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Landseer occasionally indulges his favourites-seated on a crimson velvet cushion, a parrot over his head, and a drawn sword by his side.

No. 1082. Pike.-E. Grimstone. A brace of very well painted fresh-water sharks, which, from the size of the water-rat who is creeping out of the stream to have a taste, must tell well in the scales (pardon the pun).

No. 1128. Portraits of a cab-horse, the property of his grace the Duke of Norfolk, and a pony, the property of Lady Adeliza Howard.-G. Morley. A grey fully accoutred, which puts us more in mind of a horse in a saddler's window than one taken from nature. The pony is a much better performance.

No. 1129. Terror, one of the series of the passions of the horse. --H. B. Chalon. Of this series we remember having already seen two exhibited-Joy, an old hunter delighted to hear once more the hounds in full cry, a very clever picture; and Rage, two stallions fighting for which we cannot say so much. The present strikes us as being the worst of the series; the subject is three horses alarmed at thunder, of which the brown is a monster-a perfect deformity, and the grey, the best of the three, reminds us very much of another grey-

"Stubbs' staring horse,

With terror on the approaching lion snorting."

No. 1255. Animals, the property of Thomas Hancock, Esq.-C. Hancock. A grey buggy-horse-at least for such we take him, though Mr. Hancock has shown his taste by not putting the trappings on another grey, a cow, a black pony, and a cur, skilfully grouped and well painted.

No. 1306. Interior-Cart-horses; and No. 1308. InteriorSheep.- Both by M. Nisbett. A pair of small, and, from what we can see from the height at which they are hung, clever pictures. The drover's old grey hack is nature itself: of the cows, from the distance, we can scarcely distinguish their heads from their tails, or in fact make head or tail of them, which we regret, as we fancy they would improve upon a nearer acquaintance.

This brings our work to a close. If we have omitted to notice anything in our line, we are sorry for it; and though we noticed many out of it, we should be neither in time nor place to speak of them here. Perhaps, too, we have not strictly adhered to Goldsmith's golden rules for a cognoscento-"To observe that the picture might have been better if the painter had taken more pains; and to praise the works of Pietro Perugino."

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As a bird likes to change tree for tree-now seeking the sweetest apple on the topmost bough, and anon ferreting the bark of the low espalier for grubs and insects-so like I to flit from place to place, without the "gradus ad Parnassum" of method, or the one, two, three, four, step-by-step march of regularity. Therefore, leaving India, and returning to it again as the fit takes me, I wander hither and thither, from recollection to recollection; and either in Lancashire, or Suffolk, or Scotland, or Spain, pick up reminiscences-like shells on the shore-wherewithal to while away the idlesse of my indulgent readers. The towers of Farmlingham are fading away in the distance; and lo! before the eye of memory rise the stately turrets of a gloomy pile, standing in forest fastnesses, beneath the blue skies of an Italian summer. It was from the wild, picturesque looking lazzaroni, who was my favourite attendant during my stay at Naples, that I heard the principal incidents on which the following storia is founded, and which we will call-

The Fate of the Beguiler.


It was on the luxuriant banks of the Arno, at no great distance from Pisa, that the ancient Castello di Valozzi was seen to raise its frowning turrets in stern grandeur over the dark and extensive forest that almost surrounded it. Though a great portion of this once majestic seat of feudal pomp had crumbled into dust, it still appeared an enormous pile, grand in its decay; but, with the exception of one wing, was wholly uninhabitable. The family of Valozzi, once the most powerful and haughty in all Italy, had gradually sunk into decay; and in the year 17-, Filippo Marchese di Valozzi, an aged and amiable though weak man, and his offspring, the young and lovely Agata, were the sole existing branches of a once proud and numerous lineage. Reared in complete seclusion beneath the eye of a fond and indulgent parent, the youthful Agata bloomed and flourished-beauteous as a sylph, and amiable as beautiful. Deprived of the maternal care at an early age, her excellent father superintended her education with a solicitude that had its ample reward in the aptness with which she learnt all that was taught her; and she excelled in all the elegant acquirements and useful accomplishments of the day. Such was Agata di Valozzi in her seventeenth summer, the only remaining solace of her venerable sire.


