THE MIRROR
OF
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.

Ehrenbreitstein on Rhine.

Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall,

Black with the miners’ blast, upon her height,

Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball

Rebounding idly on her strength, did light;

A tower of victory! from whence the flight

Of baffled foes was watched along the plain:

But peace destroyed what war could never blight,

And laid those proud roofs bare to summer’s rain,

On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain.

Childe Harold.

SPIRIT OF THE “ANNUALS.”

We have the pleasure of presenting to the readers of the MIRROR,
the completion of our notices of these very elegant publications;
and in pursuance of the plan of our former Supplement, we are
enabled to assemble within the present sheet the characteristics of
eight works, whilst our quotations include fourteen
prose tales and sketches, and poetical pieces, of great merit.

The above engraving and its pendant are copied from the
Literary Souvenir, specially noticed in our last Supplement.
The original is a drawing by J.M.W. Turner, R.A. and the plate in
the Souvenir is by J. Pye—both artists of high
excellence in their respective departments:—

The waters of the Rhine have long maintained their pre-eminence,
as forming one of the mightiest and loveliest among the highways of
Europe.

But among all its united trophies of art and nature, there is
not one more brightly endowed with picturesque beauty, or romantic
[pg
370] association, than the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein. When
the eye of our own Childe Harold rested upon its “shattered wall,”
and when the pencil of Turner immortalized its season of
desolation, it had been smitten in the pride of its strength by the
iron glaive of war: and its blackened fragments and stupendous
ruins had their voice for the heart of the moralist, as well as
their charm for the inspired mind of genius. But now that military
art hath knit those granite ribs anew,—now that the beautiful
eminence rears once more its crested head, like a sculptured
Cybele, with a coronet of towers,—new feelings, and an
altered scale of admiration wait upon its glories. Once more it
uplifts its giant height beside the Rhine, repelling in Titan
majesty the ambition of France; once more, by its united gifts of
natural position and scientific aid, it appears prepared to
vindicate its noble appellation of “the broad stone of honour.”

The Musical Souvenir.

This is an elegant little collection of seven songs, a trio,
duet, and glee, set to music, or “as they are appointed to be said
or sung.” As we have not our musical types in order, we can only
give our readers a specimen of its literary merits. The first piece
is Akenside’s beautiful Invocation to Cheerfulness; this is
pleasingly contrasted with a Song to the Forget-me-not, by Mrs.
Opie. Then follow five pieces from recent volumes of Friendship’s
Offering and the Amulet. The three remaining compositions
(expressly for the work) are a Song by T. Bradford, Esq.; a Scotch
Song, by Mr. Feist; and the following pathetic Lines, by the Rev.
Thomas Dale:—

Whether we consider the purity of its sentiments and the amiable
tone of feeling, or its merit as a musical work, we are induced to
recommend the present volume as an elegant present for a musical
friend, and it will doubtless become a favourite with thousands of
graceful pianists. Thanks to the Muses, our lyrical poetry is
rapidly rising in the literary scale, when such beautiful
compositions as those of Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon are no sooner
written than set to music.

The Musical Souvenir is embellished with two engravings
and a presentation plate, and bound in crimson silk—so that
it has all the attractions of the annual Christmas presents, except
prose.

The Keepsake.

Edited by F.M. Reynolds, Esq.

This is a magnificent affair, and is one of the proud triumphs
of the union of Painting, Engraving, and Literature—to which
we took occasion to allude in a recent number of THE MIRROR. Each
department is unique, and the lists are like the Morning
Post account of a drawing room, or Almack’s—the princes of
the arts, and the peers of the pen. Painters—Lawrence,
Howard, Corbould, Westall, Turner, Landseer, Stephanoff, Chalon,
Stothard, &c. Engravers—C. Heath, Finden,
Engleheart, Portbury, Wallis, Rolls, Goodyear, &c.
Contributors—Scott, Mackintosh, Moore, the Lords
Normanby, Morpeth, Porchester, Holland, Gower, and Nugent;
Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Shelley, Hook, Lockhart, Croker,
Mrs. Hemans, and Miss Landon; and the cost of the whole eleven
thousand guineas! Of course, such a book has not been the work
of a day, month, or, perhaps, a year; and its literature entitles
it to a permanent place in the library, where we hope to see it
stand auro perennius; were its fate to be otherwise, we
should condemn the public—for we hate ingratitude in every
shape—and write in the first page the epitaph—For,
O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot. A guinea to
twopence—Hyperion to a Satyr—how can we extend the fame
of The Keepsake!

We cannot particularize the engravings; but they are all worthy
companions of the frontispiece—a lovely portrait of Mrs.
Peel, engraved by Heath, from Sir Thomas Lawrence’s picture. In the
literary department—a very court of fiction—is, My Aunt
Margaret’s Mirror, a tale of forty-four pages; and, The Tapestried
Chamber, by Sir Walter Scott; both much too long for extract, which
would indeed be almost unfair. Next comes an exquisite
gem—

ON LOVE.

By Percy Bysshe Shelley.

What is Love? Ask him who lives [pg 371] what is life; ask him
who adores what is God.

I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even of
thine whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes
they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have
thought to appeal to something in common, and unburden my inmost
soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a
distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded
me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us,
and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been
withdrawn. With a spirit ill-fitted to sustain such proof,
trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have every where
sought, and have found only repulse and disappointment.

Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful
attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope, beyond
ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an
insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a
community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason we
would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children
of our brain were born anew within another’s; if we feel, we would
that another’s nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of
their eyes should kindle at once, and mix and melt into our own;
that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and
burning with the heart’s best blood:—this is Love. This is
the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but
with every thing which exists. We are born into the world, and
there is something within us, which, from the instant that we live,
more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in
correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the
bosom of its mother; this propensity develops itself with the
development of our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual
nature, a miniature as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of
all that we condemn or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing
excellent and lovely that we are capable of conceiving as belonging
to the nature of man. Not only the portrait of our external being,
but an assemblage of the minutest particles of which our nature is
composed: a mirror whose surface reflects only the forms of purity
and brightness: a soul within our own soul that describes a circle
around its proper Paradise, which pain and sorrow and evil dare not
overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that
they should resemble and correspond with it. The discovery of its
antitype; the meeting with an understanding capable of clearly
estimating our own; an imagination which should enter into and
seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have
delighted to cherish and unfold in secret, with a frame, whose
nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the
accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations
of our own; and a combination of all these in such proportion as
the type within demands: this is the invisible and unattainable
point to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the
powers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the
possession of which, there is no rest or respite to the heart over
which it rules. Hence in solitude, or that deserted state when we
are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with
us; we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky. In the
motion of the very leaves of Spring, in the blue air, there is then
found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in
the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the
rustling of the reeds beside them, which, by their inconceivable
relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to dances
of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to
the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of
one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a
desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is
dead, man becomes a living sepulchre of himself, and what yet
survives is the mere husk of what once he was.

