business, or are utterly vapid; one or two of them, which shall be nameless, are rather a little violent and vulgar-so we hope that next year's Annuals will appear without any unnecessary or disagreeable introduction. THE INFANT CHRIST, WITH FLOWERS, Homo of Carlo Dolci, or by what "Blest age of innocence and truth, Ere the warm blood of wilder youth When He of virgin birth Stoop'd to the semblance of an earth-born Child-like, in ranging plain and wood? And e'en the blossoms strew'd Droop'd not, nor wither'd; but unfading shed A balmier fragrance round, Then blame we not the venturous dream Though dimm'd, yet undefaced! For who could mark that fair young brow, The ringlets of that widely clustering hair, That look serene, nor know there! Mark too that varied coronal, Where the rich Eastern flowers combine illustrative of seven of the engravings, No child of sin, no heir of death was was felt by him to impose fetters, at once irksome and oppressive, we cannot make out. To such a man, we, in our simplicity, should have thought it, instead of slavery, the most delightful of freedoms-a work of joy and love. Indeed, the Preface to the Iris is not of "colours dipt in heaven." Neither is that to the Souvenir. The truth is, all the prefaces are bad or indifferent; for they either enter into what may be called parish sky Alike in each his inward eye Flower, star, wave, vocal bird, beautiful poem, called the Guardian To Him were fraught with memories of Spirit, by the Rev. Henry Stebbing, Heaven. Yes-when this low, terrestrial sphere Her sweetest flowers-and if He wove which we are sorry is too long to quote, and one or two others, not more than respectable-but many difficulties, we can easily imagine, must occur in the way of an editor the first year, that will not the second-though indeed from mere pious lips, untouched by a coal from heaven, sacred poetry, and prose too, is apt to be rather dull, and to persuade even a kindled conscience to Might not that wreath outshine the sleep. The very reverse is the case crowns of Paradise? The peculiar, characteristic, and distinguishing charm of this most delightful Annual, the Iris, lies in the holy and divine spirit breathed from all its adornments. Eleven engravings by the best living masters in that art, of pictures that are allowed to be the very masterpieces of some of the greatest of the old paintersand all the subjects scriptural! Considered in the light of an harmonious whole, the Iris certainly is the most complete-we speak of its engravings -of all the Annuals. Nothing of the "earth earthy,"-unless we so call contrition's tears in the upraised eyes of Carlo Dolci's Magdalen-obtrudes itself upon our view, as it ranges along these sanctities, from the Virgin Mother, the Frontispiece, sitting in beatitude with her divine child, to Hagar with Ishmael in the desert, just as her fainting spirit is restored within her by the voice of the Lord. That such a series may be monotonous, can be thought only by those who weary in reading the Old and New Testament. We carry on the same devout spirit with which we contemplate the first of the series to the next, and then along with new gathered impulses to one and all of the others. Most of them might be are-Altar-pieces; and the rest worthy a place on the holiest walls. The "Christ in the garden of Gethsemane," from an antique-name of the artist unknown-is most sublime. It is not too painful for mortal eye to look on, as some pictures of that trial are; and Mr Dale has judged, we think, wisely and well, in giving no "Crucifixion." The literary contents of the Iris are respectable, and perhaps, with the exception of the editor's own compositions, a very VOL. XXVI. NO. CLX. with poetry and prose too of a religious character, when piety warms into life the seeds of genius in the soul, and when the true poet "Fixes his Pindus upon Lebanon." "Palms of glory, raiment bright, Yet the conquerors bring their palms Take the kingdom-it is thine; King of kings, and Lord of lords!' If their robes are white as snow, Who were these?