Titled Authors. ders ever presented to the eye, the most admirable ever seen, was that which attracted crowds to Jarrin's window all last winter. A billowy sea of sugar, which it scared the stoutest heart to look upon, and a boat, and a lighthouse, 'and a rock, whereupon stood the noblest work of God-an honest man, rather larger than the lighthouse, which I suppose was right (how satirical!), but much larger than the boat that brought him there, which I think was wrong (beautifully ironical, my lord !).—p. 197. A fire-work maker's widow at Eton applied to the captain of the school, the late Mr. to be good enough to furnish her with an epitaph for her defunct husband. He undertook it. "One of the neatest and most touching epitaphs to my fancy," in our language," said he, "is that upon the monument of Purcell, the composer, in Westminster Abbey-He is gone to that place where only his own harmony can be excelled.' Now what do you think of adopting that inscription (and you cannot have a better) with merely this necessary alteration:-He is gone to that place where only his own fireworks can be excelled?"-p. 199. Ha ha ha! excellent! Ha! ha! ha! Although we have laughed at it a hundred times before, we declare it seems as good as the first time we heard it. Thank you, my lord! How do we wish you would edit a new edition of Mr. Joseph Miller's work, with an appendix, containing all your own best! We said we would extract only two specimens; but we cannot resist a third, which stands laughing in our face! Mrs. Allington's Pic-nic is given in the open air a thunderstorm comes on-the fiddlers are just playing God save the King And scarcely (says his lordship) had the band surmounted its second stanza, and began to give effect to the prayer of the third-" On him be pleased to pour-long may he reign"-when rain it did in right earnest; and it soon poured.-p. 200. Oh my lord! You will positively be the death of us! We have cachinnated over this exquisite morceau-this gem of your lordship's wit-till we absolutely blush to think of our vulgar fraction of the polite Lord Chesterfield's dictum. Confound it! You see, my lord, how infectious your pleasantry is, and that in more respects than one you resemble Sir John Falstaff; for you are not only witty. yourself, but" the cause of wit in others." At p. 213, we have a "Moral Song," by Mr. Frederick Mansell Reynolds, the editor of the Keepsake, the burden of which affected us almost to tears; it is so beautifully simple, so touchingly pathetic, and so sublimely true. We quote it: Let it pass We are transient as the grass, And we must Turn to dust Whether we're corrupt or just! We think we remember to have read something similar to this, but vastly inferior, in a publication whose name we forget. It was part of an address from a naughty little girl to her good little brother, who would not be persuaded to steal a piece of plum cake." It ran thus: Cut a slice 'Tis very nice! And we'll lay it on the mice, Come, we must, For, at worst, Ma can only whip you first. The reader will perceive, at once, how greatly Mr. Reynolds has improved upon the original. "Saumur, a Tale of Real Life," by R. Bernal, M.P., has no very conspicuous defects, nor any very striking merits. It is agreeably told, interests the reader a little, and does not surprise him at the end, when he finds every thing happening according to the established canons of romance-writing. Mr. Theodore Hook has furnished two contributions; one, "The Brighton Coach," in which he professes to relate an adventure that befell a friend; the other, some humorous stanzas, entitled, " Chacun à son Gout," where he plays pleasantly enough upon an equivocation arising out of a literal English pronunciation of that phrase. Mr. Hook has too much talent at command, ever to write absolutely bad; but like every clever man, he has his degrees of excellence, when compared with himself." The Brighton Coach" is distinguished by that easy familiar style, and those off-hand touches at character and manners, which impart so attractive a quality to all he writes. We think, however, he adapted the value of his contributions to his notions of the value of the work in which they were to appear; and satisfied with making them better than the rest, did not trouble himself to make them so good as he might. "Arthur Chamberlayne, or the Secret," has one fault; it is too long for the slender material out of which it is wrought. Reduced to half its length, it would be one of the few effective pieces in the volume. There are some half-dozen other articles which we have passed over without any notice, out of mere charity to the writers, and a due regard for our readers. Mere imbecility is beneath criticism, for exposure can neither work amendment, nor operate beneficially by way of example. In conclusion, therefore, we shall only say, that the Keepsake, with all its pomp of names, is inferior, decidedly inferior, in its literary character, to its rivals and competitors; and when we recollect what, generally speaking, is the sort of literary character that belongs to all these yearlings, we apprehend it would not be easy to signalize its imperfections by a more concise or comprehensive sentence. Of its graphic merits we have spoken in another part of this number. THE COMIC ANNUAL.