This and a fragment, with a character of Mr. Canning, by Sir
James Mackintosh, are the transcendentals of the volume; as
are the tale—The Half-brothers, by Mr. Banim, with an
Ossian-like plate of the heroine; The Sisters of Albano, by Mrs.
Shelley—Death of the Laird’s Jock, by the author of
Waverley—and Ferdinando Eboli, by Mrs. Shelley, with
Adelinda, a plate, by Heath, on which we could feast our eyes for a
full hour. Next, a sketch, by Theodore Hook, part of which will
serve to vary our sheet:—

THE OLD GENTLEMAN.

“To-morrow morning,” said my friend, “when you awake, the power
will be your own; and so, sir, I wish you a very good
night.”—”But, sir,” said I, anxious to be better assured of
the speedy fulfilment of the [pg 372] wish of my heart, (for
such indeed it was,) “may I have the honour of knowing your name
and address?”—”Ha, ha, ha!” said the old gentleman;
“my name and address; ha, ha, ha! my name is pretty familiar
to you, young gentleman; and as for my address, I dare say you will
find your way to me some day or another, and so, once more, good
night.”—Saying which, he descended the stairs and quitted the
house, leaving me to surmise who my extraordinary visiter could be.
I never knew; but I recollect, that after he was gone, I
heard one of the old ladies scolding a servant-girl for wasting so
many matches in lighting the candles, and making such a terrible
smell of brimstone in the house. I was now all anxiety to get to
bed, not because I was sleepy, but because it seemed to me as if
going to bed would bring me nearer to the time of getting up, when
I should be master of the miraculous power which had been promised
me. I rang the bell; my servant was still out; it was unusual for
him to be absent at so late an hour. I waited until the clock
struck eleven, but he came not; and resolving to reprimand him in
the morning, I retired to rest. Contrary to my expectation, and, as
it seemed to me, to the ordinary course of nature, considering the
excitement under which I was labouring, I had scarcely laid my head
on my pillow before I dropped into a profound slumber, from which I
was only aroused by my servant’s entrance to my room. The instant I
awoke, I sat up in bed, and began to reflect on what had passed,
and for a moment to doubt whether it had not been all a dream.
However, it was daylight; the period had arrived when the proof of
my newly acquired power might be made.—”Barton,” said I to my
man, “why were you not at home last night?”—”I had to wait,
sir, nearly three hours,” he replied, “for an answer to the letter
which you sent to Major Sheringham.”—”That is not true,” said
I; and, to my infinite surprise, I appeared to recollect a
series of occurrences, of which I never had previously heard, and
could have known nothing: “you went to see your sweetheart, Betsy
Collyer, at Camberwell, and took her to a tea-garden, and gave her
cakes and cider, and saw her home again: you mean to do exactly the
same thing on Sunday, and to-morrow you mean to ask me for your
quarter’s wages, although not due till Monday, in order to buy her
a new shawl.”—The man stood aghast: it was all true. I was
quite as much surprised as the man.—”Sir,” said Barton, who
had served me for seven years without having once been found fault
with, “I see you think me unworthy your confidence; you could not
have known this, if you had not watched, and followed, and
overheard me and my sweetheart; my character will get me through
the world without being looked after. I can stay with you no
longer; you will please, sir, to provide yourself with another
servant.”—”But Barton,” said I, “I did not follow or watch
you; I—”—”I beg your pardon, sir,” he replied; “it is
not for me to contradict; but you’ll forgive me, sir, I
would rather go; I must go.”

At this moment I was on the very point of easing his mind, and
retaining my faithful servant by a disclosure of my power; but it
was yet too new to be parted with; so I affected an anger I did not
feel, and told him he might go where he pleased. I had, however,
ascertained that the old gentleman had not deceived me in his
promises; and, elated with the possession of my extraordinary
faculty, I hurried the operation of dressing, and before I had
concluded it, my ardent friend Sheringham was announced; he was
waiting in the breakfast-room. At the same moment, a note from the
lovely Fanny Haywood was delivered to me—from the divine girl
who, in the midst of all my scientific abstraction, could “chain my
worldly feelings for a moment.” “Sheringham, my dear fellow,” said
I, as I advanced to welcome him, “what makes you so early a visiter
this morning?”—”An anxiety,” replied Sheringham, “to tell you
that my uncle, whose interest I endeavoured to procure for you, in
regard to the appointment for which you expressed a desire, has
been compelled to recommend a relation of the marquess; this gives
me real pain, but I thought it would be best to put you out of
suspense as soon as possible.”—”Major Sheringham,” said I,
drawing myself up coldly, “if this matter concerns you so deeply as
you seem to imply that it does, might I ask why you so readily
agreed to your uncle’s proposition or chimed in with his
suggestion, to bestow the appointment on this relation of the
marquess, in order that you might, in return for it, obtain
the promotion for which you are so anxious?”—”My dear
fellow,” said Sheringham, evidently confused,
“I—I—never chimed in; my uncle certainly pointed out
the possibility to which you allude, but that was merely
contingent upon what he could not refuse to
do.”—”Sheringham,” said I, “your uncle has already secured
for you the promotion, and you will be gazetted for the
lieutenant-colonelcy of your regiment on Tuesday. I am not to be
told that you [pg 373] called at the Horse-guards, in your
way to your uncle’s yesterday, to ascertain the correctness of the
report of the vacancy which you had received from your friend
Macgregor; or that you, elated by the prospect before you,
were the person, in fact, to suggest the arrangement which has been
made, and promise your uncle ‘to smooth me over’ for the
present.”—”Sir,” said Sheringham, “where you picked up this
intelligence I know not; but I must say, that such mistrust, after
years of undivided intimacy, is not becoming, or consistent with
the character which I hitherto supposed you to possess. When by
sinister means the man we look upon as a friend descends to be a
spy upon our actions, confidence is at an end, and the sooner our
intercourse ceases, the better. Without some such conduct, how
could you become possessed of the details upon which you have
grounded your opinion of my conduct?”—”I—,” and here
again was a temptation to confess and fall; but I had not the
courage to do it. “Suffice it, Major Sheringham, to say, I knew it;
and, moreover, I know, that when you leave me, your present
irritation will prompt you to go to your uncle and check the
disposition he feels at this moment to serve me.”—”This is
too much, sir,” said Sheringham; “this must be our last interview,
unless indeed your unguarded conduct towards me, and your
intemperate language concerning me, may render one more meeting
necessary; and so, sir, here ends our acquaintance.”—Saying
which, Sheringham, whose friendship even to my enlightened eye was
nearly as sincere as any other man’s, quitted my room, fully
convinced of my meanness and unworthiness; my heart sank within me
when I heard the door close upon him for the last time. I now
possessed the power I had so long desired, and in less than an hour
had lost a valued friend and a faithful servant. Nevertheless,
Barton had told me a falsehood, and Sheringham was
gazetted on the Tuesday night.

