In a preceding number we stated that the copyright of this picture had been purchased for 1,000 guineas, and appropriated to the Artists’ Fund, which a correspondent, and “a member of the Fund,” informs us is not the fact.  He assures us that the original picture was purchased some years since by his Majesty, who granted the loan of it to the society, at whose expense it was engraved; the sale of the prints producing 1,000_l_. to the Fund.  Mr. Mulready has the merit of painting the picture and procuring the loan of it; but our version of the affair would make it appear otherwise.  We copied our notice from the newspapers, where it was stated, as from the Lord Chancellor, at the Fund Dinner, that Mr. Mulready had relinquished his copyright to the picture for the benefit of the Fund, which had thus produced 1,000_l_.; but we thank our correspondent for his correction.

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THE SELECTOR AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

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FIVE NIGHTS OF ST. ALBAN’S.

This is a work of pure fiction, and is one of the most splendidly imaginative books we have met with for a long time.  It is attributed to the author of the “First and Last” sketches in Blackwood’s Magazine, some of which have already been transferred to our pages.  No further recommendation can be requisite; but to give the reader some idea of the vivid style in which the work is written, we detach two episodal extracts.

THE IDIOT GIRL.

When Peverell reached his own house, his man Francis met him with a strangely mysterious look and manner.

“Here is one within,” said he, “that will not, by any dint of persuasion, go; though I have been two good hours trying my skill to that end.”

“Who is it?” inquired Peverell.

“That, neither, can I discover,” quoth Francis.  “She knocked at the door—­it might be something after eleven, perhaps near upon twelve—­and when I opened it, she whips into the hall without saying a word, walks into every room in the house—­I following her, as a beadle follows a rogue, till he sees him beyond the parish bounds—­and at last takes possession of your low chair, and, without so much as ‘by your leave,’ begins to wring her hands, and cry ’Lord!  Lord!’—­What do you want, good woman?” said I. But I might as well have addressed myself to the walls, for ‘Lord!  Lord!’ was all her moan.”

Peverell hastened into the room, and there he saw poor Madge—­her face buried in her hands, rocking to and fro, weeping most piteously, and as Francis had described, ever and anon calling upon the Lord, but in a tone of such utter wretchedness, that it pierced his very heart.

He spoke to her.  She started up at the sound of his voice, looked at him, and then mournfully exclaimed, while she pointed to the ground—­“They have buried her!”