discordant deities, and as if it were, giving himself up to the amiable
goddess he always cultivated, and to her attendants, Commerce, and the
Fine Arts. This fine performance is painted on canvass, and is in high
preservation; but a few years ago it underwent a repair by Cipriani, who
had L2,000. for his trouble. Near the entrance is a bust of the royal
founder.

Little did James think (says Pennant) that he was erecting a pile from
which his son was to step from the throne to the scaffold. He had been
brought in the morning of his death, from St. James's across the Park,
and from thence to Whitehall, where ascending the great staircase, he
passed through the long gallery to his bed-chamber, the place allotted
to him to pass the little time before he received the fatal blow. It
is one of the lesser rooms marked with the letter A in the old plan of
Whitehall. He was from thence conducted along the galleries and the
banquetting house, through the wall, in which a passage was broken to
his last earthly stage. Mr. Walpole tells us that Inigo Jones, surveyor
of the works done about the king's house, had only 8s. 4d. a day, and
L46. a year for house-rent, and a clerk and other incidental expenses.
The present improvements at Whitehall make one exclaim with the poet,
Pope--

"I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
Their ample brow, _a new Whitehall ascend._"

Again,

"You too proceed, make falling arts your care,
_Erect new wonders, and the old repair;_
_Jones_ and Palladio to themselves _restore_,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before."

P.T.W.

* * * * *

THE UNIVERSE.

_(For the Mirror.)_

O light celestial, streaming wide
Through morning'd court of fairy blue--
O tints of beauty, beams of pride,
That break around its varied hue--
Still to thy wonted pathway true,
Thou shinest on serenely free,
Best born of _Him_, whose mercy grew
In every gift, sweet world, to thee.

O countless stars, that, lost in light,
Still gem the proud sun's glory bed,
And o'er the saddening brow of night
A softer, holier influence shed--
How well your radiant march hath sped.
Unfailing vestals of the sky,
As smiling thus ye weed from dread
The soul ye court to muse on high.

O flowers that breathe of beauty's reign,
In many a tint o'er lawn and lea,
That give the cold heart once again
A dream of happier infanc