"The inhabitants of Tossignano not long ago obtained a new demonstration of love and favor from the prodigious image of the most Holy Mary, from that extremely ancient image which, saved from iconoclastic fury, always engaged the devout worship of their ancestors; and which their not degenerate descendants keep as a noble and precious heirloom of their hereditary religion, finding in it all comfort and support against public and private calamities. The late incessant and unseasonable rains having hindered the gathering in of autumn fruits, and impeded cultivation for the coming year, the active pastor, the very revered arch-priest Agnoli, in order to avert so heavy a calamity, called the inhabitants of Tossignano together, and with eloquent and touching words brought them before the most prodigious image, so that, by the intercession of the Virgin, God might restore serene weather. For this purpose, on the 7th of October, the flock and their beloved pastor met to depose their humble supplications at the foot of the altar, sacred to their distinguished benefactress; at the first prayer, whilst the pastor was offering the propitiatory wafer, a ray of sun gladdened the sacred temple, like a rainbow of peace smiling on the assembled faithful, and in a few hours all appearance of clouds vanished from the sky! The Tossignanesi rightly attributing this to the peculiar favor of their protectress, and full of gratitude to her, resolved to sanctify the 12th inst. by solemn acts of thanksgiving." These poor absurdities, so suggestive of pity and contempt, may he compared with the tricks of Rochester knockers and travelling mountebanks generally in this country, and no "authority of the church" can raise them, in the minds of sensible men, to a higher respectability. THE SONG QUEEN. Our excellent friend JAMES T. FIELDS, now in Europe, sends us from his note book the following fine apostrophe to Jenny Lind: WRITTEN IN A CONCERT ROOM, LONDON, 1847. Look on her! there she stands, the world’s prime wonder The great queen of song! Ye rapt musicians, Touch your golden wires, for now ye prelude strains To mortal ears unwonted. Hark! she sings. Yon pearly gates their magic waves unloose, And all the liberal air rains melody Around. O night! O time! delay, delay,— Pause here, entranced! Ye evening winds, come near, But whisper not,—and you ye flowers, fresh culled From odorous nooks, where silvery rivulets run, Breath silent incense still. Hail, matchless queen! Thou, like the high white Alps, canst hear, unspoiled, The world’s artillery (thundering praises) pass. And keep serene and safe thy spotless fame! LOVE SONG. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE BY R. S. CHILTON.