Guercino’s magnificent work, the Soul of St. Peter ascending into Heaven attended by Angels, which was formerly an altar-piece, has been copied in small.  This is not, perhaps, at 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 young, graceful, and noble—­the bride, fair, soft, and delicate.  By her side stood a form of unequalled loveliness:  it seemed too beautiful to have belonged to a daughter of earth; and I imagined the painter had designed it to represent the guardian saint of