repress the animating glow of mutual confidence? Ah no! persuade me net to that which I must conceal; urge me not to that which in any case must make one, or both, miserable!"

"Ah! talk not of" exclaimed Waldeck, when a slight rustling, and the sound of footsteps arrested his attention, and the sight of the Countess sealed his lips. Yet an irresist. ible desire to acknowledge his passion for Seraphina, impelled him to address her; but she prevented it, though with apparent inadvert. || ence, and the whole party returned to the house, where the evening was as sociably and as happily spent as could be expected under the circumstance of an approaching separation.

To Waldeck the Countess was tender and affectionate, and to Seraphina even more so; and the timid maid felt doubly happy in this from a cousciousness that she had performed a duty.

The morning of departure arrived. Seraphina fearing her own resolution avoided the sight of Waldeck until the heart-piercing mo

ment. Of his mother he took leave with all the affection of a son-of Seraphina he took leave, as well as he was able, with all the des licacy of a brother." Farewell!" exclaimed he, "but whilst I am absent let me believe, dearest mother, that Seraphina is still your tenderest care; let me believe that you are still anxious for the happiness of both your children. And if—"

"Yes, my child,” replied the Countess has tily, "our happiness when you are gone shall be in talking of you. Fear not for the welfare of Seraphina, her happiness shall be mine, and let us look forward yet to many happy days."

lu a few moments he was out of sight, and Seraphina, listless, almost despondent, followed the Countess to their usual sitting room,

The Countess permitted a few hours to pass over in the indulgence of sorrow for the loss of one so beloved; but in the evening, taking the band of the trembling and conscious Seraphiua, she gently said-but what she said, must be the subject of anticipation to our fair readers until the succeeding month.

A LADY WITH A FAN OF FEATHERS IN HER HAND.

THIS head may be called a highly finished study, and one of great beauty. Its two sides are without shade, and the judicious half-tints produce all the necessary effect without the spectator feeling that the colouring wants either light or relief. To this peculiar beauty we must add the merit of its possessing a strongly marked moral character, exhibiting a soul of the tenderest animation illuminating a most amiable countenance, whilst its easy and gentle manner and expression are most happily || in agreement with the features.

If defects can be found, they must be sought for in the costume; and it may be said that the drapery in the upper part is too large, too profuse, although so nicely plaited in its variqus folds; whilst, lower down, the ruffles are

every part strictly in character. Here we con. template a high law officer; we see the Magis. trate, yet not passing judgement, nor even on the benck, but merely leading his little girl by the hand from one chamber to another. He seems either going to the Court of Justice, or returning from it; but we see clearly, says the Parisian critic, that he is not there; in short, adds this hypercritic, who seems inclined to give life to resemblance, "I rather think that he is going there, and that he is just in the act of giving up the little girl to its nurse before he goes out, for all his costume is in exact order; his ruff is not at all deranged; he has the air and complexion of one who had just enjoyed a good night's rest; and he seems not yet to have taken the air."

How unlucky that Van Dyk did not introduce the good loquacious old nurse! With what accuracy, what ease of developement, what quickness of idea would this accurate critic have told us what the old woman said, and what she meant to say; we should then have known whether she too had enjoyed a good night's rest, and whether she had taken the air, or any thing else she liked better! Well might he then have exclaimed, as he does, "See here the wisdom, the knowledge

of composition! for that is the fit expression, the motto of this chef d'œuvre."

The figure, he observes, is stuffed; even loaded with drapery, like a painter's layman; made up, in short, into a bundle; yet art has shewn its power of drawing it out from its massy envelope, and of marking its outline; and after all, it must be owned to be decently dressed, and having nothing even bordering upon the ridiculous.

The visage, adds this savant, cannot but be a good resemblance; for it is stamped with a seal of truth which would be much more difficult to invent than to copy. The child too has quite the family air, both in dress and address, for it is nearly swaddled in its accoutrements, but apparently justly dressed, and neat as a pin (range) as the old nurse, no doubt,

would have said.

This child's head was often taken as a model by Van Dyk's scholars, because, says this man of taste, it enables them to dispense with copying after nature, and we may add, that if his pupils copy his criticisms, they may in like manner be said to" dispense with nature," and to adopt a mode of art too refined to be intelligible.

THE BRIDAL NIGHT.

From "Poetic Trifles," by Ann of Swansea.

HARK! 'tis the raven hoarsely croaks,
The white owl shrilly screams;
The wind groans through yon aged oaks,
The stars shed sickly gleams.

Oh! would that morning's beams gave light,
I dread these falling glooms;
Have you not heard, at dead of night,
How ghosts forsake their tombs?

