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Thine all delights, and every Muse is thine:
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance!
Mid Gods of Greece and warriors of romance,
See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees
The new-found roll of old Mæonides;
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,
Peers Ovid's HOLY BOOK of Love's sweet smart!

The rest of the contents of the "Keepsake" may be mentioned more rapidly. Southey has several better short poems than he usually produces, especially one entitled "Lucy and her Bird;"—the author of The Roué," and the author of "Gilbert Earle," have each a piece of imaginative writing, and each is respectable; Luttrell has given some tolerable rhymes, but not much poetry;-Lord Porchester some very polished and elegant verses "To a Pearl ;"-Thomas Bayly rather an insipid story called "A Legend of Killarney ;"-Mrs Hemans a poem of a more vigorous kind than is common with her ;-Theodore Hook a spirited tale called "The Old Gentleman;❞—Sir James Mackintosh a classical and interesting paper entitled "Sketch of a Fragment of the History of the Nineteenth Century," which is occupied principally with an estimate of the character political, intellectual, and domestic, of the late Mr Canning; -Lockhart a very admirable specimen of a translation from the Norman French, called "The King, and the Minstrel of Ely ;"-and Lord Normanby a very carefully finished, and somewhat laboured tale" Clorinda,

or the Necklace of Pearl."

Scotchmen hold in all these Annuals. Without them, they certainly would not be what they are. Two of them are edited by Scotchmen-" The Anniversary," by Allan Cunningham, and "Friendship's Offering," by Thomas Pringle. Then look at the names which shine most conspicuously in their table of contents. Are they not Sir Walter Scott, Professor Wilson, J. G. Lockhart, James Hogg, Montgomery, the Rev. Edward Irving, Kennedy, Malcolm, Moir? The first four names on this list are in themselves a galaxy; and the rest have each a strong light of their own. In so far, then, as any of the Annuals is concerned, we may say with Iago," he who filches from me these good names, will make me poor indeed." Our Southron friends may perhaps discover an over degree of nationality in these observations; but they will hardly blame us that we are proud of men of whom the world is proud.

The poetry of the "Anniversary" is considerably superior to its prose, as was naturally to be expected from the habits of its editor. Of the latter the only pieces which seem worthy of mention are two ;-" The Cameronian Preacher's Tale," by Hogg, a story of strange and supernatural interest; "one of those terrible sermons which God preaches to mankind of blood unrighteously shed, and most wondrously avenged;" and told with all that unadorned strength of narrative, and clear intuitive perception of the best mode of treating those incidents that bear upon the superstitious part of our nature, which unquestionably make the Ettrick Shepherd the best inditer of a ghost story extant ;-and "A Tale of the Time of the Martyrs," by the celebrated Edward Irving, which, though not in any way very astonishing, possesses more vigour, polish, and, what is of still greater consequence, more intelligibleness, than his sermons, orations, or homilies.

There are a few other things from persons of inferior note, but it is unnecessary to particularize them. To the Editor, however, Mr F. M. Reynolds, we have a single observation to make. He has acted wisely in not pushing himself too obtrusively forward, and one or two of his contributions are clever; but we discover in his As we have already said, the poetry of the "Annistyle a tendency to occasional coarseness-we might per-versary" deserves more notice than the prose. There haps add vulgarity—which ought to have been most careis something curious in Edward Irving writing for an fully eschewed in a publication like the "Keepsake," Annual, and Cunningham has been fortunate in having and which, in truth, is the only circumstance that de- his work made the chosen vehicle for the preacher's tracts from the general elegance of the whole. The lucubrations; but far more fortunate is he in having work, however, take it for all in all," cannot fail to secured the only contribution with which Professor Wil be a favourite; and the enterprisi g spirit which has son has, through any channel of this kind, favoured induced the proprietor to expend upon it the enormous the public. Edderline's Dream" is the first canto sum of eleven thousand guineas, will not, we hope, go of a poem, which was at one time complete in six, but of which the other five have been most unfortunately lost, and we suspect there is some doubt whether they will ever be re-written. No one can read what has been

unrewarded.

has robbed him of the continuation and conclusion of a composition which opens so beautifully. We regret much that Professor Wilson's multifarious pursuits prevent him from indulging more frequently in that fine poetical vein he unquestionably possesses. There is in his style a richness of imagery, and a fresh unwearying enjoyment of all that is beautiful and sublime in nature, which are themselves sufficient to form the staple commodities of a poem that would delight the fancy and win the heart. Nothing can be more vivid and spirit-stirring than the following description of a fine summer morning:

