I went into the Water-colour Exhibition at Charing-cross; there I heard two artists complimenting each other, while their hearts were bursting with mutual envy. There, too, I found a mild, modest-looking lady, listening to the bewitching nothings of her husband's particular friend; and I knew, as I saw her frown and abruptly turn away from him with every appearance of real indignation, that she had at that very moment mentally resolved to elope with him the following night. In Harding's shop I found authors congregated "to laugh the sultry hours away," each watching to catch his neighbour's weak point, and make it subject matter of mirth in his evening's conversation. I saw a viscount help his father out of his carriage with every mark of duty and veneration, and knew that he was actually languishing for the earldom and estates of the venerable parent of whose health he was apparently taking so much care. At Howell and James's I saw more than I could tell, if I had ten times the space afforded me that I have; and I concluded my tour by dropping in at the National Gallery, where the ladies and gentlemen seemed to prefer nature to art, and were actively employed in looking at the pictures, and thinking of themselves. Oh! it was a strange time then, when every man's heart was open to me, and I could sit, and see, and hear, all that was going on, and know the workings of the inmost feelings of my associates; however, I must not detain the reader with reflections. * * * * * Clorinda, or the Necklace of Pearl, is an intensely interesting tale by Lord Normanby, with a most effective illustration by Heath. But the prose of the "Keepsake" is decidedly superior to the _poetry_, notwithstanding the high names in the latter list. Mr. Moore's contribution is, however, only sixteen lines. The poetical pieces consist chiefly of fragments or "scraps"--among which those on Italy, by Lord Morpeth; and three by Shelley, are very beautiful. Our specimen is-- THE VICTIM BRIDE. _BY W.H. HARRISON._ I saw her in her summer bow'r, and oh! upon my sight Methought there never beam'd a form more beautiful and bright! So young, so fair, she seem'd as one of those aerial things That live but in the poet's high and wild imaginings; Or like those forms we meet in dreams from which we wake, and weep That earth has no creation like the figments of our sleep. Her parent--loved not he his child above all earthly things! As traders love the merchandize from which their profit springs: Old age came by, with tott'ring step, and, for the sordid gold With which the dotard urged his suit, the maiden's peace was sold And thus (for oh! her sire's stern heart was steel'd against her pray'r) The hand he ne'er had gain'd from love, he won from her despair.