kind; a solemn pause follows, another discharge is heard, the crowd rises, and the pomp gradually disappears. This ceremony is, without doubt, very grand, and considered by most travellers as a noble and becoming conclusion to the majestic service that precedes it. In fact, every thing concurs to render it interesting; the venerable character of the Pontiff himself, the first bishop of the Christian church, issuing from the sanctuary of the noblest temple in the universe, bearing the holiness of the mysteries, which he has just participated, imprinted on his countenance, offering up his supplication in behalf of his flock, his subjects, his brethren, his fellow-creatures, to the Father of all, through the Saviour and Mediator of all. Surely such a scene is both edifying and impressive." CHAP. XXXIII. MISS BAILLIE'S SONGS. "THE genius of Miss Baillie," said Egeria, " dilates as we become more and more intimately acquainted with her works. There is a retired truth and secret sentiment in her poetry, which is not obvious at the first reading. Passion with her takes more of the character of sensibility than of energy. It bears, suffers, and sustains, but seldom breaks out into any vehemence of action,-had she, instead of writing dramas on the passions, been contented with the less ambitious walk of odes and songs, her muse would have been more popular. I suspect she would even have ranked higher, high as she is in literature. But what I most admire in her poetry is, a certain quaint something of antiquity, simple and picturesque, both in the language and the thought, reminding one, I know not wherefore, of mossy trees and ivied towers, curious carvings, and all sorts and scenes of olden imagery. "There is an original song by her on a trite subject, but so prettily expressed, as to have all the newness that can be desired, even in the most excellent new song. "When clouds on high are riding, The wintry moonshine hiding, The raging blast abiding, O'er mountain waves we go. With hind on dry land creeping, Change we our lot?-Oh, no. O'er stormy main careering, Each sea-mate sea-mate cheering, With dauntless helms-man steering, Our steady course we hold. Their sails with sunbeams whiten'd, Who shall return ?-The bold." "But the songs in her delightful little drama of "the Beacon" surpass all her other lyrical pieces. I know not indeed the rhythm of any verse that comes so richly to the ear as the following reveillée :” e; "Up! quit thy bower, late wears the hour; Up! Lady fair, and braid thy hair, And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, Will waft good fortune on its way." "And this too reminds one of Milton's L'Al legro :" "Wish'd-for gales the light vane veering, Ears each feeble rumour catching, Say he existeth still on earthly ground, The absent will return, the long, long lost be found. In the tower the ward-bell ringing, In the court the carols singing; Joyful looks through blind tears glancing; The gladsome bounding of his aged hound, Say he in truth is here, our long, long lost is found. Hymned thanks and beedsmen praying, O who can tell each blessed sight and sound, "There is another still better, though perhaps not so concisely expressed; but what it may want of that antique air, which I so much like, is amply made up by the greater unity of the subject, and the brief and beautiful description in the second stanza :" "Where distant billows meet the sky, By turns their fitful, gloomy thoughts pourtray: Some northern streamer's paly light.' "Fools!' saith roused Hope with gen'rous scorn, 'It is the blessed peep of morn, And aid and safety come when comes the day.* And so it is; the gradual shine Spreads o'er heaven's verge its lengthen'd line: And tint the changeful deep below; Now sombre red, now amber bright, Till upward breaks the blazing light ; A black'ning sail is seen to glide; And life and strength and happy thoughts return." CHAP. XXXV. PRINCE EUGENE. "GENERAL history is, after all that may be said about its dignity, but the index to biography," was the observation with which Egeria laid down the Memoirs of Prince Eugene. "In this little work, the great affairs in which the Prince bore so distinguished a part appear now but as the incidents of his personal adventures. One thinks as little of the battles of Blenheim and Oudenarde in these pages, as of the frolics of Tom Jones, or of Roderick Random, in the novels of Fielding and Smollett." "I have heard it surmised," replied the Bachelor, "that the book is not authentic." "In the strictest sense of the term," said the Nymph, "perhaps it may be so, but, philosophically speaking, I would say, that, by whomsoever it may have been written or compiled, it is assuredly authentic. The spirit and vivacity with which it is drawn up are so admirably conceived, that the |