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their vacant places ?” Looking around, as we have for contempt for many of the littlenesses and absurdities of some time been accustomed to do, with a shrewd and ob- artificial man. We do not look on this as indicating a servant eye on the aspirants of the present day—on the morbid state of feeling, but rather as evincing that higher young men literary-we are free to confess, that, amidst tone of mind by which superior natures are often thrown the multitude, we find few in whom there seems to be a back upon themselves, finding among the hurrying crowd promise of high things. Yet we believe that we could no sympathy with their own more lofty aspirations. at this moment lay our hand upon the heads of a small “ The Arrow and the Rose” is founded on the tradibut worthy band of kindred spirits, who, in the course tional story of the love of Henry of Navarre, when Prince of ten or fifteen years, will stand in the same relation to of Bearne, and only sixteen years old, for Fleurette, a the republic of letters, as that in which the best of our gardener's daughter. M. De Jouy, who has narrated living authors now find themselves. The old race of the circumstances of this attachment in choice French, big-wigs will have passed away, and a newer race will remarks of the heroine of tbe tale,-“ Fleurette est la succeed ;-William Kennedy will be one of them. seule des maitresses de Henri IV. qui l'ait aimé comme

We come to this conclusion, because we see and know il meritait de l'être, la seule qui lui fut fidèle, qu'il pût that Kennedy's mind is as yet only marching on towards avouer sans rougir; mais elle ne fut pas présentée ; elle its strength, and that its best efforts are still before it. n'eut pas le tabouret chez la reine, elle ne travailla pas The only works he has yet published, with the exception avec les ministres et avec le confesseur, elle ne donna à la of a good many contributions to different periodicals, are France ni princes batards, ni princes légitimes ; aussi a prose tale, told with much simplicity and power, en l'histoire n'en fait-elle pas mention." The incidents contitled “ My Early Days;" a volume of miscellaneous nected with the fate of poor Fleurette are very simple, poetry, which has been more than usually successful, and Mr Kennedy does not attempt to shroud that simunder the name of “Fitful Fancies ;" and now the book plicity in any extrinsic embellishinent. The young prince before us. Mr Kennedy is not yet thirty. He has, saw her first at a meeting of archers assembled by Charles therefore, done enough in securing for himself a position. IX. who loved the pastime of the bow, in the neighHe has ceased to be one of the crowd; he is before the bourhood of Nerac. We are introduced to Henry of eyes of those who read, and who watch the develope- Navarre in the following spirited passage, in which is ment of intellect. He has got into his hands the lever also explained the reason why the tale is called the “Arwbich Archimedes sighed for ;-to what extent he is to row and the Rose ;” move the world with it, must depend upon himself. It is pleasant, in these degenerate days, to open a vo

“ Against a pleasant chestnut-tree, lome of poetry with a feeling of confidence in its author,

A youth, not yet sixteen, was leaning; -with a feeling somewhat akin to that with which, a

A goodly bow he bad, though he

Inclined not to their archery, good many years ago, we used to open a similar volume,

But with a look of meaning, wben Byron, Moore, Campbell, and Scott, were in their

A wayward smile, just half subdued, glory. Now-a-days, the critic casts a green-and-yellow Apart the silvan pastime view'd. sort of look upon most rhythmical effusions, expecting

His careless cap, his garments grey, them to turn out as watery and muddy as the weakest

His fingers strong-his clear brown cheek, species of that sloppy drink which the London cockneys

And hair of hapless red, you'd say miscall “ brown stout." And rarely indeed is the heavy

A mountain lad did speak

A stripling of the Bearnese hills, presentiment found to be without cause. Of all the books

Rear'd hardy among rocks and rills; of metre that have been published within the last ten But bis rude garb became him wellyears, how many, think you, are destined to live?-how His gold locks, softly curling, tell ; many are remembered and spoken of even at the present His face with soul was eloquent, moment? We want some poet to “rouse us with a rat His features delicately blent ; tling peal of thunder,”—some bard who will be “ bloody,

And freely did his quick glance roam,

As one who felt himself at home, bold, and resolute." Kennedy has not done this yet, but

Where'er a warrior's wenpon gleam'd, the lightning sleeps in him, and already coruscates

Or the glad eye of beauty beam'd. round him. Nobody could peruse his “ Fitful Fancies” without seeing at once that he was a man to take an in

