I went into the Water-colour Exhibition at Charing-cross; there I heard two artists complimenting each other, while their hearts were bursting with mutual envy. There, too, I found a mild, modest-looking lady, listening to the bewitching nothings of her husband's particular friend; and I knew, as I saw her frown and abruptly turn away from him with every appearance of real indignation, that she had at that very moment mentally resolved to elope with him the following night. In Harding's shop I found authors congregated "to laugh the sultry hours away," each watching to catch his neighbour's weak point, and make it subject matter of mirth in his evening's conversation. I saw a viscount help his father out of his carriage with every mark of duty and veneration, and knew that he was actually languishing for the earldom and estates of the venerable parent of whose health he was apparently taking so much care. At Howell and James's I saw more than I could tell, if I had ten times the space afforded me that I have; and I concluded my tour by dropping in at the National Gallery, where the ladies and gentlemen seemed to prefer nature to art, and were actively employed in looking at the pictures, and thinking of themselves. Oh! it was a strange time then, when every man's heart was open to me, and I could sit, and see, and hear, all that was going on, and know the workings of the inmost feelings of my associates; however, I must not detain the reader with reflections.

Clorinda, or the Necklace of Pearl, is an intensely interesting tale by Lord Normanby, with a most effective illustration by Heath.

But the prose of the "Keepsake" is decidedly superior to the poetry, notwithstanding the high names in the latter list. Mr. Moore's contribution is, however, only sixteen lines. The poetical pieces consist chiefly of fragments or "scraps"—among which those on Italy, by Lord Morpeth; and three by Shelley, are very beautiful. Our specimen is—

THE VICTIM BRIDE

By W.H. Harrison

I saw her in her summer bow'r, and oh! upon my sight Methought there never beam'd a form more beautiful and bright! So young, so fair, she seem'd as one of those aerial things That live but in the poet's high and wild imaginings; Or like those forms we meet in dreams from which we wake, and weep That earth has no creation like the figments of our sleep. Her parent—loved not he his child above all earthly things! As traders love the merchandize from which their profit springs: Old age came by, with tott'ring step, and, for the sordid gold With which the dotard urged his suit, the maiden's peace was sold And thus (for oh! her sire's stern heart was steel'd against her pray'r) The hand he ne'er had gain'd from love, he won from her despair. I saw them through the churchyard pass, but such a nuptial train I would not for the wealth of worlds should greet my sight again. The bridemaids, each as beautiful as Eve in Eden's bow'rs, Shed bitter tears upon the path they should have strewn with flow'rs. Who had not deem'd that white rob'd band the funeral array, Of one an early doom had call'd from life's gay scene away! The priest beheld the bridal group before the altar stand, And sigh'd as he drew forth his book with slow reluctant hand: He saw the bride's flow'r-wreathed hair, and mark'd her streaming eyes, And deem'd it less a Christian rite than a Pagan sacrifice; And when he call'd on Abraham's God to bless the wedded pair, It seem'd a very mockery to breathe so vain a pray'r. I saw the palsied bridegroom too, in youth's gay ensigns drest; A shroud were fitter garment far for him than bridal vest; I mark'd him when the ring was claim'd, 'twas hard to loose his hold, He held it with a miser's clutch—it was his darling gold. His shrivell'd hand was wet with tears she pour'd, alas! in vain, And it trembled like an autumn leaf beneath the beating rain. I've seen her since that fatal morn—her golden fetters rest As e'en the weight of incubus, upon her aching breast. And when the victor, Death, shall come to deal the welcome blow, He will not find one rose to swell the wreath that decks his brow: For oh! her cheek is blanch'd by grief which time may not assuage,— Thus early Beauty sheds her bloom on the wintry breast of Age.

Our commendation of the "Keepsake" might be extended much further, were we to consult our inclination to do justice to its high character. With so lavish an expenditure and such an array of talent as we have shown it to contain, to wonder at its success,

Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.

We congratulate the proprietors on their prospects of remuneration, for the attractions of their publication are irresistible. It is altogether a splendid enterprise, and we doubt not the reward will be more than proportionate to the expectation it has raised—both in the proprietors and their patrons—the public.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 344 (Supplementary Issue)

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THE VICTIM BRIDE

By W.H. Harrison

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