proaches, he collects his wandering thoughts, and gaping with incipient discrimination, he chuckles to observe that they are not angels-not goddesses, but four young flesh-andblood misses, each in her way prettier than her pretty mamma, a Forgetme-Not, a Friendship's Offering, a Literary Souvenir, a Christian Remembrancer. Now, we know not how we could better have expressed our satisfaction on beholding the entrée into our Sanctum Sanctorum of these Four Blooming Perennials. They are all jewels -delights-perfect loves. How happy can we be with either-not were the other dear charmer away-but were they merely lying asleep for a season on our capacious table! Sweet creatures! we are in love with you all, nor perhaps would it be gallant to declare a preference. Each becomes Sultana in her turn-according to the movements of that most capricious of all passions-custom cannot stale your infinite variety-and we swear to be faithful to you during the period of our natural lives, in all the innocent affection of Platonic polygamy. There was a clever paper in our last Number upon Metaphors, showing, that broken Metaphors (like other bankrupts) always make the best figure. We are availing ourselves of that excellent doctrine, and extending its principle to composition in general. We have spoken first of angels, we think-then of pretty girls-and now, still meaning the same thing, we use the common word, volumes-volumes -twelve shillings, half bound or in boards-embellished with engravings from pictures by the first masters, and the letter-press furnished by forty of the best poets of the age. Now what is there to hinder a ferocious, shaggy-eye-browed Aristarchus of an editor or contributor to frighten off with a single frown all these four virgin volumes? It cannot be denied that their contents are extremely trifling-not to be weighed for a single moment against the article Steam Engine in any Encyclopædia, or the Stot's Principles of Political Economy. It would be rash to assert that the state of mankind-nay, even of Europe, will be widely, deeply, or permanently affected by the publication of these annual periodicals. In half a century they may even be generally forgot VOL. XIX. ten-but who cares, if they are all perused or looked at with pleasure now? Of all prospects, that of the future is surely the most uninteresting. The present for our money, and the more it is embellished the better, for it richly deserves cuts. None but ninnies look into futurity, and what thanks will they get for their pains? Why not a creature born ten years hence will ever so much as condescend to know that they ever existed. Should it so happen that some one of the Paulo-post-futurum gentry should lay his hand on an author who appealed to posterity, can there be a doubt that he will break out into a horse-laugh, and ask if the idiot could have believed in his heart that children were wiser than their fathers? Show us an instance of any respectable gentleman, passing muster as a blockhead all his own lifetime, and imposing on posterity as a firstrate fellow.-No, it won't do.-Once a dunce, always a dunce. If a literary man, a genius, cannot hold up his head above water, but suffers it to be kept under for the short space of twenty minutes, not all the Humane Societies on earth will resuscitate him. shall suppose that he has been found drowned, and he must be buried under a plain slab. But get a name-a title from your contemporaries, however small, be it even that of Count Tims, and you are immortal.-Tims will be triumphant over Time. Saturn will in vain try to devour him-long after he has made no bones of Wordsworth, and all those other wiseacres who put their trust in posterity. We Where were we? Let us see. Ay, the Literary Souvenir; or, Cabinet of Poetry and Romance, edited by Alaric A. Watts. Six thousand copies, he tells us, of last year's volume have been sold, and we can easily believe it. Our own article upon it could not do less than introduce it into a thousand boudoirs. This year there is no falling off; on the contrary, the tree has come to its full bearing, and the fruit is of brighter hue and richer flavour. That palate would be indeed fastidious that could not relish such a dessert. It is a failing of ours to get drowsy after dinner, especially in the heat of a Christmas fire; but with this awakening volume spread fan-like before our eyes, they retain all their usual lustre throughout the evening. What delici L ous engravings! Only look at THE LOVERS' QUARREL! Heavens and earth, quarrel with such a bright, breathing, and beautiful bosom ! Where may you seek for calm beneath the skies, if it sleep not between these tranquil billows? There is the luxury of love, hallowed by its innocence !-a table spread in Paradise, to be deserted for the fare of the common earth!-Or lo! the "Forsaken" smiles faintly at her own credulity, and the evaporation of her lover's sigh! The dream is gone, and the languor of its delight hangs all over the maiden's face and frame. But sorely mistaken indeed art thou, O fair L. E. L., in murmuring for such a Juliet, such a strain as, 66 Forget me-I would not have thee know Of the youth and bloom thy falseness laid low; That the green grass grows, the cypresses wave, And the death-stone lies on thy once love's grave!" Never was there a more needless waste of sympathetic sorrow; for within three months after she sat to Mr Newton for her picture, did she, the "Forsaken," elope to Gretna-Green with a particular friend of O'Doherty's, and before the year had expired, was she safely delivered of twins. Notorious facts like these rob fiction of half its pathos; nor is it possible to shed tears over youth and beauty brought to bed under such circumstances. Should L. E. L. introduce into a future Souvenir the "Forsaken" as a widow, let her remember that weeds are mere annuals, and entitle her epithalamium (or, as that accomplished scholar, the late Dr Pirie, would have said, epicedium) "A Year and a Day." The "Kiss," drawn by J. M. Wright, after Retch, (see his illustrations of Goethe's Faust,) is, if possible, still more charming-fond and impassioned, but perfectly chaste and pure, and not to be gazed on, without delight, by man of woman born. While Lady Louisa Jane Russell, youngest daughter of his Grace the Duke of Bedford, from the statue of Chantry at Woburn Abbey, calms the spirit with a far different image that of childish delight and love as the fair creation stands, unadorned and innocent as an infant, and presses with both gentle hands a dove to her sinless bosom. 