“ • What, loitering thus, hope of Guienne !" terest in, and that in all probability each successive work

Cried Guise's duke, advancing near he brought forth would add to his popularity. There is The boy's retreat,- A wondering van no flammery about him. He is full of strong feelings

Am I to find you here! and good conceptions. He thinks boldly, and, what is

The fiery steed brooks not the stall, much better, he thinks sincerely. The curse of much of

When hound and horn to greenwood call ;

And bowman bold will chafe to be the writing of the present day is, that it does not convey

Restrain'd from his artillerie, the real sentiments of the author, but has been got up

My liege impatient is to learn for show. It is too much like the scenery in a great Where bides the inerry Prince of Bearne.' theatre,--dazzling enough when seen at a distance, but totally incapable of standing close inspection. There has “ With solemn tone, and brow demure, been an overstraining after high-wrought effects,-a de

The blossom of Navarre replied termination to take the judgment and the fancy by sur

« Trust me, iny lord, you may assure prise,-a vast deal of glitter, a great quantity of spangles

My cousin, that with pride and brocade, but a total absence of manly simplicity and

I'd venture in the morning's sport, straightforward truth to nature.

Had I been perfected at Court

In forest lore. The little skill
Kennedy has not given way to these besetting sins among

I boast, was glean'd on woodland hill,
the minor poets of the day. Manliness and sincerity are From the wild hunters of our land,
the great characteristics of his style. He writes like a Who Paris modes ill understand.
man of good muscle ; he strikes his idea on the head at If you will countenance to-day
once, and proceeds to another. He is no admirer of or-

Trial of our provincial way, nament. He uses the good old language of England,

I'll take my chance among the rest, thrilling as it is, and full of home power, and his

And, bap what will, I'll do my best.' thoughts stand in’it strong and sturdy, like the bristles

“ Loud laugh'd the King, and cried, ' Agreed !' on the back of the fretted porcupine. Nor do we like

Ladies and lords laugh'd loudler still; our poet's compositions the less that there frequently runs The buoyant Prince, with feathery speed, through them a slight vein of satiro-a sort of subdued

Unbeeding, work'd his will.

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At a tall yeoman's boldest pace

appearance, and a gush of former tenderness, almost ab He measured o'er the shooting space;

literated, arises in his bosom. He entreats an interview, Planted an orange on a pole,

and she consents to meet him that evening at the fountain And, pointing, said, “ Behold the goal !'

in the castle garden. The night is dark and gusty, but Then stood, as practised archers stand, When the coy deer invites the hand.

Henry is true to his appointment. Fleurette, however, is

not there. He finds, instead, “ Back to his ear the shaft he drew,

« An Arrow and a wither'd Rose-
And gracefully, as he had been
Apollo's pupil-twang ! it flew

Well he that shaft and flower knows !"
Right to the mark, which, pierced core-through,
Fell sever'd on the green.

and a paper is attached, by wbich he is informed that High swell’d the plaudits of the crowd ;

Fleurette exists for him no longer, having drowned her. The marksman neither spoke nor bow'd,

self in the fountain. The tale concludes with Henry's But braced him for a second shot,

impassioned grief, and the poet's reflections. We abstain As was the custom of the play ;

from any farther quotations, because the author has selWhen Charles, in accents brief and hot,

dom interrupted the flow of his narrative by the introDesired him to give way;

duction of any merely poetical passages, and the composiAnd with small show of courtesy,

tion must therefore be read consecutively, in order to be Displaced him ere he could reply.

properly appreciated. It possesses numerous attractions, “ His generous cheek flush'd into flame

and will not only moisten the eye of many a gentle damTrembled from head to heel his frame;

sel, but will soften and improve the heart of even the Again he had his weapon ready,

most cynical. His eye concentred on the King, With manhood's mettle burning steady,

Whilst, however, we highly approve of the “ Arrow A fearful-looking thing!

and the Rose," we hesitate not to say that it is in the A knight, the amplest in the field,

minor poems, which occupy nearly two-thirds of the voServed the scared monarch for a shield,

lume, we discover the best proofs of Mr Kennedy's genius, Until his cousin's anger slept,

and see most prominently developed the peculiar characWhen from his portly screen he stept,

teristics of his mind. These smaller poems are full of And idly strove the mark to hit,

both vigour and tenderness, and, in all respects, worthy Passing a spear's length wide of it;

of the hopes which we entertain of their author. A few Muttering a ban on bow and quiver, He flung them both into the river ;

of them have already appeared in print, and have at difAnd straight departed from the scene,

ferent times been quoted, with the commendation they His diguity disturb'd by spleen.

deserved, in the Literary Journal. Among these we ob

serve, “ On Leaving Scotland," “ The Bold Lover," and “ France's lost laurel to regain,

Thirty Years.”