* THIS volume of great promise has at length appeared, and confirms an opinionwhich we have always held-that Mr. Hood writes too much; not that we hesitate one instant in awarding to him the laurels for the year 1831, although claimed by two or three competitors, but that he appears careless of his name, and admits into his Annual many pieces of inferior, nay of no real merit; which are the more conspicuous, when we can turn to brilliant specimens of his fertile humour. The Anuuals are, in general, beneath criticism, in a literary point of view; and to deal in general terms of praise or condemnation is not our practice. We would rather select the best than the worst specimens, when the whole are the productions of one pen: and after all is said, we are but sorry judges of poetry, if the number who are content with mere jingle be taken into account against us. In an ode to Mr. Vigers, on the publication of his volume on the Gardens and Menagerie of the Zoological Society, there is one verse which we must take—it is exquisite in its way. What is your gardening volume?-like old Mawe's! Like fruits, Through April, May, or June; As thus-now rake your lion's manes, and prune Your tiger's claws! About the middle of the month, if fair, Give your chameleons air, Choose shady walls for owls, Water your fowls, And plant your leopards in the sunniest spots; Thin out your elephants about this time, And set some early kangaroos in pots; * By T. Hood. London: C. Tilt. In some warm shelter'd place Prick out your porcupines, and blanch your ermine; And "destroy all vermin." But the rest is lame and poor. Another portion which we shall extract is one of the author's happiest hits. DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES. "I really take it very kind, This visit, Mrs. Skinner! I have not seen you such an age (The wretch has come to dinner!) "Your daughters, too, what loves of girls What heads for painters' easels! Come here and kiss the infant, dears- "Your charming boys I see are home "Twas very kind to bring them both- "What little Clara left at home! I should have loved to kiss her so- "And Mr. S., I hope he's well, "Come, take a seat-I long to hear You're come, of course, to spend the day (Thank Heav'n I hear the carriage!) "What! must you go! next time I hope You'll give me longer measure; Nay-I shall see you down the stairs (With most uncommon pleasure!) "Good bye! good bye! remember all, The "Insurrection of Stoke Pogis," a burlesque of the French revolution, upon which the author appears to pride himself not a little, reminds us of an entertainment of Matthews, in which he caricatured the second and third editions of a newspaper; but it is not without point, though the Mrs. Malaprop-ish narrative of a" high-vitness" is not so good as might have been expected. The designs are for the most part excellent; and though it is not saying much for it, the volume is decidedly superior to its would-be rivals. THE KEEPSAKE ILLUSTRATIONS. In another place we have noticed the literary department of this autocrat of the Annuals, and if we have adopted a severity of criticism not suited to the tastes of mere pretenders, we have at least served the cause of literature. So if we be too nice in our estimate of the embellishments, for the gentry who speak of engravings only in reference to what they have cost, we shall not the less deserve the confidence of the numerous patrons of art by pointing out the merits and defects of a work which, from its pretensions to superiority, challenges fair and bold remark. The frontispiece, "Haidee," by C. Heath, from a painting by C. L. Eastlake, R. A., is a highly finished engraving, by no means faultless, but deserving praise, especially for the countenance, which is well lighted up, and exhibits something like an intellectual brilliancy of eye, not to be discovered in many portraits; but the hair is coarse and wiry. The drapery, too, wants boldness; nor has the flesh that solidity which a little judicious shadow and the more elaborate finish demanded by a background so highly wrought would have given it. The title-page, from Corbould, by Thomson, is a splendid subject, and delicately engraved; but the right leg of the principal figure is so prominently brought forward in comparison to the left, as to destroy entirely the anatomical beauty of the composition: from the hips downwards nothing can be more ill defined; still it is a gem. "The Gondola," a pretty subject, by C. Heath, from Stephanoff, is but awkwardly managed; the shadow of the pedestal is out of keeping altogether with the pedestal itself, and offends the eye at the first glance; it could not have been more decided in a brilliant moonlight, although the rest of the engraving is in good sober tone and the distance finely harmonized; the boat, too, is but half-engraved, and great part of it is flat and undefined. "Juliet," by J. C. Edwards, from Miss Sharpe, is a fine engraving, in which her exquisite touches upon the drapery are faithfully preserved; the subject is pleasing and effective. "Mima," by C. Heath, from Cristall, would be a sweet little subject, could we blot out the background, and put in a few vigorous touches in front; the former is all confusion, the latter wants force; the figure is pretty and natural. "The Use of Tears," by C. Rolls, from R. P. Bonnington, is a touching and beautiful subject, chastely engraved, full of expression, and deserving great praise. "Nestor and Tydides," by R. Brandard, from Westall, is showy, but the horses are out of drawing, and the subject will not bear criticism in any of its details. It is engraved better than it deserved to be. The "Swiss Peasant," by C. Heath, from H. Howard, R. A., is a fine plate, and except that the child appears to have the gout in his legs, we might say it is good in all its parts. The foreground is not so much neglected as many of Mr. Heath's engravings. "Sea Shore, Cornwall," by W. Miller, from Bonnington, is a magnificent subject, with nothing but cliff, sky and water; it is a beautiful sketch, elaborately