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LITERAT U R E.

"THE KEEPSAKE," and "HEATH'S BOOK OF BEAUTY," for 1846. Edited by the Countess of Blessington. (Longman.)-It is now some years since the Countess of Blessington first swayed the double editorial sceptre of Mr. Heath's two most popular annuals; and the manner in which this "united kingdom" flourishes with perennial grace and vigour must bear witness to the talent and taste evinced by the versatile and gifted editress. For our own part, we

sort of official report of the present condition of all her sisters, telling how poor

"Melpomene has had a hard fight for subsistence, and being harshly turned out of her own doors, had thrown herself into the New River Head, when she was charitably taken out by the Shakspeare Humane Society, and carried into Sadler's Wells to be resus. citated!" and how "Clio is the proprietress of a pictorial newspaper, and during the week sells catalogues at Madame Tussaud's!"

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The old brown Coat, an American Story," is one of Captain Marryat's most clever and racy morsels. "A Night in the Palanquin," by E. A. H. O., is a simple, " o'er true" tale, full of genuine pathos, and describing Indian scenery, life, and manners with a power only to be acquired from feeling, as well as observation and personal experience. Few authors prove more certainly than this gifted initialist how much the heart helps the head. "The Widow's Daughter," by Mrs. Walker, is feelingly told; and "Vincentio di Civitetta," by Miss E.A. St. John, is one of the most powerful tales in the book. We are not certain if she be the daughter of the well-known author, but if so, she has inherited no mean share of her father's talent. "The Pawnee's Ransom," by our own frequent contributor, Georgina Munro, is one of the best stories of American Indian life we have ever read. J. R., of Oxford, has furnished some vigorous poems, and Anna Savage, Mrs. F. B. Scott, Grace Aguilar, Camilla Toulmin, B. Simmonds, Lady E. Stuart Wortley, B. Disraeli, N. Michell, Barry Cornwell, Lord John Manners, and a numerous list of etceteras, complete the goodly band of contributors.

have an affectionate remembrance of the "annuals" they are associated with early recollections of Christmas and New Year's gifts, in those girlish days when the highest of earthly enjoyments was an interesting story, and we drew heavy instalments on our eyesight (to be paid by-and-bye, no doubt), and often read by moonlight rather than press our pillow, while uncertain if the heroine of one would die or-marry! In those days the annuals were small, meeklooking things, and wore a sober and substantial suit of Morocco, instead of dazzling us in purple and scarlet: but it has been to us a matter of painful regret to see our old favourites drop, one by one, into their silent graves, after a struggle for existence, too, in most cases. To be sure, we cling the more fondly to those which are spared; and rarely, indeed, have any volumes of this description appeared more worthy of regard and commendation than those before us. We are going to make a bold remark, but we believe it to be a true one: if we are wrong, the error is one of the judgment, and we cannot help it. We believe that these two books contain articles of as high literary merit as are to be found in annuals bearing the date of their "palmy days," which ten or fifteen years ago In the "Keepsake" we find a dramatic sketch were called. In many respects we even give the from the powerful pen of Eugene Sue, more preference to those for 1846, inasmuch as the English in sentiment than is commonly found articles are generally shorter than they used to from a French writer. Here, too, is an Irish be, and so far very much better adapted for the sketch, by Mrs. S. C. Hall, in her own felicitous purposes of a drawing-room table-book, to style. "The Country Banker" is one of Mrs. which more than ten minutes at a time are very Abdy's sparkling stories. A Ghost Story," seldom devoted-time enough to enjoy a spark- by Lady Blessington, displays a thorough knowling sketch, a brief story, a humorous anecdote ledge of human nature, and no small degree of pithily told, or even a beautiful poem of a page humour mingled with some pathos. The idea or two; and all of these are to be found here, of a first wife, to whom vows of eternal faith thickly scattered. We are sick of the parrot cry, have been breathed, returning to the home made "the annuals are not what they used to be "happy by a second, is surely an admirable one; If they are not, then have the popular magazines would we had space to extract it entire : it would degenerated also; for we here behold a goodly be spoiled by mutilation. Some very beautiful band of most successful magazine writers, in ad- poetry, from the same pen, graces both books; dition to many great writers of a different class. and an admirable fragment from the French chroNow, a great writer cannot write ill, not, we be- nicles, shines out with characteristic force in the lieve, were he to try. The light stroke of a giant "Book of Beauty." We could wish for more is mightier than a pigmy's greatest effort, and contributions from Miss Power; the few verses accordingly we find much of the real ore, and she gives us are so very charming, and her not tinsel, here. We doubt if Albert Smith prose sketch, "The Postman's Knock," is so ever wrote a more humorous chapter than his truthful and touching. Anna Savage's poems "Struggles of Terpischore," which includes again power every year; and the “Keepsake

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contains so beautiful a one by Miss Garrow, that we are tempted to extract it entire :

"SHE IS NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH. "Spell-bound upon her couch of glittering sea, Beneath her queenly-starred canopy, Wan, still, and breathless lieth Italy,

The land of many woes.