What form is that which on the heath

Glides slow as if on air?
God! 'tis as pale as ashy death,
And seems a shroud to wear.

'Tis Eda's spirit; at this hour

She from her grave doth rise, And seeking Albert's bridal bow'r, Appals his heart and eyes.

Albert to Eda often swore

He lov'd her more than light;
That ev'ry day he lov'd her more;
To her his faith did plight."

He vow'd, if Heaven would spare his life,
That he with her would wed,

That she alone should be his wife,

She only share his bed.

A ring he gave, a ruby heart,

Pierc'd with an arrow keen,
From which the blood did seem to start,

And lie in dreps between.

"Let this upon thy finger stay,'

"A pledge of love most true; "May peace from me be far away, "When I prove false to you!"

A tear-drop fell on Eda's cheek, Her heart his words believ'd; "Pray God," she cried, "who hears thec speak, "I ne'er may be deceiv'd.

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"For nought from death could Eda save,
"If thou shouldst from her fly;
"And soon within the grass-bound grave,
"Heart-broken she would lie."

Albert renew'd his vows of love,

He kiss'd her tears away;

And more, his heart's firm faith to prove,
Thus fervently did pray :

"If I should break my vow of love,

"And with another wed,

"God grant thou may'st my chamber rove,

"And share my nuptial bed:

“And may this ring with ruby heart,
"Upon thy finger shine;
"May drops of crimson from it start,
"And stain this hand of mine!"

Again he kiss'd, again he swore,
And cheer'd her doubting mind;
Yet not a week had gone, before

All Albert's vows were wind.

Mabel, a rich and haughty dame,
Ou Albert fix'd her eyes;
And he with joy beheld a flame,
Which promis'd such a prize.
The timid beam of Eda's eye,
Like vi'lets bright with dew,
Her coral lip's vermilion dye,

Her bosom's spotless hue:
All were forgot; as Mabel glanc'd
At wealth and large estates;
As she his senses held entranc'd,
And vow'd to make him great.

No more of Eda now he thought,

His heart was swell'd with pride;
That faithless heart for gold was bought,
And Mabel was his bride:

And Albert from the church came gay;
His friends around him prest;
And he, to grace his wedding-day,
Invited many a guest.

All gay the merry bells rang round,

All blithe the tabor play'd;

But strait before them, on the ground,
A grave was newly made.

"For who is this, pray?" ask'd the bride;
"'Tis Eda's grave," they say;
Albert then shudd'ring turn'd aside,

And musing went away.

And soon he heard the fun'ral bell,

And saw the village move;

"Oh, God!" he cried, "it is the knell "Of her I swore to love."

The bride sat gaily at the feast,

In sumpt'ous robes array'd;
But chill and sad was Albert's breast,
His conscience sore dismay'd:

And when the midnight bour drew nigh,
When all retir'd to rest,

Mabel, with bright expecting eye,
Her bridal pillow prest:

And Albert, full of thought and woe,
Prepar'd to join his bride,

When through the chamber, pale and slow,
Did Eda's spirit glide.

Her chilly arms did him embrace ;

"Albert, thou'rt mine!" she cries: "Dost thou not know thy Eda's face? "Come, turn on me thine eyes.

"Albert! false Albert! thou art mine:
"Behold this ruby heart;
"Heav'n lets it on my finger shine,

"Bids blood-drops from it start."
And Albert's hands were spotted o'er,
The ring dropt blood and blaz'd ›
He felt the grasp, beheld the gore,

His eyes with horror-glaz'd.

"Just like this ring, my heart has bled:
"Keen anguish did it know;
"And now," the spectre hollow said,
"Thy nights will all be woe:

"For soon as darkness veils the pole,
"I from my grave shall glide:
"When deep the midnight bell shall toll,
"Expect thy buried bride.

"Thou ev'ry night in my embrace,

"Shalt fear and horror feel; "And ev'ry night, upon thy face,

"The kiss of death I'll seal:

"And thou shalt see the grave-worm draw "Across my neck its trail;

"And thou shalt see the black toad guaw

"My cheek so sunk and pale.

"And ev'ry night I'll clasp thee round,
"Thy ring shall bleed and shine;
"And in thy ear my voice shall sound-
"False Albert! thou art mine.

"Sleep ne'er shall on thy eye-lids hang,

"Or give thy horrors rest, "Till thou hast suffer'd ev'ry pang

"That tortur'd Eda's breast.

"Albert! false Albert! thou art mine,
"Knowst thou not Eda's face?
"Thy ring doth on my finger shine,
"My arms do thee embrace."