We shall now quote some verses, Guise shot and cleft the fruit in twain;

which come before the public, we believe, for the tirst Harry liked little to divide The garland with Parisian pride,

time. They are original and striking : And failing at the time to find

THE DIRGE OF THE LAST CONQUEROR. An orange suited to his mind,

“ The flag of battle on its staff hangs droopingBegg'd from a blushing country maid,

The thundering artillery is still A red rose on her bosom laid.

The war-horse pines, and, o'er his sabre stooping, Poor girl! it was not in her power

His rider grieves for his neglected skill: From such a youth to save the flower!

The chief who swept the ruddy tide of glory, The prize was his-triumphantly

The Conqueror! now only lives in story. He fix'd it on a neighbouring tree

Mourn, nations ! mourn! The godlike man's no more, His bonnet doff 'd, and clear'd his brow,

Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with While beauty whisper'd • Note him now !'

gore ! A moment, and the sweet rose shiver'd, Beneath the shaft that in it quiver'd.

“ Skies, baleful blue-harvests of hateful yellow

Bring sad assurance that he is not here; " He bore the arrow and its crest,

Where waved his plume the grape forgot to mellow, The wounded tower, to the fair,

He changed the pruning-hook into the spear,
The pressure of whose virgin breast

But peace and her dull train are fast returning,
It late seem'd proud to bear-

And so farewell to famine, blood, and burning!
Shrinking, she wish'd berself away,

Mourn, nations! mourn! The godlike man's no more, As the young Prince, with bearing gay

Who tired your roots, and quench'd your hearths with
And gallant speech, before her bent,
Like victor at a tournament-

• Damsel! accept again'-he said-
• With this steel stall, thy favourite, dead !

“ Hopes of the young and strong, they're all departed

Dishonour'd manhood tills the ungrateful farm; Unwept it perish'd- for there glows

Parents ! life's balm hath tled-now broken-hearted, On thy soft check a lovelier rose!'”

Deplore the fate that bids your sons disarm. The acquaintance which this little incident occasions o heavenly times! when your own gold was paying soon ripens into love. The young people pledge their Your gallant sons for being slain, or slaying !

Mvurn, nations ! mourn! The godlike man's no more, troth to each other; but Ilenry has too much to do in

Who tired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with the world to be left long among the gardens of Nerac.

gore ! He departs; but promises, as lovers always do, unchanging fidelity. The parents of Fleurette, ignorant of her “ Bud of our Island's virtue! thou art blighted, unhappy attachment, urge her to marry a suitor in her Since war's hot breath abroad hath ceased to blow; own rauk of life; but she refuses, for all her thoughts are Instead of clasbing swords, soft hearts are plighted, of her absent lord. Months elapse, but Henry comes not. Hands join'd, and household goblets made to flow; Hope sickens into despair. At length the heart-broken And for the ocean-roar of hostile meeting, maiden sees her lover passing one day, not far from her Land wafts to land Concord's ignoble greeting.

Mourn, nations ! mourn! The godlike man's no more, father's orchard ; but he is not alone ; a lady of the court

Who tired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with is with him, on whom he lavishes a thousand attentions.

gore! The rustling made among the branches, as Fleurette hastens home to hide her griets in her own cottage, attracts “ The apple-tree is on the rampart growing; Henry's attention. He sees her, is startled by her altered On the stern battlement the wall-flower blooms;

interesting and beautiful of poor R. A. Smith's melodies are adapted to his words. * That these words are not likely to dishonour the music to which they may be set, the following specimen will sufficiently show:


The stream that rollid blood-red is faintly glowing

With summer's rose, wbich its green banks perfumes; The helm that girt the brow of the undaunted, By peasant hands with garden shrubs is planted.

Mourn, nations! mourn! The godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with

gore ! “ Men wax obscurely old—the city sleeper

Starts not at horse-tramp, or deep bugle-horn ;
The grenadier consoles no lovely weeper,

Above her sullen kindred's bodies borne;
The people smile, and regal pride's declining,
Since round imperial brows the olive's twining.

