first sight, a very
attractive picture; but the longer we look at it, the longer we seem
disposed to admire it, for it insensibly conveys to the mind sublime
ideas, seldom experienced before.

Perhaps the most novel performance in the present school is by Mr.
Davis; representing a View of the Gallery, with all the original
pictures, the different styles of which he has well succeeded in. His
work is a sort of _multum in parvo,_ extremely pretty and interesting.

To conclude--the copies by Mrs. Pearson, Miss Farrier, Miss Kearsley,
&c. are very clever; as are those by Messrs. Wate, Phillips, Brough,
Hastings, Mackay, and Irving.

G.W.N.

* * * * *

THE NOVELIST

* * * * *

ISABEL.

Several years ago I took up my abode at the retired village of D----.
I had chosen this residence on account of its sequestered situation,
as solitude was, at that time, more accordant to my feelings than the
bustle of a populous town. At no great distance from my habitation
stood the Castle of D----, an ancient Gothic structure, sinking fast
into decay. The last of its original possessors had been dead more
than half a century, and it was the property of a gentleman who
resided on the continent. The interior of the mansion spoke loudly
of desolation and ruin: the state apartments were despoiled of their
magnificent decorations, and scarcely a vestige remained of their
former splendour. An aged female domestic was the sole inhabitant of
this deserted pile. Born in the service of the family of D----, she
had survived the last of its race, and remained a solitary relic of
that illustrious house. It was the business of old Alice to show the
castle to strangers; and I soon became a favourite with her, from the
interest I appeared to take in the fate of its former inhabitants. The
gallery was our chief resort; and, finding me a willing listener, my
ancient companion delighted to inform me of all tradition had supplied
her with, respecting the mighty warriors and stately dames, whose
portraits still hung on the walls, smiling, as if in mockery of the
desolation around.

One fine autumnal evening found me, as usual, in my favourite retreat.
The rays of the departing sun streamed in rich dyes through the
coloured window, and fell with softened glory on the picture of a
bridal ceremony. I was surprised that it had never before engaged my
attention. The bridegroom was y