At length he became convinced that his last hour drew near; and he blessed God that his struggle was about to terminate. As soon as this idea took possession of his mind, he grew a little more tranquil; and, excepting when he thought of Beatrice, awaited the final hour with a kind of satisfaction. In this pious mood of mind, he one evening wandered to his usual haunt on the seaside. The sun had set—the moon and all the stars were in heaven—and the earth and the sea were sleeping in the silver light. He set him down on a lofty rock overhanging the sea, which was deep and still in that part; and with the waves on his left, and the earth in all its loveliness on his right, he raised his eyes towards heaven, and was absorbed in devotion. At that moment, a face of unutterable beauty presented itself in the bright moonlight before him. With a single glance, he discovered it was that of Lucifer, but softened to angelic loveliness. Uttering a wild and piercing shriek, he started from it towards the edge of the precipice. Beatrice for it was she—instantly caught him by the hand to drag him back; and pronounced his name. The words and the touch dissipated his illusion; and with the rapidity of lightning revealed to his mind the fatal secret of his misery. He now saw that, having been occupied with thoughts of her when he painted his picture, he had lent a portion of her beauty to the fallen archangel; and hence the pain her looks had occasionally inflicted on him. While this conviction darted into his mind, he was already falling over the precipice; but he still grappled at the rock, and made desperate efforts to recover himself. Beatrice, also, finding that he was going and drawing her after him, for she still held him by the hand, caught hold of a tuft of grass which grew on the edge of the cliff and grasped it convulsively. In this situation they hung for an instant, suspended over the abyss; but the grass-tuft by which she clung gradually gave way; and in another instant a sullen plunge in the deep waters below told that the loves and miseries of Spinello and Beatrice were ended.

Note.—The passage of Lanzi, to which I referred at the commencement, is as follows:—

"The 'Fall of the Angels,' still remains in St. Angelo, at Arezzo, in which Lucifer is represented so terrible, that it afterwards haunted the dreams of the artist, and, deranging both his mind and body, hastened his death. Bernardo Daddi was his scholar."—History of Painting in, Italy, vol. i. p. 65. Roscoe's Translation.

First in the poetry is the Bechuana Boy, an affecting narrative, by Mr. Pringle, as may be implied from one verse:

He came with open aspect bland, And modestly before me stood, Caressing with a kindly hand That fawn of gentle brood; Then meekly gazing in my face Said in the language of his race, With smiling look yet pensive tone— "Stranger—I'm in the world alone."

The Irish Mother to her Child, a Song, by Mr. Banim, has great force and feeling, with the date 1828, significantly appended to this stanza:

Alas! my boy, so beautiful! alas! my love, so brave! And must your manly Irish limbs still drag it to the grave? And thou, my son, yet have a son, foredoomed a slave to be? Whose mother, too, must weep o'er him the tears I weep o'er thee.

Here, too is an exquisite snatch—on Memory:

Fond Memory, like a mockingbird, Within the widow'd heart is heard, Repeating every touching tone Of voices that from earth hath gone.

Queen Catharine's Sorrow is a ballad of mournful minstrelsy. Next is the Bard's Address to his youngest Daughter, by Mr. Hogg—beginning

Come to my arms, my dear wee pet! My gleesome, gentle Harriet!

with all the sweetness and affection of shepherd love. The Poet's Oak, by Allan Cunningham, is a beautiful finish to the volume, which is altogether equal to any of its compeers.

The Illustrations, twelve in number, may challenge comparison with those of any similar work. Lyra, the frontispiece, after Wood, by T.A. Dean, is one of the loveliest creations of art; Vesuvius, after Turner, by Jeavons, is a most elaborate picture of that sublime spectacle of Nature; Echo, from Arnald's picture in the last exhibition, is finely executed by Goodall; and with still greater fidelity, Wilkie's Reading the News, is engraved by H. Robinson; but spirited and finished as it is, we must object to the quantity of smoke from the joint on the baker's board, and more especially from the pie; besides which, the bakehouse must be at some distance. The picture has a pleasant accompaniment, by Mr. Charles Knight. Catharine of Arragon, and Mary Queen of Scots and the Commissioners of the Scottish Church, are so purely historical as almost to tell their own tale; the first, after Leslie, by W. Humphreys, is in every line a lesson. The remainder of the plates are of unequal merit, and the elegantly embossed plum-colour leather binding is even an improvement on that of last year.

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