I went into the Water-colour Exhibition at Charing-cross; there
I heard two artists complimenting each other, while their hearts
were bursting with mutual envy. There, too, I found a mild,
modest-looking lady, listening to the bewitching nothings of her
husband’s particular friend; and I knew, as I saw her frown and
abruptly turn away from him with every appearance of real
indignation, that she had at that very moment mentally resolved to
elope with him the following night. In Harding’s shop I found
authors congregated “to laugh the sultry hours away,” each watching
to catch his neighbour’s weak point, and make it subject matter of
mirth in his evening’s conversation. I saw a viscount help his
father out of his carriage with every mark of duty and veneration,
and knew that he was actually languishing for the earldom and
estates of the venerable parent of whose health he was apparently
taking so much care. At Howell and James’s I saw more than I could
tell, if I had ten times the space afforded me that I have; and I
concluded my tour by dropping in at the National Gallery, where the
ladies and gentlemen seemed to prefer nature to art, and were
actively employed in looking at the pictures, and thinking of
themselves. Oh! it was a strange time then, when every man’s heart
was open to me, and I could sit, and see, and hear, all that was
going on, and know the workings of the inmost feelings of my
associates; however, I must not detain the reader with
reflections.

Clorinda, or the Necklace of Pearl, is an intensely interesting
tale by Lord Normanby, with a most effective illustration by
Heath.

But the prose of the “Keepsake” is decidedly superior to the
poetry, notwithstanding the high names in the latter list.
Mr. Moore’s contribution is, however, only sixteen lines. The
poetical pieces consist chiefly of fragments or
“scraps”—among which those on Italy, by Lord Morpeth; and
three by Shelley, are very beautiful. Our specimen is—

THE VICTIM BRIDE.

By W.H. Harrison.

Our commendation of the “Keepsake” might be extended much
further, were we to consult our inclination to do justice to its
high character. With so lavish an expenditure and such an array of
talent as we have shown it to contain, to wonder at its
success,

We congratulate the proprietors on their prospects of
remuneration, for the attractions of their publication are
irresistible. It is altogether a splendid enterprise, and we doubt
not the reward will be more than proportionate to the expectation
it has raised—both in the proprietors and their
patrons—the public.

The Anniversary,

Edited by Allan Cunningham.

Perhaps we are getting too panegyrical, for panegyric savours of
the poppy; but we must not flinch from our duty.

Allan Cunningham—there is poetry in the name,
written or sung—and high-wrought poetry too, in nearly every
production to which that name is attached—and among these
“The Anniversary for 1829.” All the departments of this work too,
(as in the “Keepsake”) are unique. Mr. Sharpe, the proprietor, is a
man of refined taste, his Editor and his contributors are men of
first-rate genius, the Painters and Engravers are of the first
rank, and the volume is printed at Mr. Whittingham’s
Chiswick-press. Excellence must always be the result of such a
combination of talent, and so it proves in the Anniversary.
As might have been expected from the talent of its editor, the
volume is superior in its poetical attractions—both in number
and quality.

By way of variety, we begin with the poetry. First is a
stirring little ballad, the Warrior, by the editor; then, a
humorous epistle from Robert Southey, Esq. to Allan Cunningham, in
which the laureat deals forth his ire on the “misresemblances and
villanous visages” which have been published as his portrait.¹ Next is a gem of another water,
Edderline’s Dream, by Professor Wilson, the supposed editor of
“Blackwood’s Magazine.” This is throughout a very beautiful
composition, but we must content ourselves with the following
extract:—

EDDERLINE’S SLEEP.

Then comes A Farewell to the year, one of Mr. Lockhart’s elegant
translations from the Spanish; a pretty portrait of rustic
simplicity—the Little Gleaner, by the editor; and some
playful lines by M.A. Shee, accompanying an engraving from his own
picture of the Lost Ear-Rings. The Wedding Wake, by George Darley,
Esq. is an exquisite picture of saddened beauty. The Ettrick
Shepherd has the Carle of Invertine—a powerful composition,
and the Cameronian Preacher, a prose tale, of equal effect. In
addition to the pieces already mentioned, by the editor, is one of
extraordinary excellence—the Magic Bridle: his Lines to a Boy
plucking Blackberries, are a very pleasing picture of
innocence:—

One of his pieces we quote entire:—

THE SEA KING’S DEATH-SONG.

In the prose department the most striking is the description of
Abbotsford, quoted in our 339th number. There is an affecting Tale
of the Times of the Martyrs, by the Rev. Edward Irving, which will
repay the reader’s curiosity. The Honeycomb and Bitter Gourd is a
pleasing little story; and Paddy Kelleger and his Pig, is a fine
bit of humour, in Mr. Croker’s best style. The brief Memoir of the
late Sir George Beaumont is a just tribute to the memory of that
liberal patron of the Fine Arts, and is an opportune introduction
into such a work as the present. The letter of Lord Byron, too,
from Genoa in 1823, will be interesting to the noble poet’s
admirers.