Mourn, nations! mouru! The godlike man's no more,
Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with

gore !"

In a different style, and probably still more poetical, is

« I never more shall see thee,

Except as now I ser,
In musings of the midnight hour,

While fancy revels free!
I'll never hear thy welcoming,

Nor clasp thy thrilling hand,
Nor view thy home, if e'er again

I hail our common land.
“ I have thee full before me,

Thy mild, but mournful eye ;
And brow as fair as the cold moon

That hears thy secret sigh.
There are roses in thy window,

As when I last was there-
But where hath fled the matchless one,

Thy young cheek used to wear !
“ Though parted, maid—long parted,

And not to meet again,
Ope star hath ruled the fate of both,

And sear'd our hearts with paiu :
And though before the altar

I may not call thee bride,
Accept a token of the bond

By which we are allied.

“ I shall think of it ever !

The day when thy hand Waved adieu to the watcher,

Who wept on the strand.
My sole cherish'd treasure

Thy giddy bark bore,
As it flew like a fleet-pinion'd

Dove from the shore. « There was gladness in heaven,

And greenness on earth; The flowers flush'd with beauty,

The birds full of mirth; But the glory that Nature

Around me had shed, Was as red roses wreathing

The brow of the dead.
si At noon sail'd the vessel;

Till sunset I lay,
Giving sighs to the breezes,

And tears to the bay :
Till the Moon's silent footstep

Stole over the main,
To the cold-hearted city

I turn'd not again. “ And other days follow'd,

More tranquil than this, And both fondly promised

Renewal of bliss ; Still lives my affection

Still lovely art thou; And ne'er shall I call thee

Untrue to thy vow.

“ Well I know in thy bosom

Deceit could not be; 'Twas the world proved the traitor

To Mary and me.
It chain'd me far distant;

Thy chaplet it wove,
Which mock'd at the altar

The emblem of love.

“ Thongh thou now art another's,

Who shouldst have been mine; Yet be Heaven's best blessings

On thee and on thine!
If there's one whom I name not,

It is not from bate-
If he love thee, I blame not-

My feud be with fate.

« I've found for thee an emblem

Of what hath fall'n on me,
A leafless branch that lately crown'd

A lightning-stricken tree:
Torn from the pleasant stem it loved,

The severing scar alone
Remains to show that e'er it grew,

Where it for years had grown.
For pledges of affection,

I'll give thee faded flowers,
And thou shalt send me witber'd leaves

From Autumn's naked bowers.
The tears of untold bitterness

I'll drink, instead of wine,
Carousing to thy broken peace-

Do thou as much for mine!
“ Whene'er a passing funeral

Presents its dark array,
For thee, my maiden desolate!

I will not fail to pray.
Beneath the quiet coffin-lid,

'Twere better far to sleep,
Than live to nurse the scorpion Care

Within thy bosom deep.
« The midnight wind is grieving;

Its melancholy swell
Doth make it meet to bear to thee

Thy lover's last farewell :
Farewell ! pale child of hopelessness !

"Tis something still to know,
That he who cannot claim thy heart,

Partakes of all its wo.' To the other contents of the volume, Mr Kennedy has added nine “ Songs," all of which are excellent. He was not unknown to us as a song-writer. Some of the most

“ To tbat fate unrepining

I'd bend, if on high
It sprang from the wisdom

Which rules earth and sky; But the fond and the fitted

Are doom'd by a plan, Decreed by the pettiest

Passions of man.

" 'Mid the calm of this moment

I feel what I've lost,
And I cannot help grieving

O'er hopes rudely cross'd.
All the peace of the present

I'd give for the pain Of that parting, while dreaming

I'd clasp thee again !"

# We do not recollect whether we have ever mentioned in the Journal Smith's publication, entitled “ Select Melodies." We take this opportunity of recommending it earnestly to all lovers of fine music. There is not a commonplace or uninteresting air in the whole work; and there are a great number, belonging to many different nations. The musical world of Scotland sustained a loss in Smith's death, which has not yet been filled up.

