their vacant places?" Looking around, as we have for some time been accustomed to do, with a shrewd and observant eye on the aspirants of the present day-on the young men literary-we are free to confess, that, amidst the multitude, we find few in whom there seems to be a promise of high things. Yet we believe that we could at this moment lay our hand upon the heads of a small but worthy band of kindred spirits, who, in the course of ten or fifteen years, will stand in the same relation to the republic of letters, as that in which the best of our living authors now find themselves. The old race of big-wigs will have passed away, and a newer race will succeed ;-William Kennedy will be one of them.

We come to this conclusion, because we see and know that Kennedy's mind is as yet only marching on towards its strength, and that its best efforts are still before it. The only works he has yet published, with the exception of a good many contributions to different periodicals, are a prose tale, told with much simplicity and power, entitled "My Early Days;" a volume of miscellaneous poetry, which has been more than usually successful, under the name of "Fitful Fancies ;" and now the book before us. Mr Kennedy is not yet thirty. He has, therefore, done enough in securing for himself a position. He has ceased to be one of the crowd; he is before the eyes of those who read, and who watch the developement of intellect. He has got into his hands the lever which Archimedes sighed for ;-to what extent he is to move the world with it, must depend upon himself.

It is pleasant, in these degenerate days, to open a volume of poetry with a feeling of confidence in its author, -with a feeling somewhat akin to that with which, a good many years ago, we used to open a similar volume, when Byron, Moore, Campbell, and Scott, were in their glory. Now-a-days, the critic casts a green-and-yellow sort of look upon most rhythmical effusions, expecting them to turn out as watery and muddy as the weakest species of that sloppy drink which the London cockneys miscall" brown stout." And rarely indeed is the heavy 19 presentiment found to be without cause. Of all the books of metre that have been published within the last ten years, how many, think you, are destined to live?—how many are remembered and spoken of even at the present moment? We want some poet to "rouse us with a rattling peal of thunder,”"-some bard who will be "bloody, bold, and resolute." Kennedy has not done this yet, but the lightning sleeps in him, and already coruscates round him. Nobody could peruse his "Fitful Fancies" without seeing at once that he was a man to take an interest in, and that in all probability each successive work he brought forth would add to his popularity. There is no flummery about him. He is full of strong feelings and good conceptions. He thinks boldly, and, what is much better, he thinks sincerely. The curse of much of the writing of the present day is, that it does not convey the real sentiments of the author, but has been got up for show. It is too much like the scenery in a great theatre, dazzling enough when seen at a distance, but totally incapable of standing close inspection. There has been an overstraining after high-wrought effects,-a determination to take the judgment and the fancy by surprise, a vast deal of glitter, a great quantity of spangles and brocade, but a total absence of manly simplicity and straightforward truth to nature.

Kennedy has not given way to these besetting sins among the minor poets of the day. Manliness and sincerity are the great characteristics of his style. He writes like a man of good muscle; he strikes his idea on the head at once, and proceeds to another. He is no admirer of ornament. He uses the good old language of England,— thrilling as it is, and full of home power, and his thoughts stand in' it strong and sturdy, like the bristles on the back of the fretted porcupine. Nor do we like our poet's compositions the less that there frequently runs through them a slight vein of satire-a sort of subdued

contempt for many of the littlenesses and absurdities of artificial man. We do not look on this as indicating a morbid state of feeling, but rather as evincing that higher tone of mind by which superior natures are often thrown back upon themselves, finding among the hurrying crowd no sympathy with their own more lofty aspirations.

"The Arrow and the Rose" is founded on the traditional story of the love of Henry of Navarre, when Prince of Bearne, and only sixteen years old, for Fleurette, a gardener's daughter. M. De Jouy, who has narrated the circumstances of this attachment in choice French, remarks of the heroine of the tale,-" Fleurette est la seule des maitresses de Henri IV. qui l'ait aimé comme il meritait de l'être, la seule qui lui fut fidèle, qu'il pût avouer sans rougir; mais elle ne fut pas présentée; elle n'eut pas le tabouret chez la reine, elle ne travailla pas avec les ministres et avec le confesseur, elle ne donna à la France ni princes batards, ni princes légitimes; aussi l'histoire n'en fait-elle pas mention." The incidents connected with the fate of poor Fleurette are very simple, and Mr Kennedy does not attempt to shroud that simplicity in any extrinsic embellishment. The young prince saw her first at a meeting of archers assembled by Charles IX. who loved the pastime of the bow, in the neighbourhood of Nerac. We are introduced to Henry of Navarre in the following spirited passage, in which is also explained the reason why the tale is called the "Arrow and the Rose:"

