GIFT-BOOKS OF THE SEASON.

THE number of gift-books that are spread before us, better mark the approach of winter than the hazy mornings, and the chilly evenings, and the saddening aspect which nature even at mid-day wears when the sun happens to be clouded.

Of these volumes there are two classes,—the first, Annuals proper; the other, books which resemble them only in their beauty of form, or the keepsake purpose to which they can be applied. We will take the regulars first.

1. Friendship's Offering, and Irinler's Wreath, for 1838. 2. The Christian Keepsake. 1838. 3. Fisher's Juvenile Scrap.Bonk. 1838. 4, The Drawingrown Scrap. Book. 1838.

1. Were we to go back to old times for the purpose of compari- son, it is probable that we might detect some slight falling-off in the spirit of Friendship's Offering; but who wants criticism in things intended for Christmas ? Yet, except in those indescribable somethings which escape all but the connoisseur, the present volume is as agreeable as in those days when PRINGLE or HERVEY was its animating soul, and we used to think it one of the plea- santest of the tribe, all things considered. There is still the same judicious intermixture of prose and verse; the verse running glibly enough, and the prose mostly tales of romance, which filling a book might be prolonged to weariness, but occupying only a few pages close before one has time to tire.

Of this class of' tales, Miss WICKLAND'S " Charlotte de Montmo- renci," a lady who eloped with her husband on her wedding-night to escape the gallant intentions of Henri Quatre, appears to us the best, not only as the most pleasing in its subject and termination, but as pos.-essing much of the true spirit of romance. "The Avenger," by the author of Tough Yarns, has vigour and sea knowledge, but is somee hat coarse, with a morality none of the highest as regards smuggling and buccaneering. " Flora Macdonald" is most re- maikable for the incidental anecdote that George the Fourth when in Edinburgh offended the Scottish chiefs at first by calling himself the King of England instead of Great Britain. And "Winning the Gloves" is a pleasant piece of Italian adventure, after the manner of Mrs. RADCLIFFE and the Bravo of Venice. The poet of most fame is BARRY CORNWALL ; whose " Night- sketch taken near Newgate" is real, but common. We pre- fer CORNELIUS W EBBS'S "Summer Scene." Although, as a whole, the subject may be overlaid with minute images, yet the following passage appears to us an exquisite bit of pastoral land- scape painting.

The knotted snake, where heavy king

In winter poached the watery soil, Enjoys the sun's intemperate shine, And, touched, untwists his easy coil, But is too indolent to stir Far from the gentle passenger.

Save him, there is no living thing That crawls, or glides, or spreads the wing, 'Moog all the myriad things that swarm In Nature's universal farm, But from the sultry fields has fled, And all this living world seems dead. —Yes, now I reach the river's side, Where the lank willows spread a shade; The nimble trout, with sudden glide, When they behold toy shadow dim Hang darkening o'er the water's brim,

Into their oozy caverns slide, And none are seen where hundreds played.

But soon, the intruding terror gone,

Slowly, slily, one by one,

Into the middle stream they row,

Back-glancing often as they go,

With sharp, retrospective eyes,

Still careful of some new surprise.

Fierce and more fierce descends the heat, And warns me timely to retreat.

I watch the pallid moon Follow the fiery sun Up the hot height of noon, And wish the day was done, Thet I might wander and enjoy

Her evening shine, more cool and coy. Some three hours siuce the cattle fled Where branches screen them overhead ;

And front afar or near, However quick the ear, No sound is heard of voice or tread :

Not even the gentle house-dove's coo

Comes the sullen silence through; All living sounds are dumb, Even the gnat's shrill hum.

t 2. The Christian Keepsake. There is unquestionably much in having a pursuit—some definite object of study and purpose of action. It gives unity, matter, and what is more than all, reality. 'Whilst volumes that merely aim at " light literature" very often turn out to be of the heaviest, miscellanies that treat of a serious subject, and are written by men not perhaps altogether Skilled in authorcraft, systematically eschewing sonic of the arts of composition, and using a phraseology which smacks at least of mannerism, are far from unattractive. Such is the case with this Annual ; which, in the solidity and permanent interest of its subjects, may almost claim the character of perennial, from the world to which it is addressed.