One gloomy evening, as she was fondly striving with all the tender anxiety of filial affection to amuse her parent by reading aloud to him, they were suddenly aroused by a violent ringing at the gates of the castle. Seldom visited by guests, their amazement was mutual, nor altogether unmixed with alarm in the breast of the gentle Agata, since the ringing continued to increase in vehemence. Father Cipriano, the confessor, and Pietro, the faithful attendant of the Marchese, hastened to demand who were the unexpected visitors; while the old noble, leaning on his daughter, slowly followed. The gates were thrown open, and discovered a party of peasants, who bore, extended upon a rude litter of boughs, the bleeding body of a man, apparently of noble rank, from the richness of his habiliments. Agata started back in terror; the lifeless stranger was borne into an apartment, and laid upon a couch; and while Agata, the monk, and the female attendants were busied in endeavouring to recover the unfortunate object of their compassion, whose swoon they hoped had proceeded only from the loss of blood, which still continued to trickle from a deep wound in his side, the Marchese was listening to the account which the peasants gave of the affair. Passing through part of the forest, on their return from the toils of the day, they were alarmed by hearing the clash of swords; and, fearful of banditti, they stole into a close thicket, whence unperceived they beheld several cavaliers gallop past. As soon as they had disappeared, they issued from their concealment, and were proceeding home as quickly as possible, when loud groans arrested their progress; pity conquered their no small alarm, and hastening towards the spot whence the sound of distress proceeded, they found the stranger weltering in his blood. In feeble accents he implored their assistance, and quickly constructing a temporary litter of branches, they placed him upon it, and carried him to the castle, as the nearest and most likely place where relief could be procured in such an emergency; he had fainted on the way, and the poor wood-cutters were terrified lest life should utterly desert him before they reached Valozzi. By this time the stranger had recovered from his insensibility; and the monk, who was considerably skilled in surgery, contrived to bind up his wounds, and stanch the bleeding. The stranger faintly attempted to express his thanks, but the Marchese and Father Cipriano gently insinuating that recovery depended upon his silence, and recommending him to seek that repose of which he stood so much in need, retired to some distance from his couch.


Agata saw the wounded man at length sink into a slumber, and urged by her father and the faithful Ursula, she consented to retire to her chamber-but not to rest; ah! rest was wooed in vain. The noble and prepossessing form of the stranger had already made an indelible impression on the susceptible heart of the signora, and she found it impossible to think of anything but him. His pale, interesting countenance, his elegant and manly deportment, apparent even amidst throes of pain, and above all the expressive glance that darted upon her from his full black eyes, as he unclosed the long silken lashes that veiled them, were continually floating before her mind's

eye. She passed the night in agitated suspense: now would she steal down to the door of his chamber to listen whether he was still asleep; now, if she found all silent, would she kneel in thankfulness; but if she heard him groan, then would she give way to a passion of tears. Morning at length began to dawn, and arising from her couch, the signora descended to the apartment of the invalid. Father Cipriano and the Marchese were already there, but as she appeared at the door, they beckoned her not to enter. In speechless dread she was retiring, when Ursula advanced towards her, wringing her hands: "Ah!" said the compassionate woman, "that handsome youth must die. Father Cipriano says he cannot recover." Agata, nearly frantic with grief, which she vainly attempted to conceal, flew to her father, and besought his consent for her to unite her efforts to those of the monk in attending on the wounded cavalier. The request of the tearful suitor was granted; but what was the grief of Agata when she saw that he whom she loved was oppressed by a violent fever, his senses entirely under the influence of delirium? Constantly did Agata haver round his pallet; scarcely could she be prevailed upon to dedicate a moment to slumber, until at the end of three days she found herself seriously ill. Meanwhile the delirium of the stranger abated, and on the fourth day he fell into a tranquil sleep, from which the monk boded favourable results. Long and serene were his slumbers, and when he awoke from his protracted dream of insensibility to perfect recollection, what was his astonishment to behold a figure, celestial as the ethereal form of an angel when it visits the vigils of the holy, bending over him with a countenance so paly lovely that it might well be deemed a thing of heaven? He shut his eyes lest the dazzling vision should vanish. He again unclosed them: a tall and elegant female, whose airy form was moulded in the most perfect symmetry, hung over him; one beautiful white hand crossed her averted eyes as if to hide her tears; the rosy fingers of the other pressed the throbbing pulse of him whose gaze was now rivetted upon her, doubting whether he shared the transports of that paradise he had heard of. A sigh trembled on his lips, his hand shook, and Agata removing hers from her eyes beheld those dark orbs, whose eloquent intelligence had before so deeply impressed her soul, gazing fondly on her, and speaking unutterable things.


