Pretty dears!' I once heard

a woman say- bless their nice little fat arms !'"

"Look at the enthusiasm," rejoined Mr. Brande, "about the works of art at Rome. The story of the barber-I have forgotten the artist's name-who flung himself at the cardinal's feet, and implored him to take away his life, but not the picture which had been painted beneath his roof, -is a simple fact. The very postilions rein up their horses, and point out to strangers, with a gesture of pride, the first glimpse of St. Peter's. It would be long enough before one of Mr. Newman's postboys stopped on Highgate Hill to point out the cupola of St. Paul's."

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"And yet," said Lorraine, we are not without some sort of attachment to it -I do think we attach an idea of respectability to St. Paul's."

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'Perhaps," returned Lady Mandeville, “from its vicinity to the Bank-to say nothing of its utility to set watches by."

"Our insular imagination is the exact reverse," observed Lord Mandeville, “of the Italians' theirs delights in outward impressions— ours dwells on internal impressions; theirs is the imagination of the ideas ours of the feel

ings; they create a world-we exaggerate the influences of the one in which we live. Whether in painting or in poetry, we are egotists-we like what we can bring home to ourselves. Byron is our poet of passion - because it is passion we have felt, or fancied we have felt or could feel. Wordsworth is our poet of philosophy - because we all think we have practised, or could practise, his philosophy. The groundwork of the imagination of the Italians is fancy that of the English is sentiment."

"It is curious to observe," said Mr. Brande, "the varieties of national character. The laws of the universe"

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Nay," exclaimed Lady Mandeville, pray keep a discussion on the laws of the universe till we are in England - it will accord with the reigning whim. While reforming and settling as we are now doing, to arrange for the whole world will be a small matter. But such a weighty business is too much for this land of sunshine and rose-I move we do adjourn the meeting."

"It is an old privilege of mine," said Lorraine, "to bring my adventures to your feet. I have really been sufficiently romantic lately for recital. May I find audience' meet, though

few?"" Lady Mandeville and Emily were standing side by side-both smiled acquiescence. "The balcony of the fountain is the very place wherein to enact a scene from Boccacio."

CHAPTER IX.

"Alas! the heart o'eracts its part; its mirth,
Like light, will all too often take its birth
Mid darkness and decay. Those smiles that press,
Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness -
For Peace broods quiet on her dove-like wings-
And this false gaiety a radiance flings,

Dazzling, but hiding not. And some who dwelt
Upon her meteor beauty, sadness felt;
Its very brilliance spoke the fevered breast
Thus glitter not the waters when at rest."

L. E. L.

WHO that had looked on that trio, as the young cavalier commenced his narration, but would have thought," what a fairy-like picture of beauty and enjoyment!" The balcony was filled with young orange-trees, wearing the first white promises of coming spring, whose rich perfume blended with the violets heaped below. A little fountain flung up its sparry rain, which then fell on the leaves around, and there lay glistening. Grove and garden were