Among the illustrations we can only notice the Lute, by C.
Rolls, after Bonnington; Morning, by E. Goodall, from Linton’s
“joyful” picture; Sir W. Scott in his Study (qy. the forehead); a
little “Monkeyana,” by Landseer; Chillon, by Wallis, from a drawing
by Clarkson Stanfield—a sublime picture; Fonthill, an
exquisite scene from one of Turner’s drawings; Beatrice, from a
picture by Howard; the Lake View of Newstead, after Danby; the
Snuff-Box, from Stephanoff; and last, though not least,
Gainsborough’s charming Young Cottagers, transferred to steel, by
J.H. Robinson—perhaps the most attractive print in the whole
series.

With this hasty notice we conclude, in the language of our
announcement of the present work, “wishing the publisher many
Anniversaries“

Friendship’s Offering.

Edited by Thomas Pringle, Esq.

The present volume will support, if not increase, the literary
reputation which this elegant work has enjoyed during previous
years. The editor, Mr. Pringle, is a poet of no mean celebrity,
and, as we are prepared to show, his contribution, independent of
his editorial judgment, will do much toward the Friendship’s
Offering maintaining its ground among the Annuals for 1829.

There are twelve engravings and a presentation plate. Among the
most beautiful of these are Cupid and Psyche, painted by J. Wood,
and engraved by Finden; Campbell Castle, by E. Goodall, after G.
Arnald; the Parting, from Haydon’s picture now exhibiting with his
Mock Election, “Chairing;” Hours of Innocence, from Landseer; La
Frescura, by Le Petit, from a painting by Bone; and the Cove of
Muscat, a spirited engraving by Jeavons, from the painting of
Witherington. All these are of first-rate excellence; but another
remains to be mentioned—Glen-Lynden, painted and engraved by
Martin, a fit accompaniment for Mr. Pringle’s very polished
poem.

The first prose story is the Election, by Miss Mitford,
with the hero a downright John Bull who reads Cobbett. The next
which most attracts our attention is Contradiction, by the author
of an Essay on Housekeepers—but the present is not so
Shandean as the last-mentioned paper; it has, however, many good
points, and want of room alone prevents our transferring it. Then
comes the Covenanters, a Scottish traditionary tale of
fixing interest; the Publican’s Dream, by Mr. Banim, told
also in the Winter’s Wreath, and Gem:

and Zalim Khan, a beautiful Peruvian tale of thirty pages, by
Mr. Fraser. The French story, La Fiancée de Marques, is a
novelty for an annual, but in good taste. Tropical Sun-sets, by Dr.
Philip, is just to our mind and measure:—

A setting sun between the tropics is certainly one of the finest
objects in nature.

From the 23rd degree north to the 27th degree south latitude, I
used to stand upon the deck of the Westmoreland an hour every
evening, gazing with admiration upon a scene which no effort either
of the pencil or the pen can describe, so as to convey any adequate
idea of it to the mind of one who has never been in the
neighbourhood of the equator. I merely attempt to give you a hasty
and imperfect outline.

The splendour of the scene generally commenced about twenty
minutes before sun-set, when the feathery, fantastic, and
[pg
377] regularly crystallized clouds in the higher regions of
the atmosphere, became fully illumined by the sun’s rays; and the
fine mackerel-shaped clouds, common in these regions, were seen
hanging in the concave of heaven like fleeces of burnished gold.
When the sun approached the verge of the horizon, he was frequently
seen encircled by a halo of splendour, which continued increasing
till it covered a large space of the heavens: it then began
apparently to shoot out from the body of the sun, in refulgent
pencils, or radii, each as large as a rainbow, exhibiting,
according to the rarity or density of the atmosphere, a display of
brilliant or delicate tints, and of ever changing lights and shades
of the most amazing beauty and variety. About twenty minutes after
sun-set these splendid shooting rays disappeared, and were
succeeded by a fine, rich glow in the heavens, in which you might
easily fancy that you saw land rising out of the ocean, stretching
itself before you and on every side in the most enchanting
perspective, and having the glowing lustre of a bar of iron when
newly withdrawn from the forge. On this brilliant ground the dense
clouds which lay nearest the bottom of the horizon, presenting
their dark sides to you, exhibited to the imagination all the
gorgeous and picturesque appearances of arches, obelisks,
mouldering towers, magnificent gardens, cities, forests, mountains,
and every fantastic configuration of living creatures, and of
imaginary beings; while the finely stratified clouds a little
higher in the atmosphere, might really be imagined so many glorious
islands of the blessed, swimming in an ocean of light.

The beauty and grandeur of the sunsets, thus imperfectly
described, surpass inconceivably any thing of a similar description
which I have ever witnessed, even amidst the most rich and romantic
scenery of our British lakes and mountains.

Were I to attempt to account for the exquisite enjoyment on
beholding the setting sun between the tropics, I should perhaps
say, that it arose from the warmth, the repose, the richness, the
novelty, the glory of the whole, filling the mind with the most
exalted, tranquillizing, and beautiful images.

There is likewise a tale, Going to Sea, and the Ship’s Crew, by
Mrs. Bowdich, which equally merits commendation.

Powerful as may be the aid which the editor has received from
the contributors to the “Friendship’s Offering,” we are
bound to distinguish one of his own pieces—Glen-Lynden, a
Tale of Teviot-dale, as the sun of the volume. It is in
Spenserian verse, and a more graceful composition cannot be found
in either of the Annuals. It is too long for entire extract, but we
will attempt to string together a few of its beauties. The scenery
of the Glen is thus described:—

Lynden’s lord, and possessor of this tower, is now “a grave,
mild, husbandman,” and his wife—

Our limits compel us to break off once more, which is a source
of regret, especially when our path is strewn with such gems as
these:—

Here is a beautiful apostrophe—

The halcyon days at length draw to a close, and sorrows “in
battalions” compel them to emigrate and bid

The remainder is rather abrupt, at least much more so than the
lovers of fervid poetry could wish, especially as the termination
is with the following exquisite ballad:—

We have only space to add that the poetical pieces are very
numerous, and those by Allan Cunningham, the Ettrick Shepherd,
Delta, and William Kennedy, merit especial notice.

The elegant embossed binding is similar to that of last year,
which we mentioned to our readers, and which we think an
improvement on the silken array.

The Bijou.

