their rank, and are now looked for, as a matter of course, towards the end of the year. The gaiety of their exterior and their smiling aspect, together with the varied and joyous effusions, both of poetry and prose, which they pour forth, render them no unwelcome visitors at this gloomy season. It is in vain for us

gravely to protest, that it would be better for the public if other and more sterling works were substituted in their place. The truth is, mankind, whether old or young, must have amusement, and it is well when the form in which they seek it is as innocuous as the volumes before us. Could we have our way, and mould mankind to our pleasure, the proprietors and editors of Annuals would drive but a poor trade; but we must treat men they are, and be content to tolerate a trifle where we cannot awaken the love of divine philosophy.' Nor must it be forgotten, that these are works of art rather than of literature, and address themselves rather to the imagination than the intellect. This is their avowed character, and must, in all fairness, be kept in view in judging of their merits.

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as

Finden's Tableaux is unquestionably the most elegant and beautiful volume of the season; indeed, as a work of art, it would be difficult to find its superior. It contains twelve splendid engravings by the Messrs. Finden and other eminent artists, some of which, as for instance, The Dream,' the Legend of the 'Brown Rosarie,' 'The Maid's Trial,' The Pilgrim,' The Beacon,' 'The Death of Luath,' and The Wood-Cutter,' are distinguished by felicitous conception combined with a rare degree of artistical skill. An entirely original feature of these plates consists of a series of smaller groups, each of which illustrates some point of the story, and is so arranged as to form a frame'work round the centre figures.' The first impression received from them is that of skill and elegance, but the more fixed and abiding one, is derived from the law of our mental associations. The literary portion of this volume, under the editorship of Miss Mitford, combines tales and poetry; the former unadorned, brief, and inartificial, the latter partaking of the mysticism of the old legend, or of the undefinable attributes of the German imagination. We regret that the nature of these contributions preclude the possibility of quotation. The volume is a gem of the first order, and may safely be introduced into the family circle.

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Heath's Gems of Beauty is a volume of similar pretensions to the foregoing. It contains the same number of highly finished engravings, the subjects of which are Hawking,' The Swing,' The Maid of Narni,' The Earthquake,' The Miniatures,' The Brigand,' 'The Lovers,' Retrospection,' 'The Railer,' The Bower, The Flatterers,' and 'The Heiress.' We find some difficulty in making a selection. For force of expression The Earthquake' and the Brigand' are unquestionably superior,

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for other and softer qualities, having the power to call up thoughtful imaginings, we should instance the Miniatures,' Retrospec'tion,' and 'The Flatterers;' but they are all such gems as cannot fail to ornament a drawing-room table or boudoir. The volume is again edited by the Countess of Blessington, whose poetic effusions happily illustrating her subjects, are full of tenderness, elegance, and grace. The following accompanies the Railer,' a highly finished engraving of a noble cavalier, with his gay and playful betrothed.

'Oh, men are deceivers! they flatter and sigh

To each beautiful maiden they chance to come nigh;
And silly are those who such pleadings believe,
Which never are uttered except to deceive.

'They'll swear that they love, and the very next day,
The very same vows to another they'll pay;

And their eyes, like their tongues, are so tutored to cheat,
That no wonder they often delude the discreet.

O Nature! I'm sure 1 could better thy plan,
And make earth an Eden untrodden by man;
Where women, from terror and treachery free,
Might live their best days, without loving-like me,

'Forget ye, fair railer, from poor Adam's side

'Twas the rib which was stolen that made him his bride?
So without us false men, (though to thwart you I grieve,)
There could be no woman-there had been no Eve!'

Our other extract, illustrating a beautiful picture of a lady at her toilette accompanied by two hand-maids, needs no commendation. It is too life-like to require praise.

'Lady. 'He'll know me as in mask I glide along ;'

Rose. Know you!-he must! . . . where else amid the throng

Could my lord see a form so full of grace,

Lady-as matchless as your matchless face?' Lady. Hush! Hush! thou flatterest, Rose !'

Rose.

Lady.

+ Nay, lady, nay !

I but repeat what even the critics say.
Try yonder mirror, and the shadow see

Of what enchants the town as well as me.'

Mary is dumb-come child—no more refrain ;
Let's hear thy thoughts, for Rose will make me vain.'

Mary. Oh lady, when my eyes, well pleased, repose
Upon some fragrant, new blown, blushing rose,
I feel the loveliness I cannot speak-

When rapture's strongest, then are words most weak;
So when I dare to gaze

Lady.

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'Hold, flatterer, hold!

Too much of this . . . I bought this brooch of gold
To day for thee; and, Rose, this ring be thine;
Thou'lt value it, because it has been mine.'

Rose. Thanks, beauteous lady, generous as fair.'

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Mary. What you have touched 'tis bliss indeed to wear.'
Lady. But, Rose, and, Mary, flatter me no more;

I like it not-I told you so before.'

