Another, after high commendations to St. Anne, concludes thus:—
“Therefore, still asking, we remain,
And thy unwearied suitors are,
That, what thou canst, thou wouldst obtain,
And give us heaven by thy prayer.
Do thou appease the daughter, thou didst bear,
She her own son, and thou thy grandson dear.”
The nuns of St. Anne at Rome show a rude silver ring as the wedding-ring of Anne and Joachim; both ring and story are ingenious fabrications. There are of course plenty of her relics and miracles from the same sources. They are further noticed in the work on the “Mysteries” referred to before.
SUMMER HOLIDAYS.
A young, and not unknown correspondent of the Every-Day Book, has had a holiday—his first holiday since he came to London, and settled down into an every-day occupation of every hour of his time. He seems until now not to have known that the environs of London abound in natural as well as artificial beauties. What he has seen will be productive of this advantage; it will induce residents in London, who never saw Dulwich, to pay it a visit, and see all that he saw. Messrs. Colnaghi and Son, of Pall-mall East, Mr. Clay of Ludgate-hill, or any other respectable printseller, will supply an applicant with a ticket of admission for a party, to see the noble gallery of pictures there. These tickets are gratuitous, and a summer holiday may be delightfully spent by viewing the paintings, and walking in the pleasant places adjacent: the pictures will be agreeable topics for conversation during the stroll.
MY HOLIDAY!
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
My dear Sir,
The kind and benevolent feelings which you are so wont to discover, and the sparkling good-humour and sympathy which characterize your Every-Day Book, encourage me to describe to you “My holiday!” I approach you with familiarity, being well known as your constant reader. You also know me to be a provincial cockney—a transplant. Oh! why then do you so often paint nature in her enchanting loveliness? What cruelty! You know my destiny is foreign to my desires: I cannot now seek the shade of a retired grove, carelessly throw myself on the bank of a “babbling brook,” there muse and angle, as I was wont to do, and, as my old friend Izaak Walton bade me,—
“watch the sun to rise and set,
There meditate my time away,
And beg to have a quiet passage to a welcome grave.”