Though last in the field, (for it is scarcely published) the
Bijou will doubtless occupy a different place in public
favour. Its embellishments are selected with much judgment, and in
literary merit, it equals either of its contemporaries. Its second
title is an Annual of Literature and the Fine Arts, and from
the choice of its illustrations, deservedly so. Thus, among the
painters, who have furnished subjects for the engravers, we have
Holbein, Claude, and Primaticcio; and two from Sir Thomas Lawrence.
The engraving from Holbein, Sir Thomas More and his
Family,—is a novelty in an Annual, and is beautifully
executed by Ensom. It has all the quaintness of the great master,
whose pictures may be called the mosaic of painting. The
Autumnal Evening, engraved by Dean, after Claude, is not so
successful; although it should be considered that little space is
allowed for the exquisite effect of the original: [pg 379] still
the execution might have been better. The Frontispiece, Lady
Wallscourt, after Sir Thomas Lawrence is in part, a first-rate
engraving; Young Lambton, after the same master, is of superior
merit. The face is beautifully copied; and, by way of hint to the
scrappers, this print will form a companion to the Mountain
Daisy, from the Amulet for the present year. There are, too,
some consecrated landscapes, dear to every classical tourist, and
of, no common interest at home—as Clisson, the retreat of
Heloise; Mont Blanc; and the Cascade of Tivoli—all of which
are delightfully picturesque. The view of Mont Blanc is well
managed.

In the prose compositions we notice some of intense
interest, among which are the Stranger Patron and the Castle of
Reinspadte—both of German origin. There is too, a faithful
historiette of the Battle of Trafalgar, which, with the History of
the Family of Sir Thomas More, will be read with peculiar
attention. Our extracts from the poetical department are by Mrs.
Hemans and Miss Landon.

THE SLEEPERS.

Miss Landon has contributed more to the “Bijou” than to any
other Annual, and a piece from her distinguished pen will increase
the value and variety of our columns.

THE FEAST OF LIFE.

We should not, however, pass over in silence a poem, of the
antique school, entitled the Holy Vengeance for the Martyrdom of
George Wishart, the merits of which are of a high order. Indeed,
this piece, and the admirable composition of the History of Sir
Thomas More and his Family, with the Holbein print, distinguish the
Bijou from all other publications of its class, and are
characteristic of the good taste of Mr. Pickering, the proprietor.
Altogether, the Bijou for 1829 is very superior to the last volume,
and, to our taste, it is one of the most attractive of the
Christmas presents.

The Winter’s Wreath.

This is a provincial, but not a first appearance in
London; the present being the fourth “Wreath” that has been
entwined for the lovers of song and sentiment. It is culled from
Liverpool, (next to our own metropolis) the most literary city in
the empire; but many of its flowers have been gathered from our
metropolitan parterre. Thus, in addition to the respected names of
Roscoe, Currie, and Shepherd, (of Liverpool), we have among the
contributors those of Hemans, Bowring, Howitt, Opie, with Mitford,
Montgomery, and Wiffen. The editorship has passed into different
hands, and “the introduction of religious topics has been carefully
avoided” as unsuited to a work of elegant amusement.

The plates are twelve in number, among which are Lady Blanche
and her Merlin, after Northcote (rather too hard in the
features); an exquisite View of the Thames near Windsor,
after Havell; Medora and the Corsair, after Howard; the
Sailor Boy, by Lizars; and a beautiful Wreath
Title-page, after Vandyke. All these will bear comparison with any
engravings in similar works.

The Wreath contains 132 pieces or flowers, some of them
perennials—others of great, but less lasting
beauty—and but few that will fade in a day. Among those
entitled to special distinction, in the prose department,
are an Italian Story, of considerable interest; the Corsair, a
pleasing sketch; and Lough Neagh, a tale of the north of Ireland.
One of the perennials is a Journey up the Mississippi, by
Audubon, the American naturalist. Kester Hobson, a legendary tale
of the Yorkshire Wolds, which turns upon a lucky dream, will
probably set thousands dreaming—and we hope with the same
good effect—viz. half-a-bushel of gold. “A Vision,” by the
late Dr. Currie, is a successful piece of writing; Le Contretems is
a pleasant tale enough, with a sprinkling of French dialogue. Next
is a well-told historiette of the eventful times of the Civil
Wars.—The Memoir of a young Sculptor can scarcely fail to
awaken the sympathy of the reader. The introduction of the paper on
Popular Education, in what the editor himself calls “a work of
elegant amusement like the present,” is somewhat objectionable, and
the writer’s sentiments will be very unpalatable to a certain
party. The Ridley Coach is a sketch in the style of Miss Mitford,
who has contributed only one article, and that in verse. Mrs. Opie
has a slight piece—The Old Trees and New Houses—but our
prose selection is, (somewhat abridged)—

THE LADY ANNE CARR,

By the Author of “May you like it.”

Have you not sometimes seen, upon the bosom of dark, stagnant
waters, a pure, white water-lily lift up its head, breathing there
a fresh and delicate fragrance, and deriving its existence
thence—yet partaking in nothing of the loathsome nature of
the pool, nor ever sullied by its close contact with the foul
element beneath?

It is an honest simile to say that the gentle Anne Carr
resembled that sweet water-lily. Sprung from the guilty loves of
the favourite Somerset and his beautiful but infamous wife, she was
herself pure and untainted by the dark and criminal dispositions of
her parents. Not even a suspicion of their real character had ever
crossed her mind; she knew that they had met with some reverse of
fortune,—for she had heard her father regret, for her sake,
his altered estate. She knew this, but nothing more: her father’s
enemies, who would gladly have added to his wretchedness, by making
his child look upon him with horror, could not find in their
hearts, when they gazed on her innocent face, to make one so
unoffending wretched. It is a lovely blindness in a child to have
no discernment of a parent’s faultiness; and so it happened that
the Lady Anne saw nothing in her father’s mien or manner,
betokening a sinful, worthless character.

Of her mother she had but few and faint recollections. Memory
pictured her pale and drooping, nay gradually sinking under the
cureless malady which brought her to her grave at last. She
remembered, however, the soft and beautiful smiles which had beamed
over that haggard countenance, when it was turned upon her only
child—smiles which she delighted to recognise in the lovely
portrait, from which her idea of her mother was chiefly formed.
This portrait adorned her own favourite apartment. It had been
painted when the original was as young and happy as herself; and
her filial love and fond imagination believed no grace had been
wanting to make all as beautiful and glorious within.