"Against a pleasant chestnut-tree,

A youth, not yet sixteen, was leaning;
A goodly bow he had, though he
Inclined not to their archery,

But with a look of meaning,

A wayward smile, just half subdued,
Apart the silvan pastime view'd.
His careless cap, his garments grey,
His fingers strong-his clear brown cheek,
And hair of hapless red, you'd say

A mountain lad did speak-
A stripling of the Bearnese hills,
Rear'd hardy among rocks and rills;
But his rude garb became him well-
His gold locks, softly curling, fell;
His face with soul was eloquent,
His features delicately blent;
And freely did his quick glance roam,
As one who felt himself at home,
Where'er a warrior's weapon gleam'd,
Or the glad eye of beauty beam'd.

"What, loitering thus, hope of Guienne!'
Cried Guise's duke, advancing near
The boy's retreat,- A wondering man
Am I to find you here!

The fiery steed brooks not the stall,
When hound and horn to green wood call;
And bowman bold will chafe to be
Restrain'd from his artillerie.
My liege impatient is to learn
Where bides the merry Prince of Bearne.'

"With solemn tone, and brow demure,
The blossom of Navarre replied-
Trust me, my lord, you may assure
My cousin, that with pride
I'd venture in the morning's sport,
Had I been perfected at Court
In forest lore. The little skill

I boast, was glean'd on woodland hill,
From the wild hunters of our land,
Who Paris modes ill understand.
If you will countenance to-day
Trial of our provincial way,
I'll take my chance among the rest,
And, hap what will, I'll do my best.'

3

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:

We must now bring our remarks on Mr Kennedy's she is at all events a beautiful creation of flesh and blood, 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 Beersheba. ing steadily to maturity; and it gives us excellent reason to believe, that the friendly prophecy we have ventured concerning him will, ere long, be fulfilled.

We have just two other remarks to make. In the first place, Messrs Smith and Elder have done every justice to their author, by the elegant and recherché manner in which they have got up the volume; and, in the second place, the gentleman to whom it is dedicated, William Motherwell, Esq. of Glasgow, is one for whose talents and genius we have the highest esteem, and who, like most of the other eminent men in Scotland, would have long ago become a contributor to the Literary Journal, were be not, as the Ettrick Shepherd expresses it, a "dour deevil."

The Literary Souvenir for 1831. Edited by Alaric A. Watts. London. Longman, Rees, Orme, and Co. Not one of all the editors of Annuals possesses a more refined taste in the matter of pictorial embellishment than Alaric A. Watts. Hence the engravings in the Souvenir are commonly among the very best which the Christmas time produces. In the volume for 1831, there are twelve illustrations, and we are happy to have it in our power to say, that we do not think there is one of an inferior description. We shall go over them all, making a remark or two on each, for they are really so beautiful that we should like to interest our readers in them.

IV. The Canzonet, painted by Howard, engraved by C. Rolls. A scene rich with wood and water, somewhere in the south of France; and in the foreground two gentle ladies, the one singing, and the other accompanying her on the guitar, while a young and gallant knight, fit auditor for the fair songsters, listens delightedly. The maiden with the guitar is a likeness, we understand, of Howard's own daughter, and truly she is a daughter worthy of even the best artist living. It strikes us, however, that her papa does not understand how the guitar is played, for the lady's right hand rests upon the strings most unscientifically. This is a fine picture nevertheless, and we have no doubt that the original, assisted by the warm and glowing colouring of Howard, is peculiarly delightfull

V. The Destruction of Babel, painted by H. C. Slous, engraved by Jeavons. This is an imitation of the style of Martin, and though there is some power in the conception, there is a tremendous huddle of all manner of things in the execution. It would not be difficult to give a receipt for one of Martin's pictures—as, for instance: black skies, full of lightning; an immense city, built apparently of pyramids and temples, and flights of steps that it would take a fortnight to walk up, and pillars of most unearthly magnitude, and huge sphynxes, elephants, and brazen serpents, standing on high and massy pedestals; and lastly, an uncountable concourse of people, all rushing somewhere or other, but all hideously out of

men and women. With these ingredients, any painter may compose à la Martin.