We say this although the present volume is not equal to some we have seen. There is no article like the paper on CLARKSON with the exquisite humbug-scene by the Emperor ALEXANDER, or even the biography of WILBERFORCE. But every prose paper in it is informing, sustained, and painstaking. The opening article, on the "African Witnesses," gives a clear and condensed summary of the behavior of the Dutch and English settlers at the Cape to the aborigines; a sketch of the two native chieftains who gave evidence before the Committee, at i h a rather interesting quotation from their evidence. The ansa er to the following ques- tion (and there had been several such,) is a lmirable for its diplo- matic caution. It has also a satirical simplicity which diplo- macy rarely reaches- " Did not the Governor know of the wrong that had been done to you ?"—.. " I do not know that : but he knew that he had taken my country."

Amongst other things of solid workmanship, there is a notice, biographical, critical, and paneygyrical, of the Reverend JOHN HARRIS; a man who, independent of his powers as a preacher, has" inculcated the great principles of Christian duty, bringing it clearly to operate upon the minds and consciences of men to a greater extent than any living writer,' in his essay called Mam- mon, or Covetousness the Sin of the Christian Church, of which 23,000 copies were sold in a single year. Mr. HARRIS seems to

have stuff in him to gain more than a sectarian reputation. This passage from a sermon in aid of missions, is an instance of skilful use of the figure called personification. It is close, comprehensive, and powerful, with a natural appeal to the pocket towards its close.

" By a very slight effort of the imagination, we can cause the hosts of evil to pass before us ; and what a spectacle to behold ! First, come the Jews out of all nations under heaven, each with a veil over his heart, and stained with the blood of the Just One. Next, nominal Christians, by myriads, and from all parts of Europe, headed by one who drags a Bible in triumph, as a dangerous book, and embraces an image, or an amulet, instead. Then comes the crescent of imposture, followed by Turkey and Posia, by large tracks of India, the islands of the Eastern sea, Egypt and Northern Africa, the inhabitants of the largest and fairest portions of the globe. After these, the swarthy tribes of Africa, Central, Western, and Southern, with their descendants of the Western Indies, laden with the spells of witchcraft, and covered with the charms of their Fetish worship. Now come the aborigines of the two Americas, and the islanders of the great Pacific—fresh from the scalp-dance, the cannibal feast, or the worship of the snake-god. Next, the selfish Chinese, one-third of the species—in appearance all idolator 3, in reality all atheists—a world of atheists, to whom all truth is a fable, aud all virtue a mystery. Last comes India—the nations of Southern Asia, and the many islands of the Eastern sea, a thousand tribes, including infanticides, cannibals, and the offerers of human blood, dragging their idol-gods, an endless train, with Juggernaut at their head, worn with the toil of their penances, and milted with the sears of self-torture. And who are these that close the train? The Thugs of India, just discovered— a vast fraternity of secret murderers—the votaries of Kalee, who has given one-half of the human race to be slaughtered for her honour. Oh, God, and is this thy world ! Are these thy creatures! Where is thy church? Oh, righteous Father, the world hath not known thee, and thy church, appointed to declare thee, bath neglected to fulfil her trust ! Christians, did you count their numbers as they passed? Six hundred 'trillium at least. Did you ask your. selves, as they passed, whither they were going ? Folluw them, and see. Can you do so, even in imagination, without feeling an impulse to rush and erect the cross between them and ruin?"

The poetry, with the exception of some by MONTGOMERY and MARY How ITT, is generally rather prosaic ; but here are two little gems, by Archdeacon WRANGHAM and Lord GRENVILLE. It will be seen that they are both imitations of the same idea; and it is singular to observe the elegant amplification of the poetical divine aud the condensation of the statesman and man of business.

ARCHDEACON WRANG HAM'S "Thy flowers," one day cried Love to Spring, " Scarcely survive their blossoming ; Fleet one short month, frown one dark sky, They in their very cradle die !"

Lightly sweet Spring the taunt retorted, As in her bower, all bloom, she sported: " And will the joys thy reign discloses Flourish longer than my roses?"

LORD G REN VILLE 'S.

"Poor Spring !" said Love, "unhappy Spring! How soon thy flowers decay !"

"Vain boy !" said Spring, "tin swifter wing Pass not thy joys away?"