-On earth they dwelt, They were mortal, too, like us; when the sun is seen struggling Sometimes in cloudy weather, through a storm, one expects, as a relief to the disastrous dulness of the day, either a rainbow, or something like it in the sky. But no rainbow comes-only a "false glitter," light of promise to the wish," but that parts the gloom, and keeps the breaks it to the eye"- -so sometimes on the portentous dulness of those 3 R pages, a false lustre seems spread ing itself out into an Iris; but after a few ineffectual gleams, falls into pieces and disappears. In plainer words, some fragments of composition here and there are deceitful, and after for a moment deluding the eye, fade away into nothing, and leave a leaden blank, where shone the false and ineffectual fire. Or in plainer words still, occasionally this volume acts as a soporific, till the patient is awakened by his own snore. THE AMULET Was the first Annual that affectedor we ought rather to say, exhibited -a more serious, solemn, and even sacred character, than one might, perhaps, without due reflection, have thought altogether suitable to a volume, which, from its mode and season of publication, was naturally expected to be a volume chiefly for amusement or entertainment. Accordingly it was subjected, we believe, to a good deal of critical carping from persons who pretended to be displeased with religion out of place and time; as if religion could ever be out of place and time in the hands of thoughtful writers and thoughtful readers, desirous of having even what is called their lighter studies productive of the very best instruction. It was the precursor undoubtedly of the Iris; and may be truly said now to occupy a middle station between that, which is entirely religious, and the other Annuals, from which religion is not purposely excluded indeed, but in which it is properly according to their plan -but a rare theme or subject. From the beginning the Amulet has been excellent-both in spirit and execution-it has improved every year, and this season it is fairly entitled to take its place with the best on the list, both on the score of its embellishments and its literature. It is equally free from the sin of cant and of liberalism in its religion, which to our minds is unobtrusively yet earnestly Christian. The editor, who is a most amiable and able man, and a very good writer, has by far too deep a sense of the awfulness of the mysteries of our faith, to treat of them in a volume which, after all, being necessarily of a miscellaneous nature, and rightly containing gay and light matter and airy, must often be taken up in moods of mind when the reader is unprepared for such sanctities. On the other hand, Mr Hall is not ashamed of the faith that is in him, nor does he fear that, even in hours of ordinary thought, the "still small voice" of piety will not be heard sweetly and restoratively; and that from pictures of religious peace, comfort, and contentment, many a reader who may have taken up the Amulet for amusement merely, or to while away a vacant hour, will not rise "a wiser and a better man." He has in his book many coadjutors of congenial spirit and corresponding power, and of these, one of the best in all respects is Mrs Hall, a lady of much taste and feeling, and, as need may be, a very lively or a very touching writer. The Embellishments, which are twelve in number, are all good, and some of them of surpassing excellence. The "First Interview between the Spaniards and Peruvians," by Briggs-engraved by Greatbach, is one of the most elegant compositions we have lately seen; and the contrast affecting to a great degree between the ferocious duplicity of those who come to destroy, and the noble-the heroic simplicity of shape and soul of the doomed Inca, and his Queen, and their plumed retinue. It is the opening scene of a bloody tragedy,-“ coming events cast their shadows before;" and the catastrophe, yet unacted, darkens the unsuspecting sunshine. In one part of the background, between the Inca Atahualpa, and Father Vincent Valverde, chaplain to the expedition, is seen the ominous mouth of a cannon; and, on another, a mounted warrior burning for the combat, in which that fearful chivalry will tread down so many crests; and behind him spears athirst for blood, bristling in the gloom that darkens all that region of the sky with prophetic shadows. What a pleasant relief from the forebodings of such horrors, to turn to the "Fisherman's Children," by that exquisite artist, Collins! There the pretty pair of loving creatures are kneeling together on the sands, in a calm sunset, after a day of storm, and beholding, in scarce-assured belief, their father's boat yet a speck on the horizon, brought back in deliverance to their prayers. 