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De Winza.

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there he had first experienced the sweet delights of wedded love, and enjoyed those little immunities which flow from reciprocal affection. Every spot was consecrated by some latent recollection of past felicity; and every succeeding thought was embittered by the reflection that those scenes never could return.

He was so absorbed in those ideas, that he did not perceive the approach of a party of French soldiers, who surrounded him, and seizing him, demanded what brought him there ;-as his uniform, which he still wore under his cloak, would immediately betray his rank, he did not attempt to conceal it, but informed them, that he was on his parole, and had left the city early in the evening for the purpose of visiting a relative; but on his arrival, was surprised to find the place in ruins, and no trace of its inmates. The officer, who commanded the party, now advanced, and informed him in French, (which DE WINZA understood,) that he must consider himself his prisoner, and accompany him to head quarters. To this, De Winza made no objection ; life, or liberty, was now of little value to him, since all that he prized on earth was snatched from him, and he followed the officer in silence till they came to the high road, where they had left their horses; placing DE WINZA on one, they all mounted, and galloped with rapidity towards MADRID.

The clock of St. Michael's church was striking the midnight hour as they entered the city ; they proceeded immediately to the quarters of the military commandant, where De WINZA was recognised and his rank acknowledged ; he was instantly set at liberty, with permission to join his regiment, which was stationed without the city walls. He, however, preferred going to the residence of his father in the Plaza Mayor, but on arriving there, was surprised to hear that he had set out from MADRID, two hours before, to join the remains of the Spanish Army which had retired into the neighbouring province. Uncertain how to act, or where to direct his enquiries, he turned his steps towards the dwelling of ST. AUBERT. Numerous guards were stationed in the streets, who challenged every stranger that approached, and it was with much difficulty he was enabled to pass them, as the French were apprehensive of an attack, owing to a report which had been circulated, that there were fifty thousand men concealed in the town, who had sworn to avenge their country, and drive the enemy from the capital ; under this impression, the French remained under arms all night; while


De Winza.

Bonaparte still continued in the camp without the town, with all his cavalry and guards. Strong detachments were stationed at the outposts, and every precaution taken to prevent a surprise.

DE WINZA was kindly received by ST. AUBERT's father and sisters, who informed him that his friend had gone to TOLEDO some days before on particular business which would detain him there some time; and requested De WINZA would take up his residence with them till his return. To this DE WINZA consented his mind was harrassed by various reflections—the withering, blight which had fallen upon his heart, subdued the native fire of his disposition_his spirit sapk with his hopes, and he no longer felt an ambition to engage in the more active scenes of military life. A slow fever, caused by anxiety and fatigue, confined him for several weeks to his bed, during which time, the gentle ISABEL, the lovely sister of ST. AUBERT, acted as his nurse, and performed all those kind offices which the nature of his situation required. She sat with him, read to him; and in hours when melancholy reflections would obtrude upon his mind, she soothed him by her consolations, and diverted the tediousness of sickness by the lively vivacity of her mappers. There was a playful ingenuousness about her, which won its way at once to the heart, and an air of innocence and candor which prepossessed every beholder. The extreme sensibility of her disposition was awakened by the sufferings of DE WINZA ; she saw him, in the dawn of life drooping beneath the pressure of inward sorrows; his fine form wasted by illness, and his whole frame worn and emaciated by the internal struggles of his mind. Her gentle heart felt for his distress, and was anxious to alleviate it. But DE WINZA, on this subject preserved an impenetrable silence, and not all the assiduities and attentions of the affectionate ISABEL could wring the fatal secret from his bosom.

The image of his beloved IMMALINB was ever present to him; she hovered over his dreams, like the spirit of departed bliss revisiting the scenes of former happiness. He thought of the days of her innocence—the hours of delight he had spent in her society-and the bright promise of the years to come; and he asked his heart were they indeed fled for ever! were all the hopes blasted which he had cherished. so warmly! was he never again to behold her with whom they were associated! and he groaned at the sad conviction of the reality of his loss, while the reflection was embittered by the uncer

Remarks on Messrs. Gratlans' Paintings.

tainty of her fate. But one short week had passed, and he was happy ; blest with the affections of a lovely wife, with the fire of love sparkling in her eye. and its purity throbbing at her heart; life presented nothing but a delightful vision of present or anticipated bliss,--a cloudless firmament and a weedless path, where all around spoke peace and harmony, and every flower beneath breathed the incense of love!

It was the dream of man-and like man, it was fleeting and transitory!-it fied, and left nothing behind but darkness and desolation ;- a broken spirit-and a blighted heart!

“O Happiness! our being, end, and name !
Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whale'er thy name;
That something still which prompts th' eternal sigb,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die;
Which still so bear us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlooked, seen double, by the fool and wise.
Plant of celestial seed! if dropt below,
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow !

