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accompanied by one or two younger ones, respectfully approached her, begging her to follow them into an adjoining room.

Having led the wondering Ellen into a bed chamber, they immediately began to undress ber; upon her requesting to know their meaning, they told her such were their orders. Ellen, who thought she was all the while dreaming, or else under the spell of some enchantment, consented, and they began to array her in a dress which far exceeded herideas of splendour and beauty.

Having completed her toilet, they led thor into a noble room, which was filled with servants in the richest liveries; she almost sinking into wonder at the astonishing change a few minutes had made. The doors of the apartment were suddenly thrown back, and a gentleman, elegantly dressed, with a star blazing on his breast, entered. His air was noble, bis step dignified, and his features uncommonly handsome; she rubbed her eyes-she was certainly awake,--no, it could not be real -- yet still she had seen that face before: but when the voice uttered, servants, you see your mistress, to whom for the future look for your commands, THE COUNTESS OF ROSEDALE !” she did not wait to hear more, --conviction had taken place. It was her own-dear Edward, who had won her hand as a peasant ; her heart overflowing with wonder, rapture, and love, she threw herself into his arms, and sunk beneath the ecstacy of her feelings.

The servants then withdrew. When she was in some degree composed, her noble husband, still holding her next his heart, exclaimed, “Wilt thou pardon, dearest Ellen, this deception! it was always my wish to win a maid, who would love me without any inducement which rank and fortune . could bestow; and on whose affection I could rely, without a fear that should misfortune, or the villainy of the world overtake me. And thank heaven, I have found one!"

A request made in such endearing accents, could not be refused; but it was granted with a tender embrace, and one condition, that her family should be immediate witnesses of their happiness. “That you need not have asked; by the time it is dark, you will see them here."

The rest of the day was absorbed in reflection. The Countess could not make up her mind that what had occurred was reality; it appeared so much to her like a fairy tale.

The messenger, having arrived at Scoresby Hall, it may be supposed he was greeted by the Snowdons most joyfully, when he told them, if they went with him he would take them to Elen and her husband. Although the day was far advanced, the whole family instantly prepared for the journey, about which the messenger refused to give the slightest intelligence. The father and sons having mounted their horses, and the daughters being in the carriage of a friend, they set forward with the expectation of seeing their sister in some wretched hovel, suffering most acutely for her disobedience.

It was totally dark when they reached Rosedale Villa, so much so that they could not discern, upon their entrance into the house, (which was the one. usually used by the servants) what sort of a habitation they were in. The party, nevertheless, made up their minds with the most Christian fortitude to meet with nothing but meanness and beggary. Their expectations were

almost confirmed, when they were shewn into a small room, which, though not so bad as they expected, did not remove their fears.

They had remained here a few minutes, when, to increase their wonder, the messenger bid them follow him. It was so dark that they hardly conld discern his steps, till he came to some folding doors, which, at a signal, flew open, and discovered, to the astonished party, a gorgeous and spacious room, splendidly lighted up. They had scarcely entered, before the Earl and Countess were at the feet of the good old farmer, and in another instant Ellen was in the arms of her sisters.

The old man fairly reeled with joy, while his sors and daughters could not speak, but lavish caresses on their newly-acquired sister.

The Earl, having tenderly embraced the whole, asked forgiveness, which was readily granted, and he could no longer restrain, but gave vent to the luxury of his feelings. Oh that night was, to every soul of the circle, worth a whole life of joy and indeterminable happiness !

I cannot say more, than that the bond of friendship, that always existed between the Earl and the young men was doubly cemented, and that the whole family shortly after came to reside on the Earl's estate, making a union of rank, worth, and happiness: and that old Snowdon died one of the happiest, as he was one of the best, of fathers; seeing his sons beloved and respected, and his daughters ornaments to society; all blessing the name of Rosedale.*

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BEAUTY, constant theme of story,

Source of pleasure, source of pain,
Wherefore comst thou clad with glory,

Like a vision of the brain ?
Sober Prudence bids me banish

Every thought of thee away,
But her admonitions vanish,

As the dews at break of day.
If but Ellen, maiden fairest,

Looks upon me with a smile,
Breathing love the purest, rarest,

Thoughtless, artless, void of guile!
Prudence' dictates out of season

At such moments always prove ;
What has love to do with reason?