We must now bring our remarks on Mr Kennedy's she is at all events a beautiful creation of flesh and blool, volume to a close. It keeps him pleasantly before us; and for one touch of her thrilling hand, we should walk it shows us that his mind is not dormant, but is proceed with right good will from Dan to Beersbeba. ing steadily to maturity; and it gives us excellent reason IV. The Canzonet, painted by Howard, engraved by to believe that the friendly prophecy we have ventured C. Rolls. A scene rich with wood and water, some !! concerning him will, ere long, be fulfilled.

where in the south of France; and in the foreground two We bave just two other remarks to make. In the first gentle ladies, the one singing, and the other accompanyplace, Messrs Smith and Elder have done every justice to ing her on the guitar, while a young and gallant knight, their author, by the elegant and recherché manner in which fit auditor for the fair songsters, listens delightedly. The they have got up the volume ; and, in the second place, maiden with the guitar is a likeness, we understand, of the gentleman to whom it is dedicated, William Mother- Howard's own daughter, and truly she is a daughter well, Esq. of Glasgow, is one for whose talents and genius worthy of even the best artist living. It strikes as, we have the highest esteem, and who, like most of the however, that her papa does not understand how the other eminent men in Scotland, would have long ago be- guitar is played, for the lady's right hand rests upon the come a contributor to the Literary Journal, were he not, strings most unscientifically. This is a fine picture as the Ettrick Shepherd expresses it, a “ dour deevil." nevertheless, and we have no doubt that the original, as

sisted by the warm and glowing colouring of Howard, is

peculiarly delightfull The Literary Souvenir for 1831. Edited by Alaric A.

V. The Destruction of Babeh painted by H. C. Slous, Watts. London. Longman, Rees, Orme, and Co.

engraved by Jeavons. This is an imitation of the style

of Martin, and though there is some power in the conNot one of all the editors of Annuals possesses a more ception, there is a tremendous huddle of all manner of refined taste in the matter of pictorial embellishment things in the execution. It would not be difficult to give than Alaric A. Watts. Hence the engravings in the a receipt for one of Martin's pictures—as, for iustance : Souvenir are commonly among the very best which the black skies, full of lightning ; an immense city, built apChristmas time produces. In the volume for 1831, there parently of pyramids and temples, and fights of steps are twelve illustrations, and we are happy to have it in tbat it would take a fortnight to walk up, and pillars of our power to say, that we do not think there is one of an most unearthly' magnitude, and huge sphynxes, elephants, inferior description. We shall go over them all, making and brazen serpents, standing on high and massy pedesa remark or two on each, for they are really so beautiful tals; and lastly, an uncountable concourse of people, all that we should like to interest our readers in them. rushing somewhere or other, but all hideously out of

I. Lady Georgiana Agar Ellis. This is the frontis- drawing, and much more like ants on a molehill, than piece, after Sir Thomas Lawrence, and for the engra- men and women. With these ingredients, any painter ving of this plate alone, by J. H. Watt, we have reason may compose à la Martin. to know that the sum of one hundred and fifty guineas VI. Robert Burns and his Highland Mary, painted by was paid. Besides being an exceedingly splendid work Edmonstone, engraved by Mitchell. To Scotsmen, this of art, full of the aerial clearness of the original, which is the sweetest and most interesting embellishment in the we have seen, it is the portrait of a very beautiful wo- volume. The scene is exactly such as Burns must have man, with a fair child on her lap. The composition is seen it himself when he prayed for a blessing on itexquisite, and the subject altogether is such as must interest every one with a truly English heart. We would

“ Ye rocks, and streams, and groves around

The castle o' Montgomery, suggest, that an engraving of Lawrence's admirable por

Green be your banks, and fair your flowers, trait of the Hon. Agar Ellis, the Lady Georgiana's bus

Your waters never drumly; band, would make an appropriate companion to that now There summer first unfold her robe, before us, and might perhaps be given in the Souvenir

And there the langest tarry, for 1832. We are not sure that Sir Thomas Lawrence For there I took the last farewell ever painted a more elaborately-finished picture than the

O'my dear Highland Mary!" one to which we allude. 11. The Sea-side Toilet, engraved by Portbury, from The painter bas placed the youthful poet and his love

under an old hawthorn tree. One arm encircles her a painting by Holmes. There is an immense deal of waist, one hand clasps bers, she is drawn genuly towards fresh and simple beauty in this. A little girl, between him; and, as he gazes on a face deeply laden with innothe age of five and seven, is seated on the beach, close by cent love, one perceives how strongly and truly Burns must the margin of the sea, busily wreathing some sea-flowers bave felt, when he wrote, in her hair. Her dog, with one of his fore paws on her knee, looks sagaciously up into her face, while the calm

“ The golden hours on angel wings bay behind, and the clear blue sky, are in tine keeping

Flew o'er me and my dearie; with the placid and happy face of the little nereid.