(To be continued.)


In our last number we gave a few remarks on M. Jerricault's picture of the raft on which some of the crew of the Medusa frigate were preserved, and this may not be an unapt place to mention, that we have, since its publication, seen a cast from the celebrated piece of statuary representing Sampson dealing destruction among the astonished Philistines; and have traced the composition of some of the best figures in the picture to this original. Indeed we entertain very little doubt that M. Jerricault has been indebted to it, for some of his attitudes, particularly that of the sailor who is elevated on the water cask and waving his white signal.

We are happy that this month presents an opportunity of offering our feeble tribute to the memory of our lamented countryman. His great abilities have been acknowledged by all who have seen his paintings, and if his life had not become an early prey to the lingering disease which caused its termination, the pictures he projected and whose

Remarks on Messrs. Grattaps' Paintings.

sketches he had nearly finished would have added much to his fame, and placed him without a shadow of doubt at the head of the Irish artists. We allude to the sketches, marked *84,' and '85,' in the catalogue, (Paul brought before Agrippa and Festus,—and Collins' Ode on the Passions) which rank among the most interesting objects of the exhibition, and are executed with the greatest boldness of design, and justice of conception. Among the finished paintings, the superior excellence of some attracted our almost undivided attention. No. 1, (Irish Peasants boiling a Cauldron,) an oil painting, is probably one of the most natural delineations of the Irish countenance, costume, and manner, which has ever been executed; the coloring is chaste, and the artist was alive to all the peculiarities of character which distinguish his countrymen, when he threw such a mixture of resignation and artless good nature into the countenances of these simple peasants. No. 65, (View of Clonmel, and mountain back ground,) and No. 69, (The Gibeonites ob. tain a league by craft with Joshua,) are well executed oil paintings. But the race of Hippomenes and Atalanta, which by some unaccountable omission has not been numbered in the catalogue, is probably the best painting which an Irish artist has ever produced ; the grouping of so many figures, and the varieties of attitude and countenance,—the expression of admiration evinced by all, and the evident anxiety of the spectators to reach the goal along with the racers,the figures of Hippomenes and Atalanta scarcely touching the ground over which they flew,--and the agitation of her father, are sufficient proofs of our assertion ; even the background of this painting displays the genius that designed it. These four are very large.

Among the smaller paintings, No. 71, (Hesiod, the Greek Poet, thrown into the sea,) is one of the most difficult and certainly one of the best executed; the savage ferocity of his murderers is beautifully expressed. No. 19, (Poor Tom,) is a fine picture. No. 47, *(The Pilgrim,) and No. 61, (Stern's dead Ass,) are not any way inferior. No. 33, (The Sketch book,) is a beautiful portrait. There are many other excellent pictures in this exhibition, of which our limits prevent the enumeration ; but we cannot pass over No. 82, (Miniature head of a Maniac.) This is one of the finest delineations of madness we have ever seen ; its finishing is exquisite, and until now we thought it impossible to give such a representation with water colors. We were much pleased with


some paintings, (Nos. 107, 108, &c.) whose style is rather new; but a very good effect is produced by their almost simple disposition of light and shade. We also remarked some very good chalk drawings, and think this, a style in which Mr. W. Grattan is likely to excel.

The present exhibition is one of the most gratifying to an Irish spectator which has been opened for many years: yet while he views with pride the productions of an unpatronised artist, whose genius, alone and unassisted, enabled him to attain such excellence, he must shed a tear over his urn, and express his sorrow at the heartless apathy of Ireland which could allow such a man to live almost unknown and die almost unnoticed.


Mirandola,"- A Tragedy,-By Barry Cornwall.

London-John Warren, 1814.

A NEW Tragedy, like a new fashion, is followed so long as its novelty is an attraction; but it is merit alone which will transmit it to posterity. Feeling and sentiment, however poetically clothed or naturally expressed, are not sufficient to ensure success ; nor will the developement of character, however ingeniously contrived or executed—the delineation of the passions-or the beauty of the language-soften one leading error, or extenuate one main fault. Otway's Orphan is the most convincing instance of this position. Decked out with all the embellishments in which fancy can wreath her creatures, and all the attractions that language and beautiful thoughts possess, it is yet seldom suffered in representation; por can the immorality of the plot be ever palliated by the decorations of the imagination. We have given our opinion of this play more fully in another place.*

“ Mirandola' has some claim for its language and natural sentiment; but it brings forward to the public eye scenes and actions which it is more than unpleasant to contemplate. Like a novel, which we noticed in our last number, it conveys no moral instruction to the reader, and has been per

• See page 241 of this volume.

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