Notwithstanding the revolutions of time and fashion in this quarter, the illustrious name of the founder of Clarendon House is still preserved in the “Clarendon Hotel,” which occupies a portion of the original ground already described.  One of the changes is, that instead of the Chancellor meditating upon his dismissal from office, which his very virtues and stately dignity, and a weak king, and a more wicked and envious faction had brought about,—­we have well-living twos and fours hob-nobbing over Chateau-Margaux, or yielding to the delightful inspirations of Ay Champagne.  Not a few more of the good things of this great town are assembled near the same spot.  Albemarle Street has many first-rate hotels, and two handsome club-houses; while on the Bond Street side of the quadrangle are two or three extensive libraries, an immense porcelain repository, and a score of fashionable artistes.  What idle delights are all these compared with the wisdom and virtue which once dwelt on the same spot.  But had Clarendon lived to see Crockford’s splendid subscription-house rise after a golden shower, in St. James’s Street, (and this he might have done from the front-windows of Clarendon House) he would, perhaps, have given us an extra volume of Essays.  We would that he had so lived, if only that his sublime truths might thus nave been multiplied for the good of mankind, if not for the weak heads of St. James’s Street.

* * * * *

THE GLANCIN’ E’E.

  Oh lassie tell me can’st thou lo’e,
    I hae gaz’d upon thy glancin’ e’e;
  It soars aboon, it rolls below,
    But, ah, it never rests on me.

  Oh lassie I hae socht the hour
    When pity wak’nin’ lo’e might be,
  Tell my sair heart a gauldin’ flower
    Has droopit in thy glancin’ e’e.

  Oh lassie, turn not sae awa’
    Disdainfu’, gie na death to me;
  Does pity mark the tears that fa’? 
    Exhale them wi’ thy glancin’ e’e.

C.C.

* * * * *

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

(For the Mirror.)

“There is a voice from the grave sweeter than song.”—­Washington Irving.

  Illustrious dead! one tributary sigh,
  In that great temple where the mighty lie,
  I breath’d for you—­a magic charm was there
  Where rest the great and good, the wise and fair;
  Their glittering day of fame has had its close
  And beauty, genius, grandeur, there repose. 
  Immortal names! kings, queens, and statesmen rise
  In marble forms before the gazer’s eyes. 
  Cold, pale, and silent, down each lessening aisle
  They clustering stand, and mimic life awhile. 
  The warrior chief, in sculptur’d beauty dies,
  And in Fame’s clasping arms for ever lies. 
  “Each in his place of state,”