the early efforts of his mind; not, as some suppose, from want of exercise in childhood—­for then he had much exercise—­though at a later period the want of it may have been hurtful to him.  Sophia, a sister-in-law of Mozart, who is still living, relates:  “he was always good-humoured, but very abstracted, and in answering questions seemed always to be thinking of something else.  Even in the morning when he washed his hands, he never stood still, but would walk up and down the room, sometimes striking one heel against the other; at dinner he would frequently make the ends of his napkin fast, and draw it backwards and forwards under his nose, seeming lost in meditation, and not in the least aware of what he did.”  He was fond of animals, and in his amusements delighted with any thing new; at one time of his life with riding, at another with billiards.

* * * * *

The Selector;
AND
LITERARY NOTICES OF
NEW WORKS.

* * * * *

A PORTRAIT, BY MISS LANDON.

FROM “THE VENETIAN BRACELET, AND OTHER POEMS,” (JUST PUBLISHED)

  “O No, sweet Lady, not to thee
    That set and chilling tone,
  By which the feelings on themselves
    So utterly are thrown,
  For mine has sprung upon my lips,
    Impatient to express
  The haunting charm of thy sweet voice
    And gentlest loveliness. 
  A very fairy queen thou art,
  Whose only spells are on the heart.

  The garden it has many a flower,
    But only one for thee—­
  The early graced of Grecian song,
    The fragant myrtle tree;
  For it doth speak of happy love,
    The delicate, the true. 
  If its pearl buds are fair like thee,
    They seem as fragile too;
  Likeness, not omens; for love’s power
  Will watch his own most precious flower.

  Thou art not of that wilder race
    Upon the mountain side,
  Able alike the summer sun
    And winter blast to bide;
  But thou art of that gentle growth
    Which asks some loving eye
  To keep it in sweet guardianship,
    Or it must droop and die;
  Requiring equal love and care,
  Even more delicate than fair.

  I cannot paint to thee the charm
    Which thou hast wrought on me;
  Thy laugh, so like the wild bird’s song
    In the first bloom-touch’d tree. 
  You spoke of lovely Italy,
    And of its thousand flowers;
  Your lips had caught the music breath
    Amid its summer bow’rs. 
  And can it be a form like thine
  Has braved the stormy Apennine?

  I’m standing now with one white rose
    Where silver waters glide
  I’ve flung that white rose on the stream—­
    How light it breasts the tide! 
  The clear waves seem as if they loved
    So beautiful a thing;
  And fondly to the scented leaves
    The laughing sunbeams cling. 
  A summer voyage—­fairy freight;—­
  And such, sweet Lady, be thy fate!”