life, waved to and fro with a human likeness which yet seemed to mock humanity.
It represented the history of Fair Rosamond, one of those legends which take that hold on the popular imagination which love and crime usually do when stamped by death, and chronicled in the simple poetry which is the truest echo of the heart. In the first compartment, she was sitting with her maidens, binding up flowers; and, rude as were the outlines, and harsh the tints, the artist had well contrived to express the attention they were giving to their simple employment,—an attention that could only be given by the easily pleased, and the light-hearted. But a cavalier, who was gazing on them from the back-ground, seemed to indicate that one at least would soon find that there could be a deeper interest excited than that taken in binding a garland of lilies. In the next, that period had already arrived. A maiden was seated apart from her companion, the very flowers scattered neglected by her side; but it was obvious that idlesse—that first sweet symptom of love—was pleasanter than her graceful task; for the colour was rich upon her cheek, and the smile parted her scarce conscious lips. In the third, a cavalier was kneeling at her feet, while the downcast eye, and the yielded hand, betrayed that his suit was
