ntinued to prevail, till, with the form of godliness, (much
of it, up doubt, objectionable, but much of it wholesome), the power in
a considerable degree expired too.

Accordingly, our churches are now closed in the week-days, for we are
too busy to repair to them; our politicians crying out, with Pharaoh,
"Ye are idle, ye are idle; therefore would ye go and do sacrifice to the
Lord." Our cathedrals, it is true, are still open; but where are the
worshippers? Instead of entering in, the citizen avails himself of the
excellent clock which is usually attached to them, sets his watch, and
hastens upon 'Change, where the congregation is numerous and punctual,
and where the theological speculations are apt to run in Shylock's vein
pretty exclusively. If a church will answer, then, indeed, a joint-stock
company springs up; and a church is raised with as much alacrity, and
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
Of battle, or the darkly rolling smoke
Of conflagration, thus its giant towers
Pile on the sky--ye care not, but enjoy
Its form and glory,--Thus it is with art!
Whether 'twere born amid the sunny depths
Of a glad heart entranced in mutual love