The Anniversary; or, Poetry and Frose for 1829, edi-preserved, without deeply regretting the accident that ted by Allan Cunningham. John Sharp, London. NOT less splendid than the "Keepsake" in outward show, though perhaps slightly less perfect in some of the minutiae of elegance, the Anniversary" presents itself for the first time to the notice of the public. It appears to us, that of all the Annuals, this is the one which possesses peculiar claims upon the people of Scotland. It is edited by our countryman, Allan Cunningham—a man not more remarkable for his free, fresh genius, gushing out like one of his own mountain streams, and natural to him as the yellow broom is to his own hills, than for that artless simplicity of manner, and gentle urbanity of heart, which are ever the concomitants, and most commonly the leading characteristics, of true genius. He loves his country ardently, and he has not hesitated to breathe over the pages of his "Anniversary" a sentiment so dear to his heart. There is a Scottish feeling pervades the work, and wherever it is circulated, it will succeed in awakening a mingled respect and esteem for the "land of the mountain and the flood." Upon this subject we may, indeed, remark generally, that it is highly gratifying to observe the prominent place which the contributions of

*For some hi hly interesting details of the expense incurred in the publication of these Annuals, we refer our readers to a communication from London, which they will find in a subsequent column.

Hark! the martlet twittering by

The crevice, where her twittering brood
Beneath some shadowy wall-flower lie,
In the high air of solitude!
She alone, sky-loving bird,
In that lofty clime is heard;
But loftier far from cliff remote
Up springs the eagle, like a thought,
And poised in heaven's resplendent zone,
Gazes a thousand fathom down,
While his wild and fitful cry
Blends together sea and sky;
And a thousand songs, I trow,
From the waken'd world below,
Are ringing through the morning glow.

Music is there on the shore,
Softening sweet the billowy roar;
For hold and fair in every weather,
The seamews shrill now flock together,
Or, Wheeling off in lonely play,
Carry their pastimes far away,
To little isles and rocks of rest,
Scatter'd o'er the ocean's breast,

Where these glad creatures build their nest.
Now hymns are heard at every fountain,
Where the land birds trim their wings,
And boldly booming up the mountain,
Where the dewy heath-flower springs,
Upon the freshening gales of morn
Showers of headlong bees are borne,
Till far and wide with harp and horn
The balmy desert rings!

This the pensive lady knows,

So round her lovely frame she throws
The cloud-like float of her array,
And with a blessing and a prayer
She fixeth in her raven hair
The jewel that her lover gave,
The night before he cross'd the wave
To kingdoms far away!

Soft steps are winding down the stair,
And now beneath the morning air
Her breast breathes strong and free;
The sun in his prime glorious hour
Is up, and with a purple shower
Hath bathed the billowy sea!

Lo! morning's dewy hush divine
Hath calm'd the eyes of Edderline!
Shaded by the glooms that fall
From the old grey castle wall,

Or, from the glooms emerging bright,
Cloud-like walking through the light,
She sends the blessings of her smiles
O'er dancing waves and steadfast isles,
And, creature though she be of earth,
Heaven feels the beauty of her mirth.

Is it not to be regretted that in the present silence of the mightiest Lyres, he who can write thus, should so seldom awaken the music of his own?-Several things in the Editor's happiest manner, especially "The Magic Bridle," "The Mother Praying," and "The Blackberry Boy," "Three Inscriptions for the Caledonian Canal," by Southey,-a " Dramatic Scene," by Barry Cornwall, and "The Carle of Invertime," by Hogg, make up all the rest of the poetry that it is necessary to mention. We are sorry to be obliged to add, that there is a greater mixture of alloy in the "Anniversary,' than we could have wished, but we are well aware of the difficulties attendant upon a first effort; and doubt not that where there is so much promise, the improvement in subsequent years will be great. The embellishments, of which there are twenty, are very splendid; and it gives us much pleasure to be able to state that though the work has hardly yet been seen in Scotland, six or seven thousand copies have already been sold.

The Forget-me-Not, a Christmas or New Year's Present, edited by Frederick Shoberl, Esq. R. Ackermann, London.

