chance, a sum destined to purposes of benevolence, because I see your own reflections are a sufficient punishment. But Claudine must have her fur iture, and you shall not lose the pleasure of bestowing it upon her; when you visit her to-morrow, give her this," said he, putting his purse into my hand.

You may believe I was nearly wild with joy. I thanked the Baron a thousand times over, and besought him to accompany me to the cottage of Claudine; he wanted to stipulate that I should not inform her from whom the money came, but this I would not promise to do, and at length he consented to go with me the next day.

Never shall I forget the happiness I received from witnessing that of poor Claudine, who overwhelmed us with thanks and blessings. She was soon comfortably established as the village school-mistress, and I had the delight of seeing her and her children respectably settled through the bounty of the Baron. From that day his attentions to me were particular. He no longer treated me as a child, but while he laboured to improve my understanding, and to cultivate those virtues of which he thought I was possessed, he imperceptibly gained my whole heart.

Twelve months from the day in which I had ventured my last stake, the Baron desired to speak with me alone.

"I am about, my dear Mademoiselle," said

he, when I entered, "to acknowledge my sing of commission against you; may I hope that you will absolve them?"

"If in my power, my Lord," cried I, " I will."

"Yes, dearest Adrienne," said he," it is in your power; I will honestly own that for the last twelve months, I have played the part of a severe inquisitor. I wished to marry, and my heart pointed out you of all women I had ever seen, as the most likely to render me happy; but I was determined that the choice of my heart should be ratified by that of my reason. I scrutinized your temper and disposition minutely, and you have more than answered my most sanguine expectations. Say, sweetest Adrienne, that you will pardon my presumption, and accept my hand."

The Baron ceased. I cannot tell you what was my reply, but I suppose it was not a very discouraging one; he had previously gained my aunt's approbation, and in a short time we were united.

The good curate of the village gave us the nuptial benediction, and you may be sure that Claudine was something the richer for our marriage. The Baron told me in a few days after the ceremony was performed, that he had formed a prepossession in my favour from the moment that I told him the reason which had induced me to venture my last stake.

sess the same style, the same colouring, the same details. This, however, is better designed, and we might say better finished, if the extreme high finishing of this painter can be supposed to have gradatious. It would seem, indeed, as if Gerard Dow, in these his latest works, wished to try another manner, even yet more distant from that of Rembrandt, in approaching the Italian mode, or rather a mode of that nature where, with a factitious glare, and the effects of a mysterious light, the pain

N

ter is more master of his own tone of colouring, inasmuch as no person has ever seen any thing which may actually be called a model of this peculiar manner.—As a companion to this piece, we have given an

OLD WOMAN, SAYING HER PRAYERS,

And which we have selected as a finishing specimen, as it is a chef-d'œuvre of this admirable master. Indeed this precious miniature, for such it is, may deservedly have a place amidst the historical school, as it contains all that is grand and noble. It is, in short, the beau ideal of old age; and as the French critic observes, "no Qacen-Dowager need be ashamed of her resemblance to such a por. frait."

The action is sanctified and sedate, the attitude simple and full of grace. The clasped hands, on which the book rests, mark not in the slightest degree any other or common attitude; she prays with fervour and with hope. All her air and dress answer to the awfulness of her occupation; all her features are full of dignity and majesty. It is indeed an elegant antique bust; and time has merely softened the fresh colour of youth without injuring the form. The eyes are regular, the nose is elegantly protuberant, and grace yet plays around the mouth; the oval contour has indeed lost

EXTRACTS

something of the fullness of youth but it still remains, and age in changing it bas given an expression which becomes it, and marked it with sweetness and gravity The nearer the picture is examined, the handsomer the head becomes, as the smallest wrinkles are then seen without in any measure destroying the effect of the whole.

The head dress is majestic, and assimilates well with the head from the propriety of its ornaments; possessing a wise richness, but without luxury. The hands may be said to belong to the head; for in examining them any person might guess what sort of a head they ought to accompany. The muscular form and outlines have yielded a little to the action of time; but the shape of the bones has still preserved its native exactness. The gown is extremely natural, and the folds are well arranged; it appears to be of a changeable velvet.