Her records are but wonder-tales of yore;
Men taunt her with the mighty sons she bore-
The teeming nations breathe her name no more
Amid their freedom throes-

She, from whose lavish breast they drew the tide
Which form'd and fed the sinews of their pride-
She, who outspread her royal robe to hide

Their infant nakedness

She, who won forth their childhood shy and rude
From the deep tangles of the virgin wood;
Tamed the fierce eye, and check'd the savage mood,
By precept and caress-

She to whose sacred torch as pilgrims came,
Poet and sage, and kindled at its flame,
The lonely beacon of a hallow'd name,

'Mid error's shifting sand

She, the sweet singer, she the teacher wise,
The valiant, proud, and beautiful, now lies,
Theme for cold scorn, and venom'd pleasantries
To that unfeeling band,

Who use her for an hostelry, and dare

To thaw them in her sun, and drink her air,
While churlish guests, they quarrel with their fare,
Trampling the prostrate land-

She lies for dead; the sullen air around
Hangs motionless, save that with drowning sound
An aged priest, with eyes upon the ground
Mutters the death-prayer low;

And that sometimes her helpless children raise
A feeble wailing for the ancient days—
And that with rustlings faint the crown of bays
Drops piecemeal from her brow.

Yet often, as the hour of storm descends

On neighbour shores, and the strong change-wind bends

Their loftiest glories, reed-like, to its ends,

Still may the world behold

A shudder creep along her limbs supine-
A gasping heave, a mournful, speechless sign,
O, mother! in that once strong heart of thine
The stream is not yet cold;

Thou fair, enchanted queen, whom baleful lore
Would hold in chains of sleep for evermore ;
Alas! the age of simple trust is o'er :

No fated Paladin

Comes o'er thy mountain walls, arm'd cap-à-pie ;
Nor from the borders of thy tideless sea,
With the warm clasp of love to waken thee,
To woo thee, and to win.

Do thy sons murmur? Let not one or two
Attempt the work ten thousand hands should do!
What foe can house, where, hopeful, firm, and true,
Stirred by a single will,

The dwellers of the soil, day after day,
Seek, seize, loosen, upturn each lingering stay
Of tyranny, and round their homesteads slay
The fibrous roots of ill?

Fling wide the doors! and let the echoing strife,
The fresh, strong current of our northern life
Rush o'er her brow; this sluggish air is rife
With treacherous perfum'd rest.
Plot no more, or plot all. Who may defy
A nation link'd in vast conspiracy?
Who shall resist thy sons, oh Italy,

If once more freedom-blest?"

دو

And behold, that which is usually first regarded, we have not yet mentioned, namely, the artistic department! Among the "Beauties," two or three of the loveliest are those to which we find a tantalizing blank, or the vague clue of an initial. Well, no matter; a fine portrait is dear to the lover of art, even if he know not the painter's living inspiration. "The Honourable Mrs. engraved by Robinson, after Kenny Meadows, is a gem of this description, full of grace, intelligence, and beauty. "The Lady Henrietta," by Mote, after J. W. Wright, "Miss Lucy B- by Egleton, after a painting by Frith, "Lady Brooke," and the "Misses M'Leod," keep up the title of the work; and "Donna Inez," engraved by Edwards, after Egg, has all the witching beauty of a Spanish dame. Certainly the mantilla was meant to add a grace to loveliness, and hide defects where they exist. Miss Power illustrates this portrait by some charming lines, of which we extract a few:

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"Thou art come from a land where the sun ever beameth,

Where perfume and music hang rich on the air; A glorious land, where, to breathe, even seemeth Enjoyment sufficient to chase every care.

"I read in those dark eyes a soul full of passion :

There's energy e'en in those tiny-clasp'd hands; Each feature, each trait is replete with expression, Unlike the cold faces of northern lands."