To Ackermann, the publisher of the "Forget-me-Not," we owe the introduction of Annuals into this country; and it was in 1823 that the first" Forget-me-Not" appeared. It was joined next year by "Friendship's Offering," and in 1825, by the "Literary Souvenir." Till 1828, these, together with the "Amulet," which came out in 1826, kept the field to themselves, but subsequently a whole host, armed cap-a-pie, have rushed to the melee. The "Forget-me-Not" has never possessed the character of being entitled to very high consideration on the score of its literary pretensions, but it has always

how

been a pleasant book to look at, and to read,-light, airy, and elegant. It would scarcely be fair to expect that all the young ladies and gentlemen who keep Albums, and buy Annuals, should consent to the labour of exercising much thought in perusing what is written for their amusement by the numerous joint-stock literary companies of the day. If they can feast upon a sentimental love-story, it would be hard to insist on their swallowing Mount Caucasus ;-if their thirst for poetry is assuaged by a sonnet, it would be cruel to force them to inhale the whole Red Sea. Why should they not be allowed to live on in their own way ?-literary, without being particularly learned,-poetical, but not poets,— busy, but not industrious,-intelligible, but not intellectual. For them the "Forget-me-Not" is peculiarly fitted. It contains nothing decidedly weak, and nothing decidedly and conspicuously excellent. There are, ever, upwards of a hundred pieces in prose and verse, of which the best are "Eastern Apologues," by Hogg, and a comic poem, entitled, "Frolic in a Palace," by W. H. Harrison. One of the embellishments, too, of which there are fourteen, we must mention. It is the first,an engraving by Le Keux, from a painting by Martin, on the subject of the self-immolation of Marcus Curtius the Roman patriot. It is one of the noblest things we have seen in any of the Annuals, and contains within itself a world of poetry. Martin's conceptions are in general possessed of much sublimity, however he may fail in individual parts of the execution. In the present instance, the splendid temples, and pillars, and citadels, and towers of Rome are finely grouped, and gloriously canopied by the dark, lurid, thundery sky. Then the countless multitude of her affrighted inhabitants in the streets and open space that surround the yawning gulf which has been rent by the fury of the earthquake, and which, unless the gods be appeased, is about to desolate the whole city, admirably prepares the mind for the emotions excited by the figure upon which the eye principal. ly rests. It is Marcus Curtius, mounted on a magnificent white steed, which after being urged to its best speed has already leaped full upon the abyss, as if proud to die along with its rider. Curtius sits erect upon its back, his armour on,—his shield in one hand, and his arms extended and thrown upwards, as if, with an heroic smile upon his countenance, he blessed his country, and gladly for its sake looked his last upon the sky of Rome. The effect produced is such, that it is impossible to stop just at this point of time. imagination instinctively takes a prospective glance, and sees the brave knight fall down-down into the tremendous chasm,-hears the loud shriek of men who never shrieked before, and the screams of women whom the sight drives mad. The earthquake rolls away, but there is silence in the streets and squares of Rome.-This single engraving is more than worth the price of the "Forget-me-Not."

The

The Literary Souvenir, edited by Alaric A. Watts. Longman, Rees, Orme, & Co. London.

Under the superintendence of Alaric Watts, a scholar, maintained a high rank among publications of this a poet, and a man of taste-the "Souvenir" has always class, and we are happy to have it in our power to say, that the volume for 1829 is the best of the series which has yet appeared.

Among other attractions, it contains twelve highlyfinished and beautiful engravings, scarcely one of which, the Editor informs us, has cost less than a hundred guineas, and several from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and seventy guineas each. "The immense expense," he adds, "attendant upon the publication of a volume containing twelve such embellishments as are here given, an expense which has lately been increased by the unusual demand for the talent

t

and the "Manuscript found in a Madhouse," as a piece of graver and more impassioned writing, are our favourites, and are both by the author of " Pelham"-a novel evincing much talent, especially in the third volume. There are also one or two very successful Tales; and a good lively article by Barry Cornwall-a designation by which he is much better known than by his real name of Procter-entitled "A Chapter on Portraits."

