Cato was faithful to the sacred cause of liberty, and disdained to survive it; and now for the fiddle. In the days of good Queen Bess, when those who had borne the iron yoke of Mary, ventured forth and gloried in that freedom of conscience which had lately been denied them, a jolly innkeeper having lately cast off the shackles of the old religion, likened himself to the old Roman, and wrote over his door _l'Hostelle du Caton fidelle_. The hostelle and its sign lasted longer than the worthy gentleman, and having gone shockingly to decay, was many years after re-established. But alas! the numerous French words once mixed with our language had vanished, barbarized, and ground down into a heterogeneous mass of sounds; and _le Caton fidelle_ was no longer known to his best friends when resuscitated under the anomalous title of the Cat and Fiddle!! XX. * * * * * THE BLIND GIRL. _(For the Mirror.)_ As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. BYRON. Sweet wanderer--we have known her long! And often on our ear, Has gush'd the cadence of her song, As if some stream were near. Her path was through our tranquil dell, When breezes kiss'd the curfew bell. We gaz'd upon the golden hair, That o'er her white brow shone, And beauty's tinge had cluster'd there, A grace unlike its own. We call'd it beautiful--that brow! But rayless were the eyes below. Those pale dim eyes, we would have given Our flowers to see them glow-- They slept, as sleeps the summer heaven, When the sun waxeth low: And soft her glossy lashes were, As stars within the crystal air. Oh, call her not a phantom form, Of deep sepulchral spells; Her maiden lips with life are warm, And thought within her dwells-- Thought, holy as the light that lies In the rapt martyr's lifted eyes. Her home--'tis far away from her, Its quiet porch is lone, And the sunny wind no more shall stir Its streamlet's silver tone. The zephyrs there, their incense wreathe, But, o'er her hair they shall not breathe. Her sire reposeth in the wave, Beneath an Indian sky; The violets fringe her mother's grave, And there, her sisters lie! And we will waft to heaven our prayers, When her pure dust is mix'd with theirs. _Deal_. REGINALD AUGUSTINE. * * * * * WINE. _(For the Mirror.)_ Sir,--I am induced to send you the following, in consequence of reading an article upon _wine_ in No. 352, page 45 of your interesting work.