The illustrations to the "Keepsake❞—of a miscellaneous class-are, to our taste, yet more beautiful and highly finished. "Cortile Salviati," engraved by R. Wallis, after a painting by Lake Price, is one of those sunny Italian scenes which make us sigh for the balmy south, the land of song and of romance: and the "Fête Champetre," and "A Rustic Fair," are eminently beautiful. "The Bell," by A. T. Heath, after Edward Corbould (to which Miss E. Youatt has written a touching story), and "Ianthe," by the same artists, deserve equal commendation. "The Quarrel" is in Stephanoff's happiest style; and "The Exchange," by Charles Heath, is a perfect gem for delicacy and expression. The frontispiece to the "KeepVictoria, sake" is an exquisite portrait of “ Princess Royal," engraved by J. Thompson, from a painting by Lucas, in the possession of her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent. We cannot close our notice, without transcribing to our pages the feeling verses inspired by this sweet and interesting picture :

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"Thou art the bond of love as pure

As ever warm'd a mortal heart; Through years enduring and secure, Although she fills a Monarch's part. With the stern duties empire brings,

And anxious thoughts for England's weal,
Love o'er her destiny still flings

Its charm, and gnawing care can heal. "And thou, fair child, in whose young face We love to trace thy royal line, Endow'd with all the winning grace That youth and innocence combineThou, first-born of our gracious Queen, Art dear to every English breast; And blessings flow when thou art seen, By truthful-loving lips exprest." ESSAYS BY THE PUPILS AT THE COLLEGE OF THE DEAF AND DUMB, RUGBY, WARWICKSHIRE. (Longman).—This is a remarkable little volume, and highly interesting from the circumstances under which it has been produced. We are informed that these essays were written just as they are here printed, without deliberation, in the presence of the visiters by whom the subjects were proposed; and, in our opinion, it would be unjust to measure them by any high standard of literary excellence. At the same time, they present a curious and most gratifying evidence of the moral and intellectual attainments possible by the afflicted deaf mutes. The essays are above fifty in number, on various subjects, such as Religion, Napoleon, Railroads, Patriotism, &c., &c., treated in styles sufficiently opposite, to prove that very different minds have been employed in their production; indeed, as Mr. Bingham the compiler truly says, "the scale of intellect in them is as variously graduated as in other persons." Accordingly, we have among them writers matter-of-fact or imaginative, lively and severe, reverential of the past or hopeful of the future. Not the least curious observation to be made in these pages is the frequent allusions to sound. What idea can the deaf and dumb form of "a shout of victory," a coach "rattling through the town," "a trumpet peal," the "voices of Burke, Pitt, and Wilberforce," and many such phrases which are found? There is something very touching in the essay on the question "Which is the greater loss, Sight or Hearing?" (one we could scarcely have had the heart to put), in which the author modestly submitting his ignorance of the blessing of the sense of hearing, yet evidently inclines to think his own affliction a greater one than blindness. The essay on the subject proposed by Charles Dickens "An Author" is somewhat humourous, and the entire volume will be very gratifying to all who take an interest in the patient and philanthropic exertions of those who are engaged in enlightening the mental darkness

of the deaf and dumb.

FULCHER'S LADIES' MEMORANDUM BOOK. -With annuals and almanacs come pocketbooks, of course, and certainly this contains the greatest amount of matter within the given compass of any we have yet seen; besides

abundant ruled pages for memoranda and cash account, almanac for 1846, and several highly finished engravings, we have original poetry by Frances Brown, Bernard Barton, and other writers known to fame, and several poems selected from published sources with taste and judgment; as for charades, enigmas, &c., these are so numerous and so various, they would take dull folks like ourselves the whole of the ensuing year to guess them, did we set ourselves so hopeless a task.

SCULPTURE. We have often had occasion to draw attention to Mr. Lough's exquisite productions, and it has been our privilege within the past month to view, in the clay, a new work which belongs to that high class of ideal art, in which he has made himself so eminently distinguished. Those who remember his lago, Ophelia, and Lady Macbeth, will rejoice to hear that he has added to them another Shakspere creation. One of "Shakspere's women," Portia, the high-souled and true, the gentle and obedient daughter, yet the active, energetic wife, who understands-rare knowledge!—that friendship and gratitude are things as high and sacred as The sculptor love itself. It may be more so. has chosen the moment when Bassanio is choosing the casket, after Portia has said

"If you do love me you will find me out." of a seraphic Faith, to which Hope lends a The finely chiselled features wear the expression human glory. Faith in the wisdom of her dead father's strange decree, but the stake is so great that trembling Hope must reign there too. Even the figure seems dilating with the sensation of the moment, while the beautiful hands-capable of such forceful expression by the skill of a master-folding on each other, rest on the pipes of an organ, the apt and poetical type of her

will

"Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swanlike end, Fading in music."