As the Lady Anne grew up to womanhood, the sweetness of her
disposition and manners began to be acknowledged by those, who had
seen without astonishment her extraordinary beauty; and many
persons of distinction, who would hold no kind of fellowship with
the Lord Somerset, sought the acquaintance of his innocent daughter
for her own sake.

The most beloved friend of the Lady Anne was the Lady Ellinor
G——, the eldest daughter of the Earl of
G——: and with her, Lady Anne often passed several
months in the year. A large party of young ladies were assembled at
G—— Castle; and it happened that a continual rain had
confined the fair companions within doors the whole summer
afternoon. They sat together over their embroidery and various
kinds of needlework, telling old tales of fearful
interest—the strange mishaps of benighted
travellers—stories of witchcraft, and of mysterious
murder.

The conversation turned at last to the legends belonging to a
certain family; and one circumstance was mentioned so nearly
resembling, in many particulars, the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury,
that the Lady Ellinor, scarcely doubting that some slight suspicion
of her parents’ crimes had reached the ears of the Lady Anne,
determined to change the subject at once. She proposed to her fair
friends that they should ramble together through the apartments of
the castle; and she called for the old housekeeper, who had lived
in the family from her childhood, to go along with them, and asked
her to describe [pg 381] to them the person and manners of
Queen Elizabeth, when she had visited at the castle, and slept in
the state apartment; always since called, The Queen’s
Bedchamber.

Led by their talkative guide, the careless, laughing party
wandered from one chamber to another, listening to her anecdotes,
and the descriptions she gave of persons and things in former days.
She had known many of the originals of the stately portraits in the
picture gallery; and she could tell the names, and the exploits of
those warriors in the family, whose coats of mail and glittering
weapons adorned the armoury. “And now,” said the Lady Ellinor,
“what else is there to be seen? Not that I mean to trouble you any
longer with our questions, good Margaret, but give me this key,
this key so seldom used,” pointing to a large, strangely shaped
key, that hung among a bunch at the old housekeeper’s side.
“There!” she added, disengaging it herself from the ring, “I have
taken it, and will return it very safely. I assure you. This key,”
she said, turning to her young companions, “unlocks a gallery at
the end of the eastern wing, which is always locked up, because the
room is full of curious and rare treasures, that were brought by my
father’s brother from many foreign lands.”

They enter.—”This may be a charming place,” said one of
the youngest and liveliest of the party, “but see, the rain has
passed away, and the sun has at last burst out from the clouds. How
brightly he shines, even through these dull and dusty windows!” She
gave but a passing glance to the treasures around her, and hastened
to a half open door at the end of the gallery. Some of her
companions followed her to a broad landing place, at the top of a
flight of marble stairs. They were absent but a few minutes, and
they returned with smiles of delight, and glad, eager voices,
declaring that they had unbolted a door at the bottom of the
staircase, and found themselves in the most beautiful part of the
gardens. “Come!” said the young and sprightly girl, “do not loiter
here; leave these rare and beautiful things until it rains again,
and come forth at once with me into the sweet, fresh air.”

The Lady Ellinor and her friend the Lady Anne were sitting side
by side, at the same table, and looking over the same
volume—a folio of Norman chronicles, embellished with many
quaint and coloured pictures. They both lifted up their faces from
the book, as their merry companions again addressed them. “Nay, do
not look up, but rise up!” said the laughing maiden, and
drawing away the volume from before them, she shut it up instantly,
and laid it on another table; throwing down a branch of jessamine
in its place.

“Yes, yes, you are right, my merry Barbara,” replied the Lady
Ellinor, and she rose up as she spoke, “we have been prisoners all
the day against our will, why should we now be confined when the
smile of Nature bids us forth to share her joy. Come, come! my
sweet Anne, you are not wont to be the last,” turning to her
friend, who lingered behind. “Oh!” cried Lady Anne, “I am coming, I
will soon be the first amongst you, I only wait a moment to bind up
my troublesome hair.” As she spoke, her eyes rested upon a little
volume, which lay upon the broad sill of the casement. The wind
fluttered in the pages, and blew them over and over; and half
curiously, half carelessly, she looked again, and yet again. The
word murder caught her eye; her feelings were still in a
state of excitement from the tales and legends to which she had
just been listening. Resting her head upon her hand, she leaned
over the volume; and stood motionless, absorbed by the interest of
the tale which she read, forgetful of her young companions—of
all but the appalling story then before her.

But these feelings were soon lost in astonishment, and horror so
confounding, that for awhile she lost all power of moving, or even
of thinking. Still her eyes were fixed upon the words which had
pierced her heart:—she could not force them away. Again and
again, struck with shame and horror, she shrunk away;—again
and again, she found herself forced by doubt, by positive
disbelief, to search the terrible pages. At last she had read
enough—quite, quite enough to be assured, not that her
father—her mother, had been suspected, but that by the
law of the land they had been convicted, and condemned to death as
foul, adulterous murderers;—the murderers of Sir Thomas
Overbury!

The Lady Ellinor returned alone into the gallery, “You little
truant!” she cried, “why so long? you said you would soon be with
the foremost. I thought you must have escaped me, and have sought
you through half the garden, and you are here all the while!”

No voice replied: not a sound was heard; and the Lady Ellinor
had already returned to the door of the gallery to seek her friend
elsewhere, when something fell heavily to the ground.

She flew back; and in one of the receding [pg 382]
windows, she found the Lady Anne lying senseless in a deep swoon.
Throwing herself on the ground beside her, she raised her tenderly
in her arms, and not without some difficulty, restored her to
herself. Then laying her head upon her bosom, she whispered kind
words. “You are ill, I fear, my own Anne, who has been here? What
have you seen? How so changed in this short time? I left you well
and smiling, and now—nay, my dear, dear friend, do not turn
from me, and look so utterly wretched. Do not you see me! What can
be the matter!” The Lady Anne looked up in her friend’s face with
so piteous and desolate a look, that she began to fear her reason
was affected.