VI. Robert Burns and his Highland Mary, painted by Edmonstone, engraved by Mitchell. To Scotsmen, this is the sweetest and most interesting embellishment in the volume. The scene is exactly such as Burns must have seen it himself when he prayed for a blessing on it—

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 engraving of this plate alone, by J. H. Watt, we have reason to know that the sum of one hundred and fifty guineas was paid. Besides being an exceedingly splendid work of art, full of the aerial clearness of the original, which we have seen, it is the portrait of a very beautiful woman, with a fair child on her lap. The composition is exquisite, and the subject altogether is such as must interest every one with a truly English heart. We would suggest, that an engraving of Lawrence's admirable portrait of the Hon. Agar Ellis, the Lady Georgiana's busband, would make an appropriate companion to that now before us, and might perhaps be given in the Souvenir for 1832. We are not sure that Sir Thomas Lawrence ever painted a more elaborately-finished picture than the one to which we allude.

II. The Sea-side Toilet, engraved by Portbury, from a painting by Holmes. There is an immense deal of fresh and simple beauty in this. A little girl, between the age of five and seven, is seated on the beach, close by the margin of the sea, busily wreathing some sea-flowers in her hair. Her dog, with one of his fore paws on her knee, looks sagaciously up into her face, while the calm bay behind, and the clear blue sky, are in fine keeping with the placid and happy face of the little nereid. one of those gentle and pleasant conceptions which it does a man good to see, so redolent of innocence, and the glad buoyant spirit of youth.

It is

III. The Maiden Astronomer, painted by W. Boxall, engraved by E. Finden. A ripe and glowing maiden, reclining on her velvet couch, and looking forth from her terraced balcony on the dark depths of the starry sky; but, by the Chidian Venus! it is a sad mistake to call that maiden an astronomer. Little dreams she of astronomy there as she lies in that costly gala-dress, with those pearls among her dark ringlets, and jewels rich and rare around her snowy neck ;-little is there of astronomy in that soft voluptuous eye, and budding lip, and bosom that will scarcely be confined by the quaint boddice beneath which it heaves. By our Lady! she looks more like Juliet after the masquerade, full of warm thoughts of Romeo, than a damsel intent upon the Pleiades, or anxious about the Georgium Sidus. Astronomer or not,

“Ye rocks, and streams, and groves around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your banks, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumly;
There summer first unfold her robe,
And there the langest tarry,
For there I took the last farewell

O' my dear Highland Mary!"

The painter has placed the youthful poet and his love
under an old hawthorn tree. One arm encircles her
waist, one hand clasps hers, she is drawn gently towards
him; and, as he gazes on a face deeply laden with inno-
cent love, one perceives how strongly and truly Burns must
have felt, when he wrote,

"The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary."

And there flows the stream, and yonder stands the Castle
of Montgomery, and softly falls the summer light on all
the landscape, and the hour that Burns is spending at this
moment more than counterbalances all the sorrows of his
life. He died an exciseman, but he had won in their
purity the deep affections of his Highland Mary. We
shall love Edmonstone the more for this picture; it is
full of fine feeling. We have seen the original, which is
still more beautiful than the engraving, although the lat-
ter is excellent also.

VII. The Narrative, painted by Stothard, engraved by W. Greatbach. Our blessings on thee, old Stothard! Full of mannerism though thou art, thou art, nevertheless, deeply imbued in thy happier efforts with the true spirit of Bocaccio. Thou hast introduced us here to a goodly company seated on the flowery sward of a sloping lawn-seven fair Italian dames, and three graceful cava

liers, listening to a tale of the ancient times, told by that pleasant donna in the centre of the circle. In the background the eye wanders among the green glades of a lovely wood, intersected with shade and sunshine, and affording, among its openings, rich pasture for the antlered deer. Our blessings on thee, Stothard! Thou art full of southern fancies and graceful imaginations. VIII. The Secret, painted by J. P. Davis, engraved by F. Bacon. This is, on the whole, the poorest illustration in the book. Yet it is by no means destitute of merit. The girl who is telling the secret to her friend is graceful and elegant.

IX. A Magdalen, painted by Correggio, engraved by W. H. Watt. A glorious picture! suffused all over with the genius of one of the old masters of the art. The exquisite drawing and harmonious outline of the female figure, recumbent in the foreground, must be seen, to be duly appreciated. One gazes on it as if it were a piece of painted music, taking the sense captive through the medium of the eye. Yet how sublimely simple is the arrangement of the whole! Let the disciple of Martin 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, engraved by Greatbach. This is an exceedingly clever production. The lady's terror at the approach of the wasp, and the look of determination with which her waitingwoman lifts the fan to smite the poor insect to the ground, are admirably brought out. The details of the picture are gorgeous, and finely finished.