employed in their production, can only be covered by a
sale which, to the ordinary observer, would appear to
promise a large and certain remuneration. When,
however, it is stated that a circulation of less than from
eight to nine thousand copies would entail a serious loss
upon its proprietors, it will readily be believed that
they have been incited to no ordinary exertions. Their
object has been to enable it to compete advantageously,
not merely with annual works published at a similar
price, but with others of higher pretensions, and of
nearly double its cost. It will be for the public to de-
termine, after a careful examination of their respective
merits, how far this object has been achieved." As a
portion of that public, we hesitate not to give it as our
opinion that the object has been achieved. The "Sou-
venir" is distinguished both by external elegance and
intellectual superiority. Several of the engravings have
never been surpassed. "The Sisters," from a painting
by Stephanhoff, is out of sight the most beautiful pro-
duction of that artist we ever saw. "Cleopatra, embark-
ing on the Cydnus," engraved by E. Goodall, is a vi-
sion of more then Eastern light and loveliness-most
soft and voluptuous, yet producing on the feelings, a
refining, not an enervating effect. "The Departure of
Mary Queen of Scots from France," is interesting at once
from its own excellence, and the nature of the subject.
"The Proposal" is inimitably engraved by Charles
Rolls; and the female figure possesses all that sweetness
and beauty which no one knows better how to give than
Leslie. The Portrait of Sir Walter Scott," by M.
J. Danforth, after Leslie, we consider very valuable,
and by far the best that has been yet engraved. It bears
a striking and favourable resemblance to the illustrious
Author of Waverley; and the only fault we can ob-
serve is, that the brow seems a good deal too high. One
would suppose that all the painters who have yet paint-lowing:-
ed likenesses of Sir Walter Scott, were thorough-paced
phrenologists, and being hardly able to understand

"How one small head can carry all he knows,"

they have invariably magnified it to the most unnatural proportions, and by the external developement have indicated a quantity of brain within, enough to have materially altered the centre of gravity of any ordinary man. "The Agreeable Surprise," engraved by H. Rolls, after J. Green, is perhaps on the whole the most delightful plate of all. There is a Persian splendour in the scenery, and a rich luxuriance in the figures, especially in that of the Royal lady writing on the sand

"With such a small, white, shining hand, You might have thought 'twas silver flowing," that the pleasant impression left upon the mind more than repays the cost of the "Souvenir." Delta has but feebly illustrated this delightful picture. Amid so much beauty, there is only one failure. What was Westall about when he drew; and when had Charles Rolls so much time to spare as to engrave; and what had become of Alaric Watts's taste when he inserted, a thing altogether so unworthy as that entitled "She never told her love?" A poor, meagre, plain, pining girl, lying on the grass, and looking more as if her stomach was out of order than her heart, can hardly be an object of interest even to the most sentimental of all sentimentalists. No wonder "she never told her love," for we cannot see what right she had ever to fall in love at all. Nature evidently intended her for an old maid, and as an old maid she must inevitably live and die, notwithstanding the extraordinary degree of patronage which Messrs Westall and Rolls have been good enough to bestow upon her.

On the literary part of the "Souvenir," or what is technically termed the letter-press, we could willingly descant at some length; but we must "bridle in our struggling muse with pain." Of the prose articles, "Too handsome for any thing," as a lighter sketch,

The poetry is supplied principally by Alaric Watts himself, Barry Cornwall, T. K. Hervey, Malcolm, and Mrs Hemans. Watts is always graceful, and often vigorous, as in his "King Pedro's Revenge," in the volume before us. Barry Cornwall is unequal, and has too much mannerism, but nevertheless in his better moods possesses much genuine feeling, and displays a very fair proportion of the divinus afflatus; T. K. Hervey has not been enjoying good health, and his improvement has consequently scarcely kept pace with his early promise, yet at times he produces stanzas full of genius; Malcolm's reputation, despite the retiring modesty that courts the shade too much, is steadily increasing, and the effusions of his gentle and pensive muse must always please; Mrs Hemans has a style of her own, pregnant with all that is feminine and chastely dignified, but of that nature which is felt to be somewhat monotonous, when subjected to frequent repetitions; and though we should be sorry to miss the soft whisperings of her lute, we are inclined to advise, for her own sake, that for a time she should allow its music to slumber. Her name has become too hackneyed in the public ear, and her verses too familiar to the public eye; like the waters of the fountain of Arethusa, she should disappear for a while, to re-emerge with a clearer and a stronger gush of song.-As we wish to lay before our readers one of the best poems in the "Souvenir," we select the fol

AN ADIEU.

By T. K. Hervey.

ADIEU! the chain is shiver'd now

That link'd my heart and hopes with thine.
I leave thee to thy broken vow-

Thy dreams will often be of mine;
And tears-be those the only tears
Thine eyes may ever learn to weep,
Shall tell the thoughts to other years
Thy spirit cannot choose but keep!