“Have I lost your confidence? Am I no longer loved?” said the
Lady Ellinor. “Can you sit heart-broken there, and will not allow
me to comfort you? Still no answer! Shall I go? Shall I leave you,
my love? Do you wish me absent?” continued she in a trembling
voice, the tears flowing over her face, as she rose up. Her motion
to depart aroused the Lady Anne. “Ellinor! my Ellinor!” she cried,
and throwing herself forward, she stretched forth her arms. In
another moment she was weeping on the bosom of her friend. She wept
for a long time without restraint, for the Lady Ellinor said
nothing, but drew her nearer and nearer to her bosom, and tenderly
pressed the hand that was clasped in hers.

“I ought not to be weeping here,” at length she said, “I ought
to let you leave me, but I have not the courage, I cannot bear to
lose your friendship,—your affection, my Ellinor! Can you
love me? Have you loved me, knowing all the while, as every one
must? To-day—this very hour, since you left me, I
learned:—no I cannot tell you! Look on that page, Ellinor,
you will see why you find me thus. I am the most wretched, wretched
creature!”—here again she burst into an agony of
uncontrollable grief.

Who can describe the feelings of the Lady Anne—alone, in
her chamber, looking up at the portrait of her mother, upon which
she had so often gazed with delight and reverence! “Is it
possible?” said she to herself, “can this be she, of whom I have
read such dreadful things? Have all my young and happy days been
but a dream, from which I wake at last? Is not this dreadful
certainty still as a hideous dream to me?”

She had another cause of bitter grief. She loved the young and
noble-minded Lord Russell, the Earl of Bedford’s eldest son; and
she had heard him vow affection and faithfulness to her. She now
perceived at once the reasons why the Earl of Bedford had objected
to their marriage: she almost wondered within herself that the Lord
Russel should have chosen her; and though she loved him more for
avowing his attachment, though her heart pleaded warmly for him,
she determined to renounce his plighted love. “It must be done,”
she said, “and better now;—delay will but bring weakness.
Now I can write—I feel that I have strength.” And the
Lady Anne wrote, and folded with a trembling hand the letter which
should give up her life’s happiness; and fearing her resolution
might not hold, she despatched it by a messenger, as the Lord
Russel was then in the neighbourhood; and returned mournfully to
her own chamber. She opened an old volume which lay upon her
toilette—a volume to which she turned in time of trouble, to
seek that peace which the world cannot give.

Lady Ellinor soon aroused her by the tidings that a messenger
had arrived with a letter from her father, and she descended in
search of him.

“Oh, why is this? why am I here?” exclaimed the Lady Anne, as
trembling and almost sinking to the ground—her face
alternately pale and covered with crimson blushes, she found
herself alone with the Lord Russell. “You have received my letter,
might not this trial have been spared? my cup was already
sufficiently bitter—but I had drunk it. No!” she continued
gently withdrawing her hand which he had taken, “Do not make me
despise myself—the voice of duty separates us. Farewell! I
seek a messenger from my father.” “I am the messenger you seek,”
replied he, “I have seen the Lord Somerset, and bring this letter
to his daughter.”

The letter from the Earl of Somerset informed his daughter that
he had seen the Earl of Bedford, and had obviated all obstacle to
her union with the Lord Russell; that he was going himself to
travel in foreign parts; and that he wished her to be married
during a visit to the Earl and Countess of Bedford, whose
invitation he had accepted for her.

“Does not your father say, that in this marriage his happiness
is at stake?” said the Lord Russell, gently pressing her hand. The
Lady Anne hung down her head, and wept in silence. “Are you still
silent, my dearest?” continued he, “then will I summon another
advocate to plead for me.”

He quitted the apartment for a moment, but soon returned with
the Countess of [pg 383] Bedford, who had accompanied him to
claim her future daughter-in-law. The Lady Anne had made many
resolutions, but they yielded before the sweet and eloquent
entreaties that urged her to do what, in fact, she was all too
willing to consent to.

They were married, the Lord Russell and the Lady Anne Carr; and
they lived long and happily together. It was always thought that
the Lord Russell had loved not only well, but wisely; for the Lady
Anne was ever a faithful wife, and a loving, tender mother. It was
not until some years after her marriage, that the Lady Russell
discovered how the consent of the earl of Bedford had been
obtained. Till then, she knew not that this consent had been
withheld, until the Earl of Somerset should give his daughter a
large sum as her marriage portion:—the Earl of Bedford
calculating upon the difficulty, nay almost impossibility, of his
ever raising this sum.

But he had not calculated upon the devotion of the wretched
father’s love to his fair and innocent child: and he was astounded
when his terms were complied with, and the money paid at once into
his hands. He could no longer withhold his consent; nor could he
refuse some admiration of this proof of a father’s love for his
child. The Lord Somerset had, in fact, sold his whole possessions,
and reduced himself to an estate not far removed from beggary, to
give his daughter the husband of her choice.

It was the Lady Anne Carr, of whom Vandyke painted an exquisite
and well-known portrait, when Countess of Bedford. She was the
mother of William Lord Russell; and died heart-broken in her old
age, when she heard of the execution of her noble and first-born
son.

This is, perhaps, one of Mr. Tayler’s most successful pieces; it
has more breadth (if we may use such a term) than he is wont to
employ, the absence of which from his writing, we have more than
once had occasion to regret.

Time’s Telescope.

Our old friend Time has this year illustrated his march, or
object-glass, with a host of images or
spectra—that is, woodcuts of head and tail
pieces—to suit all tastes—from the mouldering cloister
of other days to the last balloon ascent. The Notices of Saints’
Days and Holidays, Chronology and Biography, Astronomical and
Naturalist’s Notices, are edited with more than usual industry; and
the poetry, original and selected, is for the most part very
pleasing.

As we have a running account with Time’s Telescope, (who has
not?) and occasionally illustrate our pages with extracts during
the year, we content ourselves for the present with a quotation
from an original article, by “a correspondent from Alveston,”
possessing much good feeling and a tone of reflection, to us very
pleasing:—

THE INFLUENCE OF A FLOWER.

Towards the close of a most lovely spring day—and such a
lovely one, to my fancy, has never beamed from the heavens
since—I carelessly plucked a cowslip from a copse side, and
gave it to Constance. ‘Twas on that beautiful evening when
she told me all her heart! as, seated on a mossy bank, she
dissected, with downcast eyes, every part of the flower; chives,
pointal, and petal, all were displayed; though I am sure she never
even thought of the class. My destiny through life I considered as
fixed from that hour.—Shortly afterwards I was called, by the
death of a relative, to a distant part of England; upon my return,
Constance was no more. The army was not my original
destination; but my mind began to be enfeebled by hourly musing
upon one subject alone, without cessation or available termination;
yet reason enough remained to convince me, that, without change and
excitement, it would degenerate into fatuity.