For dear to me as light and life
It is

Was my sweet Highland Mary.” one of those gentle and pleasant conceptions which it does a man good to see, so redolent of innocence, and the glad | And there flows the stream, and yonder stands the Castle buoyant spirit of youth.

of Montgomery, and softly falls the summer light on all III. The Maiden Astronomer, painted by W. Boxall, the landscape, and the hour that Barps is spending at this engraved by E. Finden. A ripe and glowing maiden, moment more than counterbalances all the sorrows of his reclining on her velvet couch, and looking forth from her life. He died an exciseman, but he had won in their terraced balcony on the dark depths of the starry sky; purity the deep affections of his Higbland Mary. We but, by the Coidian Venus ! it is a sad mistake to call shall love Edmonstone the more for this picture ; it is that maiden an astronomer. Little dreams she of astro- full of fine feeling. We have seen the original, which is nomy there as she lies in that costly gala-dress, with still more beautiful than the engraving, although the latthose pearls among her dark ringlets, and jewels rich and ter is excellent also. rare around her snowy neck ;- little is there of astronomy VII. The Narrative, painted by Stotbard, engrared in that soft voluptuous eye, and budding lip, and bosom by W. Greatbach. Our blessings on thee, old Stothard! that will scarcely be confued by the quaint boddice be- Full of mannerism though thou art, thou art, nevertheneath which it heaves. By our Lady! she looks more less, deeply imbued in thy happier efforts with the true like Juliet after the masquerade, full of warm thoughts spirit of Bocaccio. Thou hast introduced us here to a of Romeo, than a damsel intent upon the Pleiades, or goodly company seated on the flowery sward of a sloping anxious about the Georgium Sidus. Astronoıner or not, lawn--seven fair Italian dames, and three graceful cava

liers, listening to a tale of the ancient times, told by that It is a delightful privilege to sit by one's fire during pleasant donna in the centre of the circle. In the back the long nights of winter, and see before us the identical ground the eye wanders, among the green glades of a palaces, and high antiqne houses, and calm canals, and lovely wood, intersected with shade and sunshine, and merry gondolas, and quaint costumes, of Venice, affording, among its openings, rich pasture for the

“ That pleasant place of all festivity ;" antlered deer. Our blessings on thee, Stothard! Thou art full of southern fancies and graceful imaginations or else wander on, 'neath blue and brilliant skies, to

VIII. The Secret, painted by J. P. Davis, engraved Rome, the “ city of the soul,” among whose lofty ruins by F. Bacon. This is, ou the whole, the poorest illus- and overwhelming associations we come to feel with tration in the book. Yet it is by no means destitute of Byron, that merit. The girl who is telling the secret to her friend is

“ The beings of the mind are not of clay ; graceful and elegant. IX. A Magdalen, painted by Correggio, engraved by

Essentially immortal, they create W. H. Watt. A glorious picture ! suffused all over with

And multiply in us a brighter ray, the genius of one of the old masters of the art.

The ex

And more beloved existence." quisite drawing and harmonious outline of the female

It is a passing pleasant thing, when the wind whistles figure, recumbent in the foreground, must be seen, to be and the rain beats, to have only a dim consciousness of duly appreciated. One gazes on it as if it were a piece these external evils, while the splendour of the Landof painted music, taking the sense captive through the scape Annual glitters before our eyes, and carries our medium of the eye. Yet how sublimely simple is the fancy far away down the sunny side of the Alps and arrangement of the whole! Let the disciple of Martin

Apennines. turn from this noble work to any one of his own jumbles, and blush at its littleness ! . X. The Lady and the Wasp, painted by Chalon, en German ANNUALS.—Musenalmanach für das Jahr 1831. graved by Greatbach. This is an exceedingly clever pro

Herausgegeben von Amadeus Wendt. Zweiter Jahrdaction. The lady's terror at the approach of the Wasp,

gang. Mit Tiecks Bildniss. (Almanack of the Muses and the look of determination with which her waiting

for 1831. Second Annual Appearance. With a Porwoman lifts the fan to smite the poor insect to the ground,

trait of Tieck.) Leipzig. Weidmann. are admirably brought out. The details of the picture Minerva, Taschenbuch für das Jahr 1831. Zwei und are gorgeous, and finely tinished.