The presence of the caskets helps to tell the story, and individualize the character at the first glance; but such adjuncts are little regarded by those who appreciate the wonderful power this great artist possesses of transfusing the ideal of character into his works. In this we behold Portia at the moment which decides her destiny, but we know also that she is capable of all she undertakes, and see her as the wise young doctor, the "Daniel come to judgment." More than this, though less regarded, the high-hearted woman who, from that noble heart, forgives her husband that he has parted with her ring, and that he would have relinquished her to save his friend. We should like to see a gallery of Shakspere characters by Mr. Lough (with his Milton's Satan admitted among them, the greatest, we think, of all his grand achievements), and believe such marble commentaries on the mighty Bard would be to the lovers of poetry

and art, among the most acceptable the world has yet known. As Mr. Lough is, in some respects, an artist far in advance of popular style and taste, his works are those which educate the eye and the understanding.

MUSIC.

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"THE AMICABLE QUADRILLES.' "THE CITY OF LONDON QUADRILLES.' "THE ROYAL POLKA." Composed by George J. O. Allman. Lewis & Co.-Before we notice Mr. Allman's ballads, we must say a word in recommendation of the above compositions, so appropriate as the season for Christmas festivities and the merry dance draws near. "The Amicable Quadrilles," and "The Royal Polka," have found favour with Adam's band, and have been danced at her Majesty's state balls; and "The City of London" set deserve equal popularity. The fourth and fifth figures, dedicated to the city monsters Gog and Magog, are remarkably spirited and lively. We congratulate_the_composer on the services he has rendered to Terpsichore.

"COME TO ME, LOVE." "THE SEA GULL." "OH! I COULD WEEP." Composed by George J. O. Allman. Lewis & Co.

"THE LONELY ISLE!" The words from Sir W. Scott's" Lady of the Lake." Composed by George J. O. Allman. Leader and Cock.

"GOOD NIGHT!" Poetry by Percy Bysshe Shelley; the music composed by George J. O. Allman. Prowse.

The first of these is a pleasing serenade, in which andante and allegretto time alternate with very good effect. "The Sea Gull" is a spirited song, something in the style which Russell has made popular, and worthier of better words than the absurd and inflated bathos which we are constrained to say are those to which the composer has wedded his melody. Shelley and Scott, opposite as they may be to each other, have respectively inspired productions of higher pretensions, and more elaborate execution, both of which deserve a niche in the musical library. 'Oh! I could weep," is a recitative from a MS. opera, words and music both by Mr. Allman. It is a subject which wins upon the ear, and the accompaniment is graceful and effective.

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THE PORTFOLIO, No. 2, "THOU ART NOT BY MY SIDE." A series of vocal compositions by Peter R. Nicholls and Reginald Hylton. Ransford, Charles-street.

This is the second of a series which promises to be a delightful acquisition to the amateur's stock of vocal music. It is a charming plaintive melody in A major, wedded to words by Miss M. H. Acton, a young poetess whose graceful productions must be familiar to our readers. A phrase or two in the melody reminds us of an old favourite, "Friends depart," but scarcely sufficiently to convict the composer of plagiarism.

AMUSEMENTS

OF THE

MONTH.

The healthier tone on the face of theatrical almost necessarily a direct imitation. But to affairs, noticed in our last number, has con- glance at the music and libretto of the productinued with a vigour that almost promises tion:-The music is from the pen of a composer fulfilment to the hope that it is not a flush but lately known to the public, Mr. W. V. on the cheek, but is indeed engrafted in the Wallace; and the libretto is by the clever theasystem; and that this sudden recall of the le-trical poet, Mr. Edward Fitzball. The impresgitimate drama is not a delusive meteor-a will-o'-the-wisp-floating over the decaying and corrupted mass, which has for a long series of years been gathering, not only on the highways of dramatic art, but in every little bye-lane that could give even the slightest encouragement to the congregating of the disgraceful and destructive injury; a light-a beacon to engage the best energies of a benighted public, who walk upon the unsound footing of fashionable taste: but to the "boards."

DRURY LANE.