Mary. (aside) ‘O no—she likes not flattery, simple thing,
Witness my pretty brooch.'

Rose.

And my gold ring.'

The Book of Beauty contains twelve highly finished engravings from paintings by some of our most eminent artists. Our duty as critics sadly overrules our gallantry, and compels the assertion that some of these distinguished ladies have but slender title to the place assigned them in such a work. The Countess Zavadousky, and the Lady Worsley must, however, be excepted from this statement, the combination of intellect with true feminine loveliness in the former, and the serenity and trustfulness with all 'home affections,' which speak in the countenance of the later, establish their indisputable title. The literary contents of the volume are skilfully diversified, and some of the contributions possess very considerable merit. Sir E. Lytton Bulwer's Song entitled The Wife to the Wooer,' cannot fail to be extensively quoted, though we much question whether the author's design of its being set to music will be accomplished. The following brief Sonnet by Barry Cornwall will better suit our space.

A LOVE SONG.

Laugh not, nor weep; but let thine eyes
Grow soft and dim (so love should be ;)

And be thy breathing tender, quick,

And tremulous, whilst I gaze on thee.

And let thy words be few or none;
But murmurs, such as soothe the air

In summer when the day is done,

Be heard, sweet heart, when I am there.

'And I-oh! I, in those soft times,

When all around is still and sweet,

Will love thee more a thousand times,
Than if the world was at thy feet!'

Our only other extract must be from a contribution of Mr. Milnes, a favorite poet, the sweetness of whose song is in happy keeping with the simplicity and truthfulness of his mind.

LOVE AND NATURE.

Thou, that wert wont at Nature's shrine
To worship all the year,

Say, are her features less divine-
Her attributes less dear?

Or, if her beauty's still the same,
Then thou art dull and slow:
She must be sooth a gentle dame
To let thee woo her so.

'Tis not, sweet friend, that I forget
The charms of vale and hill:
Sunset and dawn are lovely yet,
But thou art lovelier still.

I prize the talk of summer brooks,
The mountain's graver tone;

But can I give them thoughts and looks,
That are of right thine own?

<Till death the tide of thoughts may stem,
There's little chance of our forgetting
The highland tarn, the water gem,
With all its rugged mountains setting.

Our spirits followed every cloud

That o'er it, and within it, floated;

Our joy in all the scene was loud,

But one thing silently we noted :-

That though the glorious summer hue

That steeped the heavens could scarce be brighter, The blue below was still more blue,

The very light itself was lighter,
And each the other's fancy caught,
By one instinctive glance directed;
How doubly glows the poet's thoughts,
In the beloved one's breast reflected!

But now that you and I repose

On one affection's certain store,
Serener charms take place of those—
Plenty, and peace, and little more.
'The hill that tends its mother-breast
To patient flocks and gentle kine;
The vale that spreads its royal breast
Of golden corn and purple vine;

The streams that bubble out their mirth
In humble nooks, or calmly flow,
The chrystal life-blood of our earth,

Are now the dearest sights I know.'

Among the prose compositions specially deserving notice are 'An Imaginary Conversation,' between Galileo, Milton, and a Dominican, by Mr. Landor, The Improvident,' by Captain Daniel, Titian's Dream,' by Mr. Plunkett, Russian Sketches,' by Lady Londonderry, and two Irish Tales, one by Lady Blessington, the editor of the volume, and the other by Mrs. Hall.

The Keepsake is superior this year, both in its embellishments and in its literary contents, to its predecessors, and may be ranked amongst the most elegant volumes of its class. It appears, as formerly, under the editorship of Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley, and derives a peculiar interest-to our hearts at least-from the introduction of several original letters of Lady Rachel Russell, printed from manuscripts in the possession of the Duke of Rutland. The heroic magnanimity of this high-minded and virtuous lady at the trial of her husband in 1683, has greatly endeared her name to the English people. Her letters, twelve in number, are remarkably simple, and borrow all their value from the light they throw on her ladyship's domestic character, the charity and tenderness of which blended so happily with the higher qualities which rendered her a fit and worthy companion of one of our noblest patriots. The following is to her daughter, Lady Ross.

'I have bin under great anxietie til ye post came yesterday, for tho' Belvoir is so strong a building and I feared accidents ther as little as any where, yet so many dismal ons have fallen upon so many yt wod justifie a mighty apprehension. I blesse God we are al wel, but the chimney were my son and his wife lay fel, and ye bricks and soot coming down y chimney made them rise at six a clock and come into my drawing room; y° wal of yo garden fel next yo field, and al y trees bent one side to ye very ground. But at Straton my losse is worse in al respects, by farmes tore to pieces, corn and hay dispersed seen hanging on y trees, and amongst ye trees neer the house the fir grove, as richard writes, entirely broke and tore up by the roots; I send Spencer to morrow to see if tis in nature possible to get up but a rom round y ground. Hampshire is al desolation, devon-house scaped