'Tis the "leafy month of June," In one broad, attemper'd blaze,— See the parting god of day And it chequers all the skies Pierced by many a crimson streak, Now o'er velvet moss delaying, Where yon sweet clematis flings, Far and wide, its starry rings; Where the graceful jasmine's braid, Makes a green, eye-soothing shade, And their shoots united rove O'er the trelliced roof above,Deep embower'd from mortal ken, Thread we now a Poet's Den ! Bright confusion revels there, Ne'er had she a realm more fair; 'Tis a wilderness of mind, Redolent of tastes refined. Tomes of wild romantic lore, Cull'd from Fancy's brightest store,(Caskets full of gems sublime, From the silent depths of Time,) Poets, whose conceptions high Are sparks of immortality; Sages, Wisdom's self hath crown'd, People all the walls around; Or beneath the 'wilder'd eye, In "admired disorder" lie Ingots rich of Fancy's ore, Scatter'd o'er the crowded floor. Mystic scraps are strewn around, Like the oracles profound Of the Delphic prophetess; And-as difficult to guess !China vases, filled with flowers, Fresh from evening's dewy bowers; Love-gifts from his lady fair, Knots of ribbon, locks of hair; Sprigs of myrtle, sent to keep Memory from too sound a sleep; Violets, blue as are the eyes That awake his softest sighs, And reward his love-sick lays With their smiles of more than praise; Spells of sweetness, gather'd 'round, Make those precincts hallow'd ground! Here a broken, stringless lute; There a masker's antic suit; Fencing foils; a Moorish brand; Tokens strange from many a land; Memory's lights to many a scene Where his roving steps have been; Cameos rich, from mighty Rome; Laurel wreathes from Virgil's tomb; Golden fruit from Scio's vine; Views along the winding Rhine; Wither'd shrubs from Castaly, Spread below, or ranged on high, Mingle there promiscuously! And many a fair and sunny face, Many a sculptured shape of grace, Such as Guido's pencil warm'd, And Canova's chisel form'dBrows by deathless genius crown'd,Breathe their inspiration 'round; Like the smile of primal Light, Making even Chaos bright. By the open lattice sitting, Fever'd streams of beauty flitting O'er his heart, and o'er his brain, In one bright, unbroken chain; Drinking deep through every sense, Draughts of pleasure, too intense,— Mark the poet's glistening eye Wandering now o'er earth and sky! 'Tis a blissful hour to him,Slave of feeling-child of whim!— Builder of the lofty rhyme,Bard,-musician,-painter,-mime; Ever sway'd by impulse strong, Each by turns, and nothing long; Fickle as the changing rays Round the sun's descending blaze; Still in search of idle toys; Pining after fancied joys; All that charm'd his heart or eye, There is much fancy of thought and elegance of expression in the "Ode to a Steam-Boat," by T. Doubleday, Esq. ODE TO A STEAM-BOAT. ON such an eve, perchance, as this, The languid ocean scarce at all Full many a broad but delicate tint One tiny star-beam, faintly trembling, Hush'd is the loud tongue of the deep;→ Oh! such an eve in sorrow's balm, Wast thou a grampus, nay a whale, Now blazing like a dozen comets, Satan, when scheming to betray us, Was there no quirk,-one can't tell No stiff-necked flaw-no quiddit latent, Or kept it in the inventor's desk- Should Neptune in his turn invade thee, He must be long-tongued, with a wit ness, Whoe'er shall prove, to my poor notion, To make yon clear, pellucid ocean, Philosophers may talk of science, My taste is left at double distance, It may be orthodox and wise, Magazines, newspapers, reviews, have teemed, do teem, and will teem, with extracts from Mr Watts's Lite rary Souvenir. We have given these The "Amulet, or Christian and Literary Remembrancer," is of a somewhat different character from the others, having more of a religious spirit. The editor explains his views very judiciously in a well-written preface : "It has appeared to the publishers of the present volume, that a work which should blend religious instruction with literary amusement was still a desideratum, -for the influence of Religion is always most powerful when she is made to delight those whom it is her office to teach; and many, who would perhaps shun her in the severer garb in which she sometimes appears, may be won to her side by the attractions of a more tasteful attire. The work, however, is to be considered as a religious publication only so far as that every article tends to impress some moral lesson. It depends for its success equally on its literary merits. The nature of the contributions, and the excellence of the embellishments, will sufficiently prove that no expense has been spared to render the volume worthy of the advanced state of literature and the arts. "It will be at once perceived, that individuals of various religious denominations are among the contributors. This * But who wrote the story to accompany Newton's Lovers' Quarrel? The Monthly Review is mad, or rather idiotic upon it-lauding it to the skies as if it were absolutely a Tale written by some Great Unknown. Now we pledge our critical character on the truth of the following sentence:-"It is a piece of vile cockney slang, sufficient to turn the stomach of a horse."-C. N. will be accepted as a pledge, that all entrance on the debateable ground of theology has been carefully avoided. Nothing, it is believed, will occur, either to disturb the opinions, or to shock the prejudices of any Christian: the editor, there fore, indulges a sanguine hope that the volume will prove generally acceptable." It is long since we have read anything more beautiful than the following poem by Mrs Hemans. The en graving by Charles Heath, from a drawing of Westall's, (a beautiful work of art,) and the poem, delightfully illustrate each other : THE HEBREW MOTHER. The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think So pass'd they on, And softly parting clusters of jet curls At last the Fane was reach'd, |