XI. Ghent, painted by F. Nash, engraved by E. Goodall. A city scene, full of life and light. The canal-boat from Bruges, loaded with passengers of all descriptions, is just arriving.

XII. Trojan Fugitives, painted by George Jones, R. A., engraved by J. C. Edwards. In the foreground is a beautiful group of Trojan women, looking towards their beloved city, which is in flames, whilst the moon, partly obscured by clouds and smoke, sheds a melancholy light over the disastrous scene. There is a great deal of poetry and true classical feeling in this picture.

Our remarks on the Illustrations having run to such a length, we must reserve for the present our account of the letter-press, which consists, as usual, of contributions from a variety of well-known pens.

The Landscape Annual for 1831: The Tourist in Italy ;
Illustrated from Drawings by
by Thomas Roscoe.
S. Prout, Esq., F. S. A. London. Robert Jennings and
William Chaplin. 1831.

It is a delightful privilege to sit by one's fire during the long nights of winter, and see before us the identical palaces, and high antique houses, and calm canals, and merry gondolas, and quaint costumes, of Venice,

"That pleasant place of all festivity;"

or else wander on, 'neath blue and brilliant skies, to
Rome, the "city of the soul," among whose lofty ruins
and overwhelming associations we come to feel with
Byron, that

"The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray,

And more beloved existence."

It is a passing pleasant thing, when the wind whistles and the rain beats, to have only a dim consciousness of these external evils, while the splendour of the Landscape Annual glitters before our eyes, and carries our fancy far away down the sunny side of the Alps and Apennines.

gang.

GERMAN ANNUALS.—Musenalmanach für das Jahr 1831.
Herausgegeben von Amadeus Wendt. Zweiter Jahr-
Mit Tiecks Bildniss. (Almanack of the Muses
for 1831. Second Annual Appearance. With a Por-
trait of Tieck.) Leipzig. Weidmann.
Minerva, Taschenbuch für das Jahr 1831. Zwei und
Zwanzigster; oder, der neuen Folge, Erster Jahrgang.
Mit neun Kupfern. (Minerva: A Pocket-Book for
the Year 1831. The Twenty-Second Annual Appear-
ance, or the First of the New Series. With nine En-
gravings.) Leipzig. Ernst Fleischer.

THE German Annuals are certainly not so expensively or, if the expression is more agreeable, so elegantly-got up as the English. To make amends, however, they are always neat, though of less costly materials; their literary contents are, at the least, equal in merit to ours; and their cheapness is such, that even the poorest of the educated classes can afford to put them to their best use― make gifts of them at the household festival of Christmas,

a festival which, as some of our readers may yet remember, we once attempted to describe to them.

As yet, only two of the German Annuals for next year have come to hand. There are many of them which we nia" sadly. Her poetry was not much worth, it is true. can right gladly spare, but we miss our favourite "UraThe versification was luscious to an extreme, and the

sense as dull as heart could wish-not unlike the favourite American dish, "hominy and molasses;" but, to make amends, we had always a quantity of nervous prose, generally telling some "right merrye conceit" of the old Italian artists, who seem to have been the most indefatigable practical jokers the world has ever seen. It is in vain, however, that we spend time in this world sighing over what we have not. The wiser way is to make merry with what we have.

THERE is not among all the Annuals a fairer volume than this. It contains ten splendid views in Venice, ten equally splendid in Rome, and six miscellaneous Italian scenes, making in all twenty-six beautiful embellishments. The letter-press is worthy of the engravings. It does not consist of a mere hasty and superficial compilation from gazetteers and guide-books, but is carefully and classically written, containing much valuable information, 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, Temple of Vesta and House of Rienzi, the Borghese Palace, Rimini, the Sibyl's Temple at Tivoli, the Falls of Terni, and the Bridge of Augustus at Narni. It is difficult to say, whether the artist's pencil or the editor's pen has done most justice to these scenes. They have, at all events, succeeded between them in twining still more closely round our dear heart's love that golden land "of temples old, or, altars new," standing alone, with nothing like to it,

"Worthiest of God, the holy and the true.”

English Pegasus does not draw so well in harness as his German brother. This Annual (as its “forbears before it" were) is an admirable barometer of the poetical atmosphere. It is rather low this year-indicative of dull, close weather. In Germany, as with us, the first fresh burst of a mighty poetical eruption is over-what we now hear is not the tornado, but the dying wailings of the subsiding storm. Bürger, Voss, and the Stolbergs, rioted in the luxurious excess of physical strength and passion. Schiller, whose metaphysico-poetical nature, penetrating to the inmost recesses of intellect, was like the miner groping