Carolus CARDINALIS
  TITULI S. PRAXEDIS
  ARCHIEP.  MEDIOLAN. 
  FREQUENTIORIBUS
  CLERI POPULIQ.  AC
  Devoti FAEMINEI SEXUS
  PRECIBUS Se COMMENDATUM
  CUPIENS hoc Loco SIBI
  MONUMENTUM VIVENS elegit.

Of the statues crowded in and around this edifice many are esteemed, and some admired.  Of the latter, that of St. Bartholomew is the first; it stands in the church, and represents the apostle as holding his own skin, which had been drawn off like drapery over his shoulders.  The play of the muscles is represented with an accuracy, that rather disgusts and terrifies than pleases the spectator.[1] The exterior of the chancel is lined with marble divided into panels, each of which has its basso relievo; the interior is wainscoted, and carved in a very masterly style.  The whole of the chancel was erected by St. Charles Borromeo.

    [1] The following lines are inscribed on its pedestal, in Latin,
        and in English:—­

          Lest at the sculptor doubtfully you guess,
          ’Tis Marc Agrati, not Praxiteles.

        This statue is reckoned worth its weight in gold.

In describing this magnificent cathedral, we have availed ourselves of abridging the description in Eustace’s “Classical Tour,” a work of high authority and sterling value on all subjects connected with the Fine Arts.

* * * * *

RUSTIC AMUSEMENTS.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

Three years ago you gave a pleasing illustration of “the Amusements of May,” and at the same time lamented the decrease of village festivity and rural merriment, which in days langsyne cheered the honest hearts and lightened the daily toil of our rustic ancestors.  From the sentiments you express on that occasion, I am led to fancy that it will afford you pleasure to hear that the song, the dance, and innocent revelry are not quite forgotten in some part of our land, and that the sweet and smiling spring is not suffered to make his lovely appearance without one welcome shout from the sons and daughters of our happy island; and, therefore, I will recount to you (and by your permission to the readers of the mirror) a village fete which I lately witnessed and enjoyed.  On the 9th inst. (Whit-Tuesday), after a few miles’ walk, I arrived in the village of Shillingston (Dorsetshire), whose inhabitants annually dedicate this day to those pastimes which (as one of your correspondents has observed) seem a sort of first offering to gentle skies, and are consecrated by the smiles of the tender year.  Attracted by musical sounds, and following my ears instead of my nose, I soon found my way to the vicarage-house, where the company were just arriving in procession, preceded by a pink and white silken banner, while a pipe and tabor regulated their march.  Next after