Adieu!

Adieu! enjoy thy pleasant hours,
Find other hearts-to fling away!
Thy life is in its time of flowers,
Gather May-garlands while 'tis May!
Oh! till the dreary day draws in,

And winter settles round thy heart,
And memory's phantom forms begin
To take a wounded spirit's part,
Adieu!

Adieu! thy beauty is the bow
That kept the tempest from thy sky,
And all too bright upon thy brow,

The sigh which must so surely die.
These drops-the last for thee!—are shed,
To think that there will be not one
To love thee when its light is fled,

To shield thee when the storm comes on!
Adieu!

Adieu! Oh! wild and worthless all,

The heart that wakes this last farewell!
Why-for a thing like thee-should fall
My harpings like a passing bell!
Why should my soul and song be sad!
Away!-I fling thee from my heart
Back to the selfish and the bad,
With whom thou hast thy fitter part!
Adieu !

Adieu! and may thy dreams of me
Be poison in thy brain and breast,

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The Amulet, or Christian and Literary Remembrancer, edited by S. C. Hall. Westley and Davis, and Wightman and Cramp.

MINGLING moral and religious instruction with literary amusement, the "Amulet" aims at being distinguished by a peculiar character of its own. The design is highly praiseworthy; and we only regret that the editor, Mr S. C. Hall, though he has mustered a considerable phalanx of Christian contributors, has not been able to inspire them all with that degree of eloquence and talent which the goodness of their intentions made it particularly desirable they should possess. The spirit, however, of meek and unobtrusive piety which pervades the pages of the Amulet," will be felt and valued by those to whom all that is sacred is dear. Nor has embellishment been forgotten. On the contrary, few of its contemporaries surpass the "Amulet" in this respect. "The Spanish Flower Girl," the "Wandering Minstrels of Italy," the "Rose of Castle Howard,' "The Mountain Daisy," the " Fisherman leaving Home," and "The Temple of Victory," are all beautiful specimens of art:

"Go forth, my little book! pursue thy way;
Go forth, and please the gentle and the good."

Friendship's Offering; a Literary Album, and Annual Remembrancer. Smith, Elder and Co. London. AMIDST the crowd of Annuals, which are all a little too much like German double-gangers, any thing that suggests the remotest idea of variety is agreeable. One thing, therefore, which we like about " Friendship's Offering" is, that while its dark-blue and handsomely figured binding is sufficiently elegant, it is at the same time somewhat more manly and substantial than the very exquisite and finical though amiable foppery, for which its brethren are, in this respect, so remarkable. The outside of the volume induces us to hope that the flowers within will possess less of a hothouse, or rather hot-pressed species of beauty, than they do elsewhere, that they will not be quite so languid in the exhaling richness of their own perfumes. But, alas! it is only in the binding that Friendship's Offering" differs from any other Annual. On the whole, its engravings are inferior to those of the works we have already noticed; and with two exceptions-" Hours of Innocence," and "La Fiancée de Marques," we cannot give much commendation to any of them.

There is a sensible paper on "Contradiction," by the author of "May You Like It," a clever "Scottish Traditionary Tale," containing much graphic writing, and some powerful situations, by the author of "The Anatomy of Drunkenness," who assumes the somewhat unaccountable signature of "The Modern Pythagorean," and a very fair Irish story, with rather a trite plot, by Banim, author of "Tales of the O'Hara Family." The poetry taken en masse is of that perplexingly respectable kind, which is more teasing to a critic than positive inanity. Montgomery writes about Albums-a subject which, with him, seems to be inexhaustible; he has at least two dozen poems scattered through the Annuals, either taken from, or meant to be transferred to, blank paper books. How old is Montgomery? There is something childish in this perpetual babbling to young ladies at boarding-schools, by one, too, who can do so much better things. Then come the dii minorum gentium, who lucubrate upon such topics as the following;-"Love and

Sorrow," by the late Henry Neele,-"Spring," "Summer," "Autumn," and "Winter," by Mary Howitt,"Nature," by Miss Jeffrey,-"The Wild Bee," by Thomas Gent," Constancy," by C. Redding, Esq."Memory," by John Fairbairn, Esq.-" Sonnet," by Richard Howitt," The First Kiss of Love." by J. A. St John, and last and least, "The Wren," by John Clare. Genius itself could make nothing of subjects, or rather of no subjects, like these. But the character of the mind prompts the subject, and when that is drivelling, the inference is evident. There are a few green spots, however, in this desert of mediocrity. Mr Pringle, the Editor, has contributed a sweet and classical poem, entitled, "Glen Lynden," which, without boasting of any high pretensions, is read with pleasure, and amply entitles him to the merit modestly claimed in the following verse:

"No lofty theme I meditate: To me

To soar mid clouds and storms hath not been given,
Or through the gates of dread and mystery,
To gaze like those dark spirits who have striven
To rend the veil that severs earth from Heaven;
For I have loved with simple hearts to dwell,
That ne'er to doubt's forbidden springs were driven,
But lived sequester'd in life's lowly dell,
And drank the untroubled stream from inspiration's well."

In a similar style, simple and natural, there is a sonnet, entitled, "The Ballad Singer," by A. Balfour, Esq. author of "Contemplation," and other poems. But some of the most spirited things in the volume, are by Messrs Kennedy and Motherwell,-the first already well known, and rapidly rising, we think, to fame,and the latter, not quite so well known as he ought to be, for his poetical productions are often marked by a bold freshness of thought and great originality.

We have now said as much of "Friendship's Offering" as we think it deserves.

The Winter's Wreath; a Collection of Original Picces in Prose and Verse. George Smith, Liverpool. "ANOTHER yet!-a seventh!" One novelty, however, is, that it is published at Liverpool; and another, that it contains an engraving, very well executed, by Lizars of Edinburgh. But its embellishments, compared with those of others, sink rather below par; and it boasts only of four contributors of any note,-Mrs Hemans, Miss Mitford, Montgomery, and Roscoe, all of whom seem to have sent their poorest pieces. The other articles are supplied by anonymous writers, and some of them are sufficiently raw. But it would be wrong to pass over in silence the only prose paper that particularly interested us-" A journey up the Mississippi," by J. J. Audubon, whom many of our Edinburgh readers, at least, will remember with interest as the American naturalist, who exhibited here so beautiful a collection of drawings-the labour of nearly his whole life-lonely and peculiar as that had been, among the great lakes and forests of the New World. The narrative of his expedition up the Mississippi is written with much liveliness, and it is not unlikely that we may take an early opportunity of transferring to our columns a few of its most amusing details.

The Bijou, an Annual of Literature and the Arts. W. Pickering, London.

WE are disposed to think very favourably of the "Bijou." It has a sustained and rather dignified character, which pleases us. There is about it less of the tinsel and superficiality of the mere passing fashion of the day. The very embellishments have a smack of the racy vigour of antiquity. There is a fine blue "Autumnal Evening," by Claude,-an interesting picture of "The Family of Sir Thomas More," excellently group

ed by Holbein, and a very admirable " Diana of Poictiers," by Primatticcio. Nor should our own Sir Thomas Lawrence be forgotten, who has supplied the engraver with two noble portraits,-nor Turner's beautiful view of Mont Blanc,-nor Stephanhoff's spirited "Interview between King Charles the Second, and Sir Henry Lee," a subject taken from "Woodstock." The prose and verse are in good keeping with these decidedly superior embellishments; and if the Editor has not been able to muster quite so numerous a list of celebrated names as some of his rivals, he has made a more judicious selection from his anonymous materials.

The Gem; a Literary Album. Edited by T. Hood, Esq. W. Marshall, London.

THOMAS HOOD, the Editor of the "Gem," has the reputation of being the most consummate punster in England. We confess we do not think the distinction a very enviable one,-the more especially as we know that Hood might, if he chose, easily obtain a higher species of fame. But seeing that he is a punster, and that he glories in being so, we had certainly hoped for something a little new in the "Gem," at least in so far as punning is new. Even here we have been disap. pointed. The Gem" is nothing else but a book which belongs to the general species described by the term Annual. One short poem, and a sentence or two in the preface, comprise all the puns in the volume. The following passage contains the best of these. "To Sir Walter Scott-not merely a literary feather in my cap, but a whole plume of them-I owe, and with the hand of my heart acknowledge, a deep obligation: a poem from his pen, is likely to confer on the book that contains it, if not perpetuity, at least a very Old Mortality." The contribution alluded to from Sir Walter, which is a poem entitled "The Death of Keeldar," and another still finer poem of a graver and darker description by Thomas Hood himself, called "The Dream of Eugene Aram," are unquestionably the two most interesting articles in the "Gem." "The Dream of Eugene Aram" is one of the most striking and highly talented productions we have met with in any of the Annuals, and its length alone prevents us from extracting it. Hood should pun less, and dream more. There is a good deal of trash in the "Gem," and, what is stranger, trash written by clever men. From Hartley Coleridge, however, who is not sufficiently known in this part of the island, but who is his father's son every inch, we have two sweet little things.