In short, we may examine this precious bijou with a microscope; its details would serve to fill the largest picture frame; a copyist might increase its proportions tenfold, and yet its distances would assume their proper places without leaving any unoccupied space in the intervals, so accurate have the smallest trifles been attended to.

From "The Battle of Wagram;" by the Author of" The Battles of the Danube and Barrosa." XII.

Now midnight o'er the troubled world,
Silent and sad, her veils unfurl'd,
And o'er the fields, with slaughter warm,
No longer peal'd the battle storm,
Quench'd were the fires of either host,
And round the Danube's warded coast,
A heavier darkness grew;
And the dull breeze, as by it swept,
Matter'd the groans of those who kept
Their vigil in the dew:

But hopeless was the watch they held-
No friendly forms their fears dispell'd,
No hand was near their wounds to heal,
To soothe the throbbing pangs they feel,

Of the departed day,

How fierce the Gauls their columns shook, When bearing down upon the brook,

And through the deep defiles they took Their devastating way,

And having reach'd the levell'd height,
They pour'd, with all their skill and might,
Their iron fury through the fight,

And swept the lines away;
How through the red, convulsed air,
The banners wav'd in many a pair,
Above the halberts' silvery glare,
And how the plumes were seen,
Mocking the very skies, to bear

Their progress o'er the green..

XIV,

Yet slumber'd not on either side

The warrior's skill-now o'er the tide,
Array'd in all their martial pride,

Had horsemen ceas'd to come;
And all was silent thro' the camp,
All save the warder's measur'd tramp,
And every voice was dumb;
Thick, o'er the Danube's rapid stream,
Beneath the moon's imperfect beam,
The lancers' yellow helmets gleam,

And troop and squadron came;
For many a chasm, deep and wide,
By other hands must be supplied,
And thousands yet must cross the tide,
Ere sounds the morning drum;
Still other ranks must face the foe,
That yet have 'scap¡d the mortal blow,
And quarter'd on the plain below,

Strain all their prowess there,
On centre, column, flank, and wing,
'Till their co-mingling bayonets ring,
And those who charge and those who fly,
Distract the smoky air,

And thousands, reft of succour lie,
In various havoc there!

XV.

Many shall kiss the crimson sod
Who to the battle nobly trod,

Where death his revel kept;
Few shall survive where many bled,
And fewer still shall name the bed,
Where last they soundly slept;
Long shall the night of silence reign,
With those who, on the darken'd plain,
Now soundly slept-to wake no more
With morning's purple ray ;
Stretch'd in their beds of human gore,
Beds where they never slept before,
They rot and fade away!

Full many a hopeless maid shall weave, Beneath the dusky shades of eve,

The strains of pious love.

Fʊr him who marks with shudd'ring eye,
The twilight of the morning sky,

Break on the clouds above;
Who marks the far surrounding scene,

Bright'ning beneath the solar ray,
Where now no form's distinctly seen,
Save when the night fires intervene,
And light the foul and bloody green,
Where late the wounded lay;
And nought is heard save dull and slow,
The Gallic squadrons' march below,
Or, duller still, the Danube's flow
That bear the dead away...

LINES

J.G.

From "The Exsquy," a Poem, on the Death of his Wife, by Dr. Henry King, Bishop of Chichester, in the reign of Charles I.

SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted!

.

My last good night! thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake;
Till age, or grief, or sickuess must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb..
Stay for me there; I will not faile
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make or sorrows breed,
Each minute is a short degree,
And ev'ry hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours saile,
Then when sleep breath'd bis drowsie gale.

Thus from the suu my bottom stears
And my dayes compass downward bears:
Nor labour I to stem the tide
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou like the vann first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory

In thus adventuring to dy

Before me, whose more years might crave.
A just precedence in the grave.
But heark my pulse, like a soft drum
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howevere my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.