great-hearted MEN my halls shall throng.
And the world?--Hurrah!
Great soul, sing on!'

'He sat in bright light, in Fifty-five,
To welcome Fifty-six.
'More lights!' he cried out with joyous shout,
'Night ne'er with day should mix.
I was born for light, I live in the sun,
In the joy of others my life's begun.
And the world?--Hurrah!
Great soul, shine on!'

'He sat in great warmth, in Fifty-five,
To welcome Fifty-six,
In a glad and merry company
Of brave, true-hearted Bricks!
'I was born for warmth, I was born for love,
I've found them all, thank GOD above!
And the world?--Ah! bah!
Great soul, move on!''

A PATRON OF ART.

The Roman season was nearly over: travelers were making preparations to
fly out of one gate as the Malaria should enter by the other; for,
according to popular report, this fearful disease enters, the last day
of April, at midnight, and is in full possession of the city on the
first day of May. Rocjean, not having any fears of it, was preparing not
only to meet it, but to go out and spend the summer with it; it costs
something, however, to keep company with La Malaria, and our artist had
but little money: he must sell some paintings. Now it was unfortunate
for him that though a good painter, he was a bad salesman; he never kept
a list of all the arrivals of his wealthy countrymen or other strangers
who bought paintings; he never ran after them, laid them under
obligations with drinks, dinners, and drives; for he had neither the
inclination nor that capital which is so important for a
picture-merchant to possess in order to drive--a heavy trade, and
achieve success--such as it is. Rocjean had friends, and warm ones; so
that whenever they judged his finances were in an embarrassed state,
they voluntarily sent wealthy sensible as well as wealthy insensible
patrons of art to his aid, the latter going as Dutch galliots laden with
doubloons might go to the relief of a poor, graceful felucca, thrown on
her beam-ends by a squall.

One morning there glowed in Rocjean's studio the portly forms of Mr. and
Mrs. Cyrus Shodd, together with the tall, fragile figure of Miss Tillie
Shodd, daughter and heiress apparent and transparent. Rocjean welcomed
them as he would have manna in the desert, for he judged by the air and
manner of the head of the family, that he was on picture-buying bent. He
even gayly smiled when Miss Shodd, pointing o