And by the blest communion
Of ransom'd ones above,
We feel that here no vision
Was with the past enroll'd,
That the Christian faith may never be

A baseless dream of old!

From over the sea, (I quote from the Art-Union,) came news of the death of one who, if longer spared, would have achieved a much higher reputation than she had yet won—for her mind was evidently gaining strength, and her views of life and knowledge of literature were expanding. One of our contemporaries has said, that Mary Anne Browne was "spoiled at first by over-praise;" over-praised the girl-poet might have been, but none who have read what she has written as Mrs. James Gray could have deemed her "spoiled"—for all her latter works evince care and thought, and much genuine refinement; and her last small volume of poems, Sketches from the Antique, supply evidence of higher hopes and holier aspirations than belong to the "spoiled" children of the Muses. Her short life, although eventful, was checquered and of uneven course--as literary lives always are in England—but she was a loving and a beloved wife, esteemed by those who knew her as a kind and amiable woman, and one of rare industry. I found it hard to believe that death had taken her from the new-born infant that nestled in her bosom ; that the grave had closed over the laughing girl I had seen but as yesterday. Mary Anne Browne resided some years in Liverpool, and there established her poetical reputation.

JOHNNY GREEN'S WEDDING AND DESCRIPTION

OF MANCHESTER COLLEGE.

ALEXANDER WILSON, DIED JANUARY 6, 1846, AGED 43

YEARS.

NEAW lads, wheer ar yo beawn so fast?

Yo happun ha no yerd what's past:
Aw gettun wed sin aw'r here last,

Just three week sin, come Sunday.
Aw ax'd th' owd folk, an aw wur reet,
So Nan an me agreed tat neight,
Ot if we could mak booth eends meet,
We'd wed o' Easter Monday.

That morn, as prim as pewter quarts,

Aw th' wenches coom and browt t' sweethearts;
Aw fund we're loike to ha three carts-

'Twur thrunk as Eccles wakes, mon :

We donn'd eawr tits i' ribbins too-
One red, one green, an tone wur blue;
So hey! lads, hey! away we flew,

Loike a race for th' Leger stakes, mon.

Reight merrily we drove, full bat,
An eh! heaw Duke an Dobbin swat;

Owd Grizzle wur so lawm an fat

Fro soide to soide hoo jow'd um:
Deawn Withy Grove at last we coom,
An stopt at Seven Stars, by gum,
An drunk as mich warm ale an rum,
As'd dreawn o'th folk i' Owdham.

When th' shot wur paid, an drink wur done,
Up Fennel-street, to th' church, for fun;
We donced loike morris-doncers dun,
To th' best o' aw mea knowledge;
So th' job wur done, i hoave a crack;
Boh, eh! what fun to get th' first smack,
So neaw, mea lads, fore we gun back,
"We'n look at th' College."

Says aw,

We seed a clock-case, first, good laws!

Wheer deoth stonds up wi' great lung claws,

His legs, an wings, an lantern jaws,

They really lookt quite feorink.

There's snakes an watch-bills, just loike poikes,
Ot Hunt an aw th' reformink toikes,

An thee an me, an Sam o' Moik's,
Once took a blanketeerink.

Eh! lorjus days, booath far an woide,
Theer's yards o' books at every stroide,
Fro top to bothum, eend, an soide,

Sich plecks there's very few so:
Aw axt him if they wurn for t' sell;
For Nan loikes readink vastly well;

Boh th' measter wur eawt, so he could naw tell, Or aw'd bowt hur Robison Crusoe.

Theer's a trumpet speyks an maks a din,
An a shute o' clooas made o' tin,

For folk to goo a feightink in,

Just loike thoose chaps o' Boney's:
An theer's a table carv'd so queer,
Wi' os mony planks os days i'th' year,
An crinkum-crankums heer an theer,

Loike th' clooas-press at mea gronny's.

Theer's Oliver Crumill's bums an balls,
An Frenchmen's guns they'd tean i' squalls,
An swords, os lunk os me, on th' walls,
An bows an arrows too, mon;
Aw didno moind his fearfo words,
Nor skeletons o' men an birds,

Boh aw fair hate seet o' greyt lung swords,
Sin th' feight at Peterloo, mon.

We seed a wooden cock loikewise;

Boh dang it, mon, these college boys,
They tell'n a pack o' starink loies,

Os sure os teaw'r a sinner;

That cock, when it smells roast beef, 'll crow, Says he; "Boh" aw said, "teaw lies, aw know, "An aw con prove it plainly so,

Aw've a peawnd i' mea hat for my dinner."

Boh th' hairy mon had miss'd mea thowt,
An th' clog fair crackt by thunner bowt,

An th' woman noather lawmt nor nowt,
Theaw ne'er seed loike sin t'ur born, mon;

Theer's crocodiles, an things, indeed,
Aw colours, mak, shap, size, and breed;
An if aw moot tell tone hoave aw seed,

We moot sit an smook till morn, mon.

Then deawn Lung Millgate we did steer,
To owd Moike Wilson's goods-shop theer,
To bey eawr Nan a rockink cheer,

An pots, an spoons, an ladles;
Nan bowt a glass for lookink in,
A tin Dutch oon for cookink in,
Aw bowt a cheer for smookink in,

An Nan axt proice o' th' cradles.

Then th' fiddler struck up th' honeymoon,
An off we seet for Owdham soon;

We made owd Grizzle trot to th' tune,

Every yard o'th' way, mon;

At neight, oytch lad an bonny lass,

Laws! heaw they donced an drunk their glass;
So tyrt wur Nan an I, by th' mass,

Ot wea leigh 'till twelve next day, mon.

Alexander Wilson, the author of the above and other provincial songs, was also a self-taught artist. He excelled in painting animals and humourous scenes; his picture of Cheetham Hill Wakes is especially droll.