engraved, and highly effective. "The Knight and the Lady," by C. Heath, from Stephanoff, is but a middling subject; nobody could make much of it; C. Heath has, perhaps, done all that he could, but we look in vain for sentiment and expression; it is a mawkish concern. It is quite a relief to turn to " Adelaide," a sweet engraving by C. Heath, from A. E. Chalon, R. A.; the subject is so pleasing that we cannot look for faults; the arch playfulness of the child chides us for thinking of it. "Saumer," by R. Willis, from Turner, is an effective plate, and full of beauties. "Milan Cathedral" by W. Willis, from S. Prout, is another effective and elaborate engraving. The architectural magnificence of the interior is finely depicted, and the Gothic ornaments managed admirably. "Nantz," by J. T. Wilman, from Turner, is a laboured plate, the sky broken and muddy, distance absolutely bad, nor does the eye at all take in the subject, which is confused. "The Secret," by J. Mitchell, from R. Smirke, is by no means an attractive plate, nor is it a well defined subject; a lady kneeling on the ground, and another standing behind her, without any ap parent object. We find, however, by turning to the letter-press to solve our difficulties, that the lady on her knees is listening at a key-hole; although the engraver has contrived to make it distant. "Chacun à son Gout," by F. Bacon, from Stephanoff, is showy and imposing, and not without expression, though the lady VOL. I. E 50 Illustrations of Le Keepsake Français, and the Talisman. looks more like a love-stricken damsel, than a thorough-paced tormentor. "The Orphan Boy," C. Heath, from Christall, is a delightful print, not inferior to any thing in the book, and rigid though we be, we must, to do justice to the Keepsake embellishments, pronounce them, upon the whole, a very splendid set of plates. ILLUSTRATIONS OF LE 66 KEEPSAKE FRANCAIS, AND THE THESE two works exhibit a practical illustration of economy and retrenchment The same set of illustrations embellish both works, although the literary portions of each are widely different. The one is furnished by the chief French writers; the other principally gathered from periodicals of acknowledged merit. The one printed in French, the other in English. One notice of the illustrations will, however, apply to both. To commence, we have a very beautiful young French face peeping from widow's weeds, and entitled "Jeune Veuve," boldly engraved by Robert Graves, from Bochard, but there is, in all but the face, a sketchy appearance, which detracts from what would otherwise be a very sweet plate. A Vignette," by Sangster, from Colin, is a formal little piece; Le Chevalier de Lauzan," by Bacon, from E. Devéria, is rather an attractive plate, but is as good for Le Chevalier any thing else, as Le Chevalier Lauzan, and although we are half informed that the principal figure of a beautiful lady, is Madame de Monpensier, it will do just as well for any other pretty divinity. "Vue de Paris," by W. Cook, from T. Boys, is a pretty sketch of not the most important part of the French metropolis, displaying, however, some passable engraving. "Cromwell," by E. Smith, from Decaisne, is a tolerably good subject; Cromwell is contemplating the portrait of Charles I., his daughter kneeling beside him, chiding him, for soliloquising; the portrait of Charles is about as ill managed as can be well conceived, and is more like an ill-shaped model. "Curiosité," by Humphries, from Roqueplan's design, shows us three young ladies rummaging over the contents of a work or trifle box which does not belong to them; but there is no expression in the features, and the only Lady who shows her face has two different sleeves, which notwithstanding our distaste for the formal, appears very odd. "Don Quichotte," an engraving by Sangster, from an admirable sketch by Bonnington, is pretty well managed. The knight is gloating over his tales of chivalry, his countenance is lighted up by some brillant idea, his next battle is more than half gained. "Miss Croker," from Sir Thomas Lawrence, by Thomson, is worth all we have yet passed, a charming portrait of a very charming woman; Thomson has almost surpassed himself in this splendid engraving. "Lac de Como," by R. Willis, from Stanfield, is another beautiful work of art, all brilliancy and effect, yet true to nature. "Entrée dans L'Eglise," by Smith, from Johannot, is a lady, looking very de mure, and a gentleman with his back to us. There is some pretty good effect in -apparently-the interior of a church, but not much to admire in the whole. "Sa Majesté La Reine des Français," by Thomson, from Hersent, a magnificent specimen of chalk engraving, but, with all due respect for her French majesty, by no means an attractive portrait. "L'Ane et les Reliques," by R. Corbould, from X. Le Prince; rather a pretty bit of scenery, spoiled by the introduction of a piece of senseless mummery. The plate had been as well omitted. "Dieppe." by W. R. Smith, from J. D. Harding; a cleverly-sketched and well-engraved view, and, upon the whole, an effective plate. Le Jeune Berger," by Chevallier, from Johannot, is a fine bold piece of rocky scenery: the peasant and the dog are natural, but the former rather coarse. "Le Jeune Savoyard," by Radcliffe, from Decamps; a trumpery business. The light, come whence it may, is decidedly false; and the subject nothing to look at, if well done. "Chateau Barnard," by Willimore, from Turner, is Turner all over: his faults, as well as his beauties, are faithfully copied, but the engraving is pretty notwithstanding. "J. Suissesse," by H. Rolles, from Collins, is a very chaste piece of forest scenery, enriched " |