'Tis as simple as some stanza in an old ballad. The tale is told at once. We think of the many tears shed, now that they are wiped from their eyes; and the joy that is present speaks affectingly of the grief that is past. The touch of true genius is everywhere,-in the features of the children, so perfectly natural-the broken shingly shore around them as they kneel-that gigantic pile of rock, wave-worn into a wide cavern, with its lofty portalthe subsiding, subsided sea-the golden sun, that seems glad to shine over a calm at last-and the settling, settled clouds of a yet uncertain heaven! The transition is easy along the same line of thought and feeling to that lovely "Gleaner," by Holmesa Lavinia, who might well win the heart of the owner of the field-a Ruth, who might sleep at the feet of Boaz, and then lay her wedded head beside his on the pillow. Is this the same happy, humble, glad and graceful creature of whom Wordsworth sung last year in the Keepsake, “a strain that will not die?" Perhaps not; but one beauteous image recals another; and there is a sameness which the awakened heart delights to recognise in all the favourites of heaven. Nor is the "Anxious Wife," by Mulready, one of the most original paint ers of the truly English school, less affecting and expressive. Her husband, we see from her face, is at sea; and, had all gone right, would ere now have been at home. Yet, though disturbed, she is far from being in despair. But even the slightest fear of death ruefully darkens the countenance of loveand at the open window she sits, feeding her ear on the sugh of evening, to devour the first faint tread of his coming footsteps. But, as yet, he comes not-though there behold two little angels praying for him-one asleep in its cradle, in dreams-and the other on her knees, with his head hidden in the lap of his mother; who, with affectionate hand, presses its dear hair, as if joining in the murmured petition to the God who takes care of the sailor on the seas. Is this from some divine picture of one of the inspired masters of old, the Sisters of Bethany? No; the picture is by a living power-one who will take his place among the immortals; for the name of Leslie will never die while genius is hallowed on earth, and held in reverential remembrance. We wish that we-even we-had been asked to try to express some of the emotions that flow back and forwards in our soul, to and from that holy conception, so holily realized; yet perhaps it is better not, for feeling with us has not always words at will; and the sight of the Saviour addressing Mary and Martha has touched a chord in a female heart that gives forth excellent music-though music from no mortal lips can worthily hymn the benignity imaged there-far beyond human, and indeed altogether divine. THE SISTERS OF BETHANY. "By Miss Jewesbury. "Picture, thou troublest me. I cannot gaze And thou hast female forms-one meekly sad, But heaven is in that form!-God breathes in Him- The thrilling words that from his lips now flow, But man, like whom thou walk'dst in heart and limb, But our Monologue is at an end for a month-and that yawn is a signal for bed. Gentle reader, the allusion is, in as far as you may be implicated, impersonal; the gant was from us, wearied, we are ashamed to confess it, of our own wisdom. Yet neither, we are proud to confess it, has our Monologue been monotonous, but, on the contrary, varied by a merry sadness, like that of the rich-mouthed nightingale. Will our Public believe us when we tell her, that we have taken twenty-four hours -to a minute-to this Soliloquy? We were at our board of green cloth precisely as the lobby-clock struck six-of the morning of Monday the 16th of November, and now of the Tuesday immediately following 'tis the self-same hour. Having arranged the Annuals into Triads, we proceeded piecemeal to peruse; two we dispatched before breakfast-two between breakfast and lunch-and two between lunch and dinner. Not one single line of verse or prose escaped us-and as we went along, on a slip of paper with our keelavine we referred our amanuensis to the quotations. For to send such angels to the devil would be impious, and a blot on their fair fame might perad venture befall them on their way through Shakspeare square. Gazing on the engravings consumed several hours; and thus it was six o'clock in the evening, to a minim, when we began to brandish our bramah. Saving breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, and supper, including, of course, small beer, ale, porter, port, claret, Madeira, and a couple of calkers, not a particle, during the article, of any one thing, solid or liquid, have we had to eat or drink in this hungry, and thirsty, and weary world. The consequence may be conjectured-we are all but asleep. The third Triad, therefore, consisting of the Gem, the Bijoux, and the Winter's Wreath, must not be so unreasonable and so unfeeling as to withhold us from bed. The Juvenile Annuals will please to shew us up stairs, each with a candle in his or her hand-and Mr Hood's New Comic is too much of a Christian to desire to transform a gant into a guffaw. In a week or two we shall get up, if the weather improves; and who knows but the opening article of our January Number may be the conclusion, or rather continuation, of our Monologue, or Soliloquy on the Annuals? |