There is not much prose worth reading in the "Gem." The embellishments, which are fifteen in number, are good.

THE JUVENILE ANNUALS.

Of these there are four,-" The Christmas Box," 99 "The New "The Juvenile Forget-me-Not,' Year's Gift," and "The Juvenile Keepsake." The "Christmas Box," edited by Crofton Croker, is more adapted for boys than girls; the "Juvenile Forget-meNot," edited by Mrs S. C. Hall, more for girls than boys; the "New Year's Gift," edited by Mrs Alaric Watts, for either; and the "Juvenile Keepsake" for neither. The most interesting feature in the "Christmas Box" is a tale of nearly fifty pages by Miss Edgeworth; there is a good deal of mediocrity in the other contributions, and, what is more unfortunate, not much improvement to be derived from them by young readers. The Juvenile Forget-me-Not," on the other hand, abounds in entertaining and instructive stories, excellently adapted to the capacity of youth. The "New Year's Gift" is scarcely inferior, though perhaps a little less in keeping with its object. The "Juvenile Keepsake" is the most tasteful and elegant in its embellish

ments of the whole four; but it does not at all suit its name, for there is very little additional juvenility to be discovered in it than may be found in any of the Annuals intended for children of a larger growth. We conceive that after the age of fourteen every body is entitled to peruse these Albums for big people; but as there is a pretty numerous portion of the reading public, whose years vary from five to thirteen, we approve of books being got up for them,-only, when this is their avowed purpose, it ought not to be lost sight of. Any of these volumes, however, are better Christmas presents than whips, tops, or dolls-whether of wood or wax.

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FROM the review we have now taken of all the fair array of stars that come twinkling forth into the literary firmament at this season, it will appear evident that some must sooner or later "" pale their ineffectual fires" in the stronger light of more brilliant luminaries. Less metaphorically, it is impossible that more than one-half of the Annuals can pay, and we therefore think that the sooner several of them retire from the field the better. Taking both their embellishments and literary contents into consideration, we are disposed to class them in the following order :-First, "The Keepsake ;” second and Souvenir," or the third, "The Anniversary" and " "Souvenir" and "Anniversary;" we think the comparative merits of both are nearly balanced; fourth, "The Bijou ;" fifth, "The Amulet;" sixth, The Forget-me-Not;" seventh, "The Gem;" eighth, Friendship's Offering;" and ninth, "The Winter's Wreath." Of the Annuals for children, we put Juvenile Forget-me-Not" first; "The New Year's Gift" second; The Christmas Box" third; and "The Juvenile Keepsake" fourth. We leave it to the good sense of the editors, proprietors, and publishers, to discover which of all these ought to die natural deaths before the year 1830. There is one suggestion, however, we would make: Why should all the Annuals come out exactly at the same time? Will nobody purchase a pretty book except between the fifteenth of November and the first of January? Are presents made in this country only once in the year? If we read beside our December fires, do we turn away from all the delights of literature under a July sun? If we have a "Winter's Wreath" when there is not a flower to be had, why should we not be indulged in a "Summer's Wreath" when all the air is We see no reason why a breathing of their odours? midsummer Annual for the gay and lovely of the land, scattered over their ancestral domains, "the stately homes of England," or embowered in their rural cottages, or congregated in merry coteries by old ocean's shore,we see no reason whatever why such an Annual should not be extensively bought, and be a highly lucrative speculation. The idea is probably worth the cogitations of some London bibliopole.

MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE.

A LETTER FROM YARROW.

The Ettrick Shepherd to the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal.

MR JOURNALIST,

A GLAD man was I last night when your Prospectus was put into my hand, particularly at reading your announcement of" the strictest impartiality, which will If he stick give way to no private interests whatever." by that resolution, thought I, I shall be a contributor to any extent he pleases. For do you know, sir, it is a literal fact that I have never had any thing ado with one periodical work in which I did not find the editors devoted to a party, not only in politics, which is allowable, but in literature. Yes, sir, every one of them have a party in literature, which they laud and support through

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