Reason, what to do with love?
Moralists, who preach of duty,

Keep your wise but cold tirades;
They that pluck the rose of beauty,
Know its


charm soon fades.
But they would not let it wither,

Wasting all its sweet perfumes;
Wiser far, they love to gather

Each fair flower while yet it blooms.


This is no “airy creation” of the author's brain, but an actual narrative of an event that occurred in the Family of the E— of P th.


This distinguished, but eccentric nobleman, expired at Missolonghi, in Greece, on the 18th of April, after an illness of ten days... His heart he literally consigned to the Greeks, but his body will be brought to England. Thus, in the 37th year of his age, has this nobleman quitted a world, which he has enriched by his genius, and not a little amazed by his singularities. But that world, ever inclined to judge from appearances, while it paid the tribute due to eminent talent, unreasonably prejudged feelings of a morbid and too sensitive mind. Similar in many respects to Rousseau, suffering severely from the effects of early disappointment, (probably in love.) a voluntary exile from the land of his fathers, the noble wanderer in Italy and Greece, may not inaptly be compared to the philosophic inmate of Vevay or Ermenonville.

In the case of Rousseau, disease was superadded, as appears from his “Confessions.” The unfortunate tendency of blood towards the head, produced at times a temporary delirium, influenced his whole existence, and finally, hastened its close. Thiş, though it does not palliate his conduct, may account for many actions of his life, his ingratitude to his benefactors, and his irregular existence. Not so with Lord Byron ;-his rank in life insured him a freedom from petty cares, and his early mountain habits, gave a firmer tone to his fibres. To swim across the Hellespont was what few poets would have attempted. But though the body was healthy, the mind was not. It is the usual lot of human existence, that in this curious complicated machine the parts are not always in unison. The “mens sana in corpore sano,” for which the Roman Poet prayed, -in its completest acceptation, belongs but to few. “Perhaps," as a writer, who could well estimate the wanderings of the intellect, has forcibly observed, “no human mind is at all times in its right senses.” That it is often the lot of those who possess the higher powers of the imagination, to wander and to suffer, every reader of taste and judgment knows. Collins and Cowper, among many others, are melancholy instances of this truth. To this list a future age will add the name of Byron, for the present is too much interested by local events and associations connected with his life, to do adequate justice to the very peculiar frame of mind which he possessed.

I am not inclined to excuse or defend his later works. I can neither admire their beauty, nor admit their merit. Better, perhaps, had it been for his fame and his character, if he had ceased to write, and had earlier defended the Greeks. That misanthropy of existence, which gave a colour to his whole life, and which first employed itself in lamentations over its own misfortunes, and then in eynical satires upon mankind, may be lamented, but ought not to be misrepresented. No one who has read his early poems, (and who has not ?) can mistake, we imagine, the feelings of the poet

. The Lines to Inez, the Stanzas to Mary, are evident instances of this. In an eloquent appreciation of female beauty and tenderness, no poet has ever exceeded him. The proemical lines of Parisina are unequalled in ancient or modern poetry. Anacreon, Ovid, and Catullus, from the nature of Roman amorous poetry, must of course give place; nor will Moore, in this description, compete with his great rival. Many other striking passages might be adduced; that of Beauty in the Giaour, that of Adah in Cain, but these are known to every reader. VOL. 1. 20. Fourth Edit.


The distinguished possessor of these talents, and these eccentricities, is now no more; what future powers he might have displayed, how he would have benefitted mankind, it is now useless to estimate. But while we deplore his errors and his failings, we must admire his genius. The English Rousseau has both delighted and amazed his generation; has added one more to the list of extraordinary men, and one more to those anomalies of the moral world, which are perpetually occurring, and the secret springs of which can only be known to the great Arbiter of human life and its varying events.


Hush'd be the song, and mute the voice of mirth !

Low lays the tree which flourish'd for awhile

On the bleak mountains of the sea-girt Isle,"
And promis’d to surpass the trees of earth,
When time its beauties should have all unfurl'd.

