In the exterior of Mozart there was nothing remarkable; he was small in person, and had a very agreeable countenance, but it did not discover the greatness of his genius at the first glance. His eyes were tolerably large and well shaped, more heavy than fiery in the expression; when he was thin they were rather prominent. His sight was always quick and strong; he had an unsteady abstracted look, except when seated at the piano-forte, when the whole form of his visage was changed. His hands were small and beautiful, and he used them so softly and naturally upon the piano-forte, that the eye was no less delighted than the ear. It was surprising that he could grasp so much as he did in the bass. His head was too large in proportion to his body, but his hands and feet were in perfect symmetry, of which he was rather vain. The stunted growth of Mozart's body may have arisen from the early efforts of his mind; not, as some suppose, from want of exercise in childhood--for then he had much exercise--though at a later period the want of it may have been hurtful to him. Sophia, a sister-in-law of Mozart, who is still living, relates: "he was always good-humoured, but very abstracted, and in answering questions seemed always to be thinking of something else. Even in the morning when he washed his hands, he never stood still, but would walk up and down the room, sometimes striking one heel against the other; at dinner he would frequently make the ends of his napkin fast, and draw it backwards and forwards under his nose, seeming lost in meditation, and not in the least aware of what he did." He was fond of animals, and in his amusements delighted with any thing new; at one time of his life with riding, at another with billiards. * * * * * The Selector; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_. * * * * * A PORTRAIT, BY MISS LANDON. FROM "THE VENETIAN BRACELET, AND OTHER POEMS," (JUST PUBLISHED) "O No, sweet Lady, not to thee That set and chilling tone, By which the feelings on themselves So utterly are thrown, For mine has sprung upon my lips, Impatient to express The haunting charm of thy sweet voice And gentlest loveliness. A very fairy queen thou art, Whose only spells are on the heart. The garden it has many a flower, But only one for thee-- The early graced of Grecian song, The fragant myrtle tree; For it doth speak of happy love, The delicate, the true. If its pearl buds are fair like thee, They seem as fragile too; Likeness, not omens; for love's power Will watch his own most precious flower. Thou art not of that wilder race Upon the mountain side, Able alike the summer sun And winter blast to bide; But thou art of that gentle growth Which asks some loving eye To keep it in sweet guardianship, Or it must droop and die; Requiring equal love and care, Even more delicate than fair.