The Fairy Oak has, as we prognosticated, died a sudden death; and a new opera, under the title of Maritana, has usurped its place. Of the plot of the opera, it will only be necessary to observe that it is a repetition of a worn-out story, that has been before the public for many months, viz., that of Don Cæsar de Bazan. Of this production, in its comedy form, we have before given the outline in the columns of this magazine, and of it the operatic version is

sion left on the mind, not of one, but of all who have witnessed this opera, is, that both the poet and the composer have done their best to produce a bouquet of sweets, and their success so far may be judged of, when it is said that the whole production is sweet, almost to cloying. The overture, on its first being produced, was listened to with profound attention, and at its conclusion received an unanimous encore, which was acknowledged by the composer, who conducted on the occasion. The overture is a well constructed composition, interweaving the principal themes of the opera; and had it been a little less noisy, and a little more perfectly executed by the orchestra, it had approached very nigh perfection among the works of its class. There is, pervading the entire composition, a heaviness not altogether in character with the parts to which it is written; the music does not agree with the character; it is like a monk's cowl on the head of a romping young lady." It is deficient, to a great extent, in the graceful gaiety which gives a life and reality to works of

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this class; and, moreover, has become a matter almost of necessity to make it a welcome morsel to the pampered taste of the play-going public. To select the beauties of the opera were a task the limited space of these pages will not allow, but some there are must not be passed over in silence. Don Jose (Mr. H. Phillips), finding the cards he plays are desperate, consoles himself with the idea that on his success depends his possession of the Queen; he therefore gives vent to his feelings in the following ballad: the music is in one flat, and was most deliciously

sung:

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Mr. Harrison's performance of the reckless Don Cæsar, though perhaps not quite a failure, was not decidedly successful; while Miss Poole and Mr. H. Phillips were not only in fine voice, but played their parts with a right feeling of character; indeed the whole opera has had every care bestowed upon its production, and was given out for repetition amid the most enthusiastic applause, the usual theatrical honours having been accorded to the composer, and his principal assistants of the night's adventure. The new ballet divertissement, The Devil to Pay, has been quite successful, and is received with the greatest approbation by overflowing houses.

HAYMARKET.

Mr. Anderson and Miss Helen Faucit have

appeared during the last month in The Lady of
Lyons, The Hunchback, and in Shakspere's play
haps the best of Mr. Anderson's performances,
of As You Like It. The part of Jaques is per-
has not had the opportunity of "
since his re-appearance. In this character he
which we particularly observed him liable to in
ranting,"
the two plays first-mentioned; not so, however,
in this; on the contrary, the character is well
understood, and the performance does credit to
Mr. Anderson's talents, which are, doubtless, of
a character little inferior to those of our greatest
living actors. But what can be said of Miss
Helen Faucit's Rosalind? To say it is perfec-
tion in parts, is poor praise, when the repre-
sentation, even in the detail, be it never so
minute, has gained the climax of perfection, in
giving life, energy, being, to the poet's mind!
It is the Rosalind beyond the speaking body,
there is no apparent stinting of the spirit to the
art in which it is developed, but uncurbed; the
mind seems to have threaded all the innumerable
beauties of this, one of the most beautiful of
Shakspere's all-perfect female characters, has
threaded them, like a gorgeous necklace, into one
unbroken chain of the most delicate and yet
brilliant effect. A new, and be it added, a suc-
cessful comedy, bearing the name of The Maiden
Aunt, has been produced, and from the pen of
Mr. Richard Brinsley Knowles, a younger son
of the dramatist-so long and so justly famous
-Mr. Sheridan Knowles, described in the dedi-
cation of this play as "the illustrious author of
Virginius." The plot, which is simple, and which
has scarcely a deviation from the straight-for-
ward, is as follows; we extract from a contem-
porary:-Sir Simon Sage (Mr. Farren), who is
a good-natured old bachelor fool, vastly rich, as
all stage old bachelors have been from time im-
memorial, has a nephew, Percy Sage (Mr. Hud-
son), whom he has brought up as his heir, and
whom he designs to marry to the daughter of an
old rich neighbour, Peter Wilmot (Mr. Tilbury),
once his most deadly enemy, but now his most
interested friend. Sir Simon has, besides, a pet
project for himself, viz., to espouse the comely
Mistress Sarah Wilmot, rogue-Peter's sister, and
thus to consummate his own and his nephew's
happiness. When it is stated that the amorous
knight has counted sixty-and-one years, it should
for the sake of probability, have been "three-
score-and-ten:" the character suggested for him
by one of the "walking gentlemen," Montague,
in the first scene of the play, will not be esteemed
inapt, or reckoned inappropriate :—
"Caprice mocks all surmise

Of reason, and in that commodity
Sir Simon passes all. He is one of those
Whose fallen years, instead of wearing out,
Have worn in! Full of his own opinion,
A meddler, nothing thriving that he touches,
Yet doing everything in wisdom's name,
Whose special minister he thinks himself!"

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