Transplanted to more genial climes, the shoot

Budded and blossom'd, and gave forth its fruit,
And grew the wonder of a stoic world.
Mov'd once again across the mighty flood

Proud on the hills of Greece 'twas seen to tower,
And as a beacon to her warriors stood -

But in an evil, fate-commission'd hour,
Death's dread sirrocco, sweeping o'er the shore,
This giant sapling from its station tore !



“ The chaste, the fair, the inexpressive she !"


In all the charming train,

Aquatic and terrene,
Who follow Thetis in the main,

Or Venus on the green;
I cannot-when I turn

Imagination's glance

fables, which so brightly burn .
Through poetry's expanse,
Like planets in the sky,

Whose borrow'd lustre far
Surpasseth the mild radiancy

Of Truth's unerring star.
I cannot, in them all,

One fitting image find,
Of her who has my heart in thrall,

My heart to thrall inclin'd.
In each some winning grace

My fancy can explore,
Which decorates the form and face

Of her whom I adore.
But, ah ! there is not one,

Liké Adeline, possest
Of charms that spurn the mystic zone

Of Cytherea's vest!



The new Exhibition, in Suffolk Street, is neither entitled to the high encomiumis which its friends have bestowed upon it, nor to the unsparing censure with which thosez inimical to its establishment, have thought proper to load it. The fair and candid critic will consider this display of art as creditable to its professors; and if the Pictures and Drawings, here presented to the Public, cannot be ranked with the highest class of such works, they at least hold a very respectable station in their several departments. The number of Pictures is 700, that of the artists about 250, beside the members, of whom there are 27. There are five rooms. Two are occupied by Paintings, one by Drawings, another by Engravings, and the last by Models. The principal room is of very noble proportions, and, for its purpose, is far superior to any other in London; but its approach from the staircase, at one corner, is neither convenient nor judicious. ' As a contrivance, the lobby exhibits much ingenuity, but as an intentional design, it is extremely paltry and mean.

It would surely have been more attractive, as well as more original, if this Exhibition had been composed of a choice collection of subjects, rather than a mere repetition of the annual display at the Royal Academy. There are too many Portraits,-a class of pictures which may please those to whom they belong, but cannot prove generally interesting. The historical pieces are few, and not very meritorious. There are some good specimens of Landscape scenery, those by Hofland and Linton are conspicuous for their merit. No. 267, Moonlight; 37, Hampstead Heath; and 30, Brecon Castle, by the former artist, exhibit considerable talent. Mr. Linton is very happy in bis styles. It is full of nature; powerful, but not heavy; rich, but not gaudy. No 46, Gordale Scarin Craven, is a pretty specimen. The colouring of this tremendous scene is very chaste and natural. No. 149, the Vale of Lonsdale,-295, Hastings,—and 298, Kirkby Lonsdale Bridge, are several among many very successful efforts of the same pencil. Mr. Glover furnishes seventeen pictures, mostly landscapes, but we are among the number of those who do not greatly admire the style of this artist. His colouring is often very natural, but his execution is too elaborate. No. 1, Italian Scenes,-52, A Scene near Byland, in Yorkshire,-and 182, Rievaulx Abbey, unite the merits and defects here pointed out. No. 84, The Widow, by Mr. Richter, possesses extraordinary merit. This picture is designed and executed with the greatest taste and feeling. The bewitching grace of the youthful widow, who is adorning herself in gay apparel, and trampling on her mourning vest, and the intelligent expression of her assistants, baffle description. The effect produced by the opposition of the crimson dress to the beautiful arm and light robe of the widow, is very splendid, and in point of fine finishing, this picture cannot be excelled.

No. 129, Silenus, intoxicated and moral, reproving Bacchus and Ariadne for their lazy and irregular lives, by Haydon, possesses considerable merit both as to composition and colouring; the latter is forcible, rich, and harmonious, but the figure of Silenns, after every allowance for his nature and his drunkenness, is clumsy, coarse, and vulgar. No. 189, Sketch for the “Entry into Jerusalem,” by the same hand, may claim praise for its com. position, but the colour is so extravagantly heavy and coarse, so affectedly bold, and so entirely destitute of that determination of outline which even

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