But I need not endeavour to delineate the course of Agata's passion. A constant attendant by the sick bed of the young and fascinating signor for the space of a month, what marvel is there that the heart of a tender and susceptible girl, ignorant of the world and unaccustomed to society, should indulge in the fervour of that passion which is the most noble and most sacred in the bosom of innocence, but the most dangerous and unhallowed in that of guilt? A month had almost completed the recovery of the signor, when one evening he thus accosted the Marchese and his daughter:-"My father is the Conte di Salerno. I am his only child. On my way, incognito, to a small territory of my father's, not above ten leagues hence, I fell in with cavaliers, who, although they appeared to be continually im

mersed in some secret intrigue, were agreeable companions; and finding that our route was nearly the same, I was glad to travel with them. I had only brought with me one servant, and we had reached the forest di Valozzi as the sun was shedding his last rays amidst the foliage; it was then that I first remarked the absence of my menial, and I had no sooner expressed my surprise before one of the cavaliers said, "Signor, it is time to undeceive you: we have been informed by your vassal that you bear about you jewels of value. We are banditti-surrender them quietly, and you shall be safe; refuse, and take the consequences." My astonishment to hear myself thus addressed can scarcely be imagined. I determined to lose my jewels only with my life, and drew my sword; but my strength was unavailing against so many opponents, and I fell. They immediately plundered me of that for which I had paid so dearly in the struggle to save them, and fled; but I shall ever bless the hour that saw me wounded and expiring in the forest, for have I not since enjoyed a happiness beyond that I ever before tasted?"

As Salerno concluded these words, he cast a look of unutterable expression on Agata, who imagined she understood its import. Alas! she was mistaken! But to shorten the story, day succeeded to day, week to week, and still Salerno continued a welcome guest at the castle. During this period, frequent and mutual confessions of love had passed between him and Agata, yet she could not but remark with surprise that to her father he had never unfolded his passion, nor even to herself hinted of marriage. She was as nobly born as himself, though she possessed not wealth; but she could not believe that he was mercenary: it is true that once, as they sat in the pavilion, which was the favourite scene of their interviews, he told her of his haughty and imperious sire, of his implacable temper when aroused to anger, and of the affluent but hated bride he had destined for him. At the word "bride" Agata started, but when he threw himself at her feet, and vowed by everything sacred that she alone was dear to him, her doubts were banished, and the sweetest hopes irradiated her sanguine bosom. Her aged parent, naturally unsuspicious, and his faculties enfeebled by years and suffering, was wholly unobservant of passing events; and day by day Agata saw him evidently sinking into second childhood. One morning, as they were seated at breakfast, a servant entered and presented a packet to Salerno, saying the bearer solicited a private conference. Agata observed that he started, but he said nothing, withdrawing silently. Several hours passed ere he returned, and then the wondering girl thought she could discern a strange smile play on his fine features; but merely saying that he had received letters from his father, he left her in uncertainty as to the cause of his apparent satisfaction. Their visits to the pavilion were still continued, but still he only talked of love. One evening, as she was sitting beside the couch of the Marchese, who had for several days been exceedingly ill, she received a note from Salerno, in which he entreated her to meet him at the pavilion, as he had something of particular interest to communicate. Trembling with forebodings of she knew not what, she no sooner saw her father sink into a slumber, than, resigning her watch by his side to Ursula, she glided softly

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