Zwanzigster ; oder, der neuen Folge, Erster Jahrgang. XI. Ghent, paiuted by F. Nash, engraved hy E. Good

Mit neun Kupfern. (Minerva : A Pocket-Book for all. A city scene, full of life and light. The canal-boat

the Year 1831. The Twenty-Second Annual Appearfrom Bruges, loaded with passengers of all descriptions, is

ance, or the First of the New Series. With nine Enjust arriving.

gravings.) Leipzig. Ernst Fleischer. XII. Trojan Fugitives, painted by George Jones, R. A., engraved by J. C. Edwards. In the foreground is a The German Annuals are certainly not so expensively beautiful group of Trojan women, looking towards their or, if the expression is more agreeable, so elegantly-got beloved city, which is in flames, whilst the moon, partly up as the English. To make amends, however, they are obscured by clouds and smoke, sheds a melancholy light always neat, though of less costly materials ; their literary over the disastrous scene. There is a great deal of poetry contents are, at the least, equal in merit to ours; and and true classical feeling in this picture.

their cheapness is such, that even the poorest of the eduOur remarks on the Illustrations having run to such cated classes can afford to put them to their best usea length, we must reserve for the present our account of make gifts of them at the household festival of Christmas, the letter-press, which consists, as usual, of contributions —a festival which, as some of our readers may yet refrom a variety of well-known pens.

member, we once attempted to describe to them.

As yet, only two of the German Annuals for next year The Landscape Annual for 1831: The Tourist in Italy; bave come to hand. There are many of them which we by Thomas Roscoe. Illustrated from Drawings by nia” sadly. Her poetry was not much worth, it is true.

can right gladly spare, but we miss our favourite “ Ura. s. Prout, Esq., F.S.A. London. Robert Jennings and The versification was luscious to an extreme, and the William Chaplin. 1831.

sense as dull as heart could wish—not unlike the favourite There is not among all the Annuals a fairer volume American dish,“ hominy and molasses ;" but, to make than this. It contains ten splendid views in Venice, amends, we had always a quantity of nervous prose, geten equally splendid in Rome, and six miscellaneous Ita- nerally telling some “ right merrye conceit” of the old lian scenes, making in all twenty-six beautiful embel- Italian artists, who seem to have been the most indefatilishments. The letter-press is worthy of the engravings. gable practical jokers the world has ever seen. It is in It does not consist of a mere hasty and superficial com- vain, however, that we spend time in this world sighing pilation from gazetteers and guide-books, but is carefully over what we have not. The wiser way is to make and classically written, containing much valuable in

merry with what we have. formation, mixed up with many picturesque descrip

First, then, the “ Almanack of the Muses" is the tions and amusing anecdotes and sketches. Among the youngest of a tribe, in which Göthe, Schiller, and the views, which, from the associations connected with greatest of their contemporaries, have not disdained to them, possess more than common interest, we are par- exercise their talents. It is a mirror of the poets of the ticularly delighted with those of Titian's House, the Ri- day such as our friend Hogg once contemplated ; but the alto, Lord Byron's Palace, St Mark's Place, the Forum, English Pegasus does not draw so well in harness as his Temple of Vesta and House of Rienzi, the Borghese German brother. This Annual (as its “ forbears before Palace, Rimini, the Sibyl's Temple at Tivoli, the Falls it” were) is an admirable barometer of the poetical atmoof Terni, and the Bridge of Augustus at Narni. It is sphere. It is rather low this year-indicative of dull, close difficult to say, whether the artist's pencil or the editor's weather. In Germany, as with us, the first fresh burst of a pen has done most justice to these scenes. They have, at mighty poetical eruption is over—what we now bear is all events, succeeded between them in twining still more not the tornado, but the dying wailings of the subsiding closely round, our dear heart's love that golden land“ of storm. Bürger, Voss, and the Stolbergs, rioted in the temples old, or altars new," standing alone, with nothing luxurious excess of physical strength and passion. Schil

ler, whose metaphysico-poetical nature, penetrating to “ Worthiest of God, the holy and the true.” the inmost recesses of intellect, was like the miner groping

like to it,

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