The preparation and voyage to India, new companions, and
ever-changing scenes, hushed my feelings, and produced a calm that
might be called a state of blessedness—a condition in which
the ignoble and inferior ingredients of our nature were subdued by
the divinity of mind. Years rolled on in almost constant service;
nor do I remember many of the events of that time, even with
interest or regret. In one advance of the army to which I was
attached, we had some skirmishing with the irregulars of our foe;
the pursuit was rapid, and I fell behind my detachment, wounded and
weary, in ascending a ghaut, resting in the jungle, with languid
eyes fixed on the ground, without any particular feeling but that
of fatigue, and the smarting of my shoulder. A cowslip
caught my sight! my blood rushed to my heart—and, shuddering,
I started on my feet, felt no fatigue, knew of no wound, and joined
my party. I had not seen this flower for ten years! but it probably
saved my life—an European officer, wounded and alone, might
have tempted the avarice of some of the numerous and savage
followers of an Indian army. In the cooler and calmer hours of
reflection since, I have often thought that this appearance
[pg
384] was a mere phantom, an illusion—the offspring of
weakness: I saw it but for a moment, and too imperfectly to be
assured of reality; and whatever I believed at the time seems now
to have been a painting on the mind rather than an object of
vision; but how that image started up. I conjecture not—the
effect was immediate and preservative. This flower was again seen
in Spain: I had the command of an advance party, and in one of the
recesses of the Pyrenees, of the romantic, beautiful Pyrenees, upon
a secluded bank, surrounded by a shrubbery so lovely as to be
noticed by many—was a cowslip. It was now nearly
twenty years since I had seen it in Mysore: I did not start; but a
cold and melancholy chill came over me; yet I might possibly have
gazed long on this humble little flower, and recalled many dormant
thoughts, had not a sense of duty (for we momentarily expected an
attack) summoned my attentions to the realities of life: so,
drawing the back of my hand across my eyes, I cheered my party
with, “Forward, lads,” and pursued my route, and saw it no more,
until England and all her flowery meadows met my view; but many
days and service had wasted life, and worn the fine edge of
sensibility away; they were now before me in endless profusion,
almost unheeded, and without excitement; I viewed not the cowslip,
when fifty, as I had done with the eyes of nineteen.

The Christmas Box.

This is the happiest title in the whole list of annuals.
There is nothing sentimental or lachrymose in it; but it is warm
and seasonable, and done up in a holly-green binding, it is all
over old Christmas.

The first story in the volume is Old Christmas; one of the gems
or sweets is Garry Owen, or the Snow-Woman, by Miss Edgeworth, for
it abounds with good sentiment, just such as we should wish in the
hearts and mouths of our own children, as a spice for their
prattle.

We pass over L’Egotiste Corrigée, par Madame de
Labourt—pretty enough—and the Ambitious Primrose, by
Miss Dagley. Then a Song, by Miss Mitford; and a Story of Old
Times, by Mrs. Hofland; and the Tragical History of Major Brown, a
capital piece of fun; and Pretty Bobby, one of Miss Mitford’s
delightful sketches. The Visit to the Zoological Gardens is not
just what we expected; still it is attractive. Major Beamish has
accommodated military tactics to the nursery in a pleasant little
sketch; and the proverb of Much Coin Much Care, by Mrs. R.S.
Jameson is a little farce for the same stage.

But the Cuts—the pictures—of which it would have
been more juvenile to have spoken first. These are from the
pencil of our “right trustye” friend and excellent artist, Mr. W.H.
Brooke, whose horses, coaches, and dogs excite so much mirth among
the young friends of the MIRROR—for, in truth, Mr. Brooke is
an A.M.—an associate of the MIRROR, and enables us to
jump from Whitehall to Constantine’s Arch at Rome, shake
hands with the Bears of the Zoological Society, and Peg in
the Ring at Abury.

The Christmas Box cuts are all fun and frolic—the
tail-piece of the preface, a bricklayer on a ladder, “spilling” a
hod of bricks—the Lord of Misrule, with his polichinel
army—the Boar’s Head—a little squat Cook and a steaming
Plum-Pudding—the Bee and Honeysuckle—Major Brown with a
Munchausen face—the Bear Pit, Monkeys’ Houses, and Horned
Owl, in the Zoological Gardens—and the Parliament of Animals,
with the Elephant as Chancellor, the Tortoise for “the table,” and
Monkeys for Counsel—the groups of Toy Soldiers—and the
head pieces of the Cobbler and his Wife—all excellent. Then
the Cricket and Friar, and a pair of Dancing Crickets—worth
all the fairy figures of the Smirkes, and a hundred others into the
bargain. These are the little quips of the pencil that curl up our
eye-lashes and dimple our faces more than all the Vatican gallery.
They are trifles—aye, “trifles light as air”—but their
influence convinces us that trifling is part of the great business
of life.

Now we are trifling our readers’ time; so to recommend the
Christmas Box for 1829, as one of the prettiest presents,
and as much better suited to children than was its
predecessor—and—pass we off.

Here our motley-minded sheet finishes, and we leave our readers
in possession of its sweet fancies. Its little compartments of
poetry and prose remind us of mosaic work, and its sentimentalities
have all the varieties of the kaleidoscope. To gladden the eye,
study the taste, and improve the heart, of each reader has been our
aim—feelings which we hope pervade this and every other
Number of the MIRROR.

Number 340 of the MIRROR contains the Notices of the Literary
Souvenir, Forget-Me-Not, Gem, and Amulet, and with the present
Number forms the Spirit of the Annuals for 1829.

Footnote 1:(return)

An artist of celebrity is now engaged on a portrait of Mr.
Southey, cum privilegio, we suppose, Mr. Southey is not the
only public man, whose lineaments have been traduced by engravers.
Only look at some of the patriotic gentlemen who figure at public
meetings, and in outline on cards, &c. But Houbraken is
now known to have been no more honest than his successors in
portrait engraving: although physiognomy and craniology ought to
help the moderns out in these matters.

Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near
Somerset-House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market,
Leipsic; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers.