I recovered, and then heard the consequences my second desertion of a doting father had occasioned. On the night my felon husband had again persuaded me to abandon home, I left a letter on the table, intending to soften as far as it could be possibly done, the rash and guilty step I had been induced to take. My father found and read it-the blow was stunning—and an hour afterwards he was found dead upon the floor with the fatal writing in his hand.

"When I had sufficiently composed myself, my resolution was formed -to quit the haunt of guilt, or perish in the attempt-Antonia promised to assist, and the monk encouraged me in the attempt. No doubt a double motive influenced the old man-in counselling me to fly from the abode of crime, he best pointed to an act that would prove the sincerity of my penitence-and my escape-could it be accomplished—might lead to his own deliverance.

“Circumstances favoured my flight-I was not missed for half an hour-and the disabled bandit, who, in the absence of his companions, alone remained in charge of the encampment, was unequal to pursuit. Favoured by fortune, I took the path which enabled me to evade the gang when returning in the morning, and at daybreak encountered a strong body of Neapolitan soldiers, who had been specially detached to exterminate a band whose recent audacity had spurred an indolent police to action.

"From me they learned the place where the travellers who had been carried off were secreted. Canêt and his friend Bardinetti had been anticipated in their intention of betraying their confederates-the tie that binds villany is loose-and the courier was a double traitor. The band had been denounced-a plan matured to secure their arrest-and while the scoundrel chief and his confederate plotted the betrayal of their companions, they were themselves betrayed. The mountain haunt was so completely surprised and surrounded, that the whole of its occupants were secured. A short imprisonment was followed by trial and conviction-the men were garotted—the women transferred for life to a penitentiary.

"And did Canêt escape the fate of his less guilty companions? Yes -none can account for the conflicting feelings which influence a woman's conduct-I saved him! The day for his execution was named-none ever dreamed that mercy to such a criminal could be extended-and the hours of his existence were numbered. Suddenly-unaccountably-the memory of what he had once been to me returned-his falsehood, his villany were forgotten-I hurried to the duke-five years had neither obliterated his recollection of my person, nor abated his gratitude-I saw him-sued, and succeeded -a public pardon dared not be extended-but all-powerful influence permitted an escape. The great criminal evaded death, and the less underwent its penalty.

66 6 'Of my subsequent adventures, a narration would be tedious, and to tell you by what extraordinary circumstances I became a visiter to England, and the companion of Pauline, would now be irrelevant. subsequent career, after he escaped the garotte, I can conjecture only from the revelations we overheard. Doubtless the villanous art he had acquired in a Neapolitan prison, was turned to good account-and natural abilities enabled him to assume the character of a gentleman, and to procure an entrée into society, and au opportunity to plun

der the unwary. In Pauline he had an unscrupulous confederate-and his inimitable talent as a cheat, assisted by her personal attractions, no doubt effected the ruin of many an unsuspecting victim. The conversation we overheard proves that from the common results of criminal life Canêt and his companion were not exempted. My confessions have been sufficiently extensive for the purposes intended-you know the motives which actuate the vile associates-and consequently the extent of the danger that threatens. In marring their plans and saving you, I best attain the only object I live for-Revenge!' "As she spoke, the clock chimed.

"Ha!-time passes-and in a quarter of an hour I meet my honoured lord. By which of his numerous titles shall I designate him? Murderer-cheat-bandit-convict. No-no-these sound harshly. Jules Canêt ?-'tis a plebeian appellation-and so, Count d'Arlincourt, I shall attend you presently.'

"And, dear Carlotta, what course will you pursue?' I inquired.

"Effect your deliverance first. That is the mortal blow which dissolves the guilty compact,' was her cold reply, and then expose the villanous confederacy to each other. Ah! Pauline! you little dreamed that the secret passage that love devised should serve the purposes of hatred -or that he who deceived, and was in turn deceived, should, from your own lips, learn the full extent of your worthlessness! Hark! the chimes again! Count d'Arlincourt, I hasten to my meeting, and—my revenge!'

"She said, and quitted the apartment.""

A PEEP INTO THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

"How is the Exhibition this year?" wherever you go, the moment the academy opens its doors, this is the first question. We wish somebody would have the courage to answer, Pretty well, I thank you," without adding one word about last year, or the year before, or any other year but the present year of grace, 1845. People are always for judging the Exhibition, not by what it is, but by what it was on some former occasion. This is absurd. You judge of a picture by its intrinsic truth -the final test which is to settle its claims with posterity. Let every Exhibition stand or fall by itself. They cannot be properly compared with each other, unless as they afford evidence of the progress or decline of art; and in this respect their evidence is sometimes very far from being trustworthy.

The predominance of portraits in the present Exhibition seriously diminishes the popular interest of the gallery. But we have some consolation in thinking that if the artists have not been doing their best for the public, they have been doing their best for themselves. This is something in a country where neither the civil nor the ecclesiastical institutions afford much encouragement to the higher walks of art.

Of late there has certainly been a stir in high places, having for its object the cultivation of frescoes, cartoons, and encaustics for banqueting halls and summer-houses. Great differences of opinion exist as to the

ultimate effect these new styles (if they may be so designated) are likely to have upon English art-but this is not the place for discussing that branch of the subject. On the other hand, no difference seems to exist as to the effect which the prices set upon these novel and costly efforts are likely to have upon English artists. It is not too much to say, that the same amount of labour bestowed upon any other department-in portraits of the numerous families of the Browns, Joneses, and Robinsons, in ghosts of Hamlets, or Vicars of Wakefield-would have produced at least ten times the amount in money paid for these famous productions. The honour of painting under a royal commission is, we suppose, to be taken into the account; but, unfortunately, painters cannot live upon honour. We heartily wish they could. But until they shall have attained that enviable condition of spiritualisation, it is not unlikely that efforts of this description for the encouragement of art may be productive of a directly contrary result.

In touching upon this point, however, it would be an unpardonable injustice not to acknowledge the liberality and discrimination shown by Prince Albert in his recent purchases of pictures. In the Suffolk Street collection, he bought the only picture that was really worthy of such distinction-a picture by a comparatively unknown artist, Anthony; and in the Pall-Mall Gallery his royal highness's choice of the Gate of the Harem (by Danby) and the charming little picture of Hampton Court, must be accepted as a satisfactory proof of the purity of his taste, and of the independence with which he is wisely resolved to act upon it. Of course there must always be clamour where there is disappointment; and as his royal highness in none of these instances happened to select any of the old academicians, there have not been wanting sundry sneering criticisms upon his want of judgment. But this is the vulgar refuge of envy and detraction; and so long as his royal highness confers his patronage on such works as those to which we have referred-whether the artist be known or unknown, fashionable or obscure-he will render greater and more practical service to art in this country than the Academy itself, with all its pretence and exclusiveness, its partizanship and its jealousies, has ever yet manifested even a disposition to accomplish.

But all this time we feel as if we had been holding the reader's button on the steps of the Exhibition, while he is impatient to go in and see the pictures. And so we release him at once, and plunge into the crowd:a crushing darkening crowd, through which we must get glimpses as well as we can of the treasures that are hung so daintily on the walls up to the very ceiling. It is a hard matter to get a leisurely view of a picture through moving masses of bonnets, hats, cloaks, and shawls; yet to this trying ordeal must he be exposed who ventures at the opening of the Academy either for pleasure, which requires ease and time, or for criticism, which demands a still larger measure of silence and opportunity, to make a tour of these ill-constructed and worse-lighted rooms.

The first thing that strikes the eye on entering, is a strange blistering effect produced by certain lurid sheets of colour, without form or purpose, which literally dazzle you at every turn, so that it is impossible to recover the tone of repose necessary for the examination of the actual pictures of the Exhibition, until you have got fairly beyond the reach of their blinding influence. This is Mr. Turner, who has been forty years and upwards making pictures as fast as his hand could spatter his canvas,

who once enjoyed a high reputation for the beauty and truthfulness of his productions, and who now, in the rich evening of his days, seems to take delight in turning into flaring ridicule the art by which he has risen into fame and prosperity. We asked last year what was the meaning of this phantasmagoria of raw tints, these blood-red waters, this battering ram blazing up in the yellow skies, these fierce spasms of colour? It is monstrous to call these pictures-they resemble nothing in heaven, or earth, or in the waters under the earth; and have no more right to be placed on the walls of the Academy than so many specimens of roughcast or whitewash. To that question, which every body asks, and to which nobody replies, we now add another-Would the council of the Royal Academy admit such outrageous absurdities if they came from a new hand, or rather if they did not come from one of themselves? Only let some Jenkins or Simkins try the experiment, and we shall see whether the council are prepared to sanction, in reference to others, the aberration of pencil which they have thought fit to authenticate as art in the person of Mr. Turner. We presume they would indignantly reject the fellow as an impostor. Jenkins would be martyred on the spotbut with what face could they ever after give place to Mr. Turner? The experiment is worth trying; and if a willing Curtius-Jenkins can be found ready to sacrifice himself in the attempt to put Turner to shame, he might be sure of a handsome subscription from a grateful public for the rest of his life.

It is not alone that the glaring lights from Mr. Turner's canvas are offensive in themselves-we could bear that-but that they kill all the pictures in their neighbourhood. It may be assumed as a certainty, that every work placed near one of these furnaces is annihilated under the blaze. This is a fair ground of complaint. It places an instrument in the hands of the Hanging Committee by which they might ruin the reputation of any artist against whom they had a grudge, if Hanging Committees can be supposed capable of grudges or any other human weaknesses. In this point of view, Mr. Turner is a dangerous man, and ought to be suppressed. But if he must continue to work in this brimstone vein, he ought to have a small apartment to himself, where he could do no harm, and where his admirers could have undisturbed space to contemplate his glories. It might be called, after the manner of his own descriptive titles, "The Pandemonium; or, Ha! ha! What-you-willRoom."

In his contributions this year, Venice again rises up to the saffron clouds in streaks of crimson, under various aspects-such as Venice going to a ball, and Venice coming from a ball, the difference between which it is not very easy to determine, seeing that whether Venice goes or comes she is in exactly the same dizzy, draggling sputter. These views are described as being founded on some unknown MS. called the Fallacies of Hope, and undoubtedly the fallacies of hope were never more completely exemplified; for whoever hopes to extract any meaning from them will be thoroughly convinced, upon examination, that he never fell into a profounder fallacy in the whole course of his life. The other obscurities are called Whalers, for which we are referred in the catalogue to Beale's voyage, and to which all we can say is, in the words of old Polonius, "very like a whale!"

Turning from these curiosities of the brush, we find ourselves by a naJune.-VOL. LXXIV. NO. CCXCIV.

tural transition gazing upon the Aurora and Zephyr of Mr. Etty, a subject full of poetry-the frolic wind playing with the rosy dawn. We can understand these allegories in the lyrics of Milton, or Herrick, or Breton, where the picture is suggested by a few happy touches, and the filling up is left to the imagination. But when they come to be exposed in broad luscious flesh before the eyes, the charm vanishes, unless they are handled with consummate refinement. This piece is utterly deficient in airiness and delicacy. The composition is confused, and the faults of the drawing exaggerated by the premeditated carelessness of the artist. Two other pictures from the same prodigal pencil-Nos. 185 and 186 -are equally objectionable, scratchy, and coarse. A Nymph-No. 259 -is a fairer sample of Mr. Etty's peculiar style, and is to be specially commended for its rich harmony of colour; but the most successful is No. 109-Cupid interceding with his Mother for Psyche. This picture is a charming specimen of colour.

Mr. Roberts has two pictures: the Ruins of the Temple of Karnak in Upper Egypt-No. 34-and Jerusalem from the South-east-No. 405. The former is one of the noblest works of its class that has ever been hung on the walls of the Academy-a melting eastern sunset, exquisitely toned, shedding its golden light over a scene of great extent and variety. The latter fails in some measure from want of interest in the subject, which does not sufficiently animate the space it occupies. The composition is monotonous and, feeble; and by some unaccountable defect in the handling, the artist has missed his usual aerial perspective; the very sunshine is dull. We are always disappointed when we lack in these works that voluptuous tenderness of climate with which Mr. Roberts has rendered us all so familiar.

We were curious to see what Sir William Allan had done with Peter the Great teaching his Subjects the Art of Ship-building-No. 87-a capital subject for an essay on the maritime progress of nations, but, as it appeared to us, singularly hopeless for a picture. Sir William is not a conjuror, and cannot, therefore, be expected to turn prose into poetry with a hey, presto! pencil. The picture is even worse than might have been expected. Peter's "subjects" are here represented by half-a-dozen brigandish-looking young men, staring with unspeculative eyes at the youthful emperor, who seems to be delivering a lecture over a boat. But it is quite clear that Peter is either in a hurry to be off, or has a very theatrical way of showing his enthusiasm, for his attitude is on the half cock of a spring, as if he were about to slip out of the canvas, and leave the gaping population behind him. His figure is ludicrously finical, and wholly deficient in massiveness of character, strength of expression, and historical power. It is precisely the sort of Peter the Great we should look for at the Surrey or the Princess's, where emperors and conquerors are glorified in horse-boots, fringed opera-hats, and cork-screw ringlets. It is some comfort to know that the picture is going out of the country, for the catalogue tells us that it is the property of the present emperor. If his imperial majesty does not understand great heroes better than he seems to understand the Fine Arts-we are exceedingly sorry for him.

But it is pleasant to be able to add that Sir William makes ample amends for the great wrong he has done to Peter the Great by the wellimagined compliment he has paid to Nelson. The boarding of the San