3. BERNARD BARTON has taken unto himself Miss AGNS* STRICKL AND as a helpmate for Fisher's Juvenile Scrap-Book; and the result is more variety than usual, with a dash of feminine grace, and perhaps a better adaptation in some of the prose tales to juvenile ideas and tastes. The simplicity of the Friend was sometimes of too poetical a nature for childish minds; and though the verses might readily enough be understood, they might not always be relished. In some of the pieces, luckily for older readers, this is still visible. In others, It' by BERNARD himself, he is rather puerile than juvenile. The prose stories for the most part relate to history ; and the amusement of a story is pleasantly blended with information regarding foreign customs, and with sufficient allusions to historical events to stimulate the curiosity of the young reader. The present extract, like our last, shall be poetical, though with more living interest aud sympathy.

TR* TOUN.

She's errand-girl and housemaid too, Her comfort, help, and stay, And when her grandmamma is ill, The nurse's part can play ; And if, at times, a pensive shade May overcasaber brow, 'Tis prompted by the wish that she Could milk, for her, the cow !

And when that happy time shall come, She'll go with stool and pail, As her poor grandmamma now goes, Down to the grassy vale; And there, beside the hawthorn hedge, Beneath the shady tree,

11141 sportive lambs and singing birds, A milkmaid she will be.

Meantime, she takes her basin brown, Of coarsest earthenware, And brings away what little milk The good old dame can spare The rest must to the town he borne, And sold that they may live; For this one cow, and little more, Fire, food, and clothes must give.

But having these, they lack no more. Trusting in Heaven above, Contented in their humble cot, They dwell in peace and lave: The wild 'Ards warbling in the trees, The young lambs in their play, Lead not a life more innocent, Nor half soblest as they !

It should be observed of this juvenile gift, that the plates are more numerous and of a higher class than are found in other Annuals for children ; probably because the extensive business of the publishers gives them ready appliances which few others possess.

4. Fisher's Drawingroom Scrap-13o9h, by Miss LANDON, is a handsome quarto; consisting of Fortraits of eminent individuals, illustrated by brief notices of their lives or a snatch of verse on their exploits, and views of scenes in different parts of the world, each accompanied by verses having more or less relation to the subject of the plates. The editor, or rather the author of this volume, is Mks LANDON : and a very wonderful work it is, not so much for itself or its intrinsic merits, as for the fluency and command of verse it displays. Independent of incessant ex. ercise of her literary faculties in other directions, Miss LANDON year after year pours out a quarto volume of verse—not on sub- jects chosen by herself—not in a tale, where the filling up of many parts is little more than mechanical, svher, the outline is once designed—but sings as it were to ostler and the engraver's fancy. Yet she not only sings with her usual taste and power, but exhibits no forcing or drudge-like heaviness. We can readily believe what she says of herself in a communication to Mr. HALL—"I write poetry with far more ease than I do prose, and with far greater rapidity. In prose, I often stop and hesitate for a word—in poetry, never. Poetry always carries me out of myself; I forget every thing in the world but the subject which has interested my imagination." Poeta nascitur, non fit. Yet it is still curious how the imagination will come at call when it has no higher source of inspiration than an engraving.

The volumes of the second class are two in number—

I. The Book of Gems. 2. The Cynosure.

The third and concluding volume of the Book if Gems is con- fined to specimens of the modern poets of Great Britain; Woe- col. (Peter Pinder) and DIRDIN being the only bards who have not been contemporaries of the present generation, although some of them—as BYRON, KEATS, SCOTT, and SHELLEY—are no longer with us. The number included is ample; but we miss MORRIS amongst the dead, who, as a more than respectable song-writer, might have had a place; and EDWARD BULWER amongst the living, whose poetry is certainly more than equal to the majority of those writers to whom he is postponed. In the order of arrange- ment, Mr. HALL seems to have followed no definite plan either of chronology, merit, or the alphabetical order of the names. He opens with W OR DSWORTII, he proceeds to BYRON, and the others follow higgledy-piggledy. This characteristic is obvious enough. The merit of the selections is not so easy to decide upon. After a suffi- cient time, the world at large passes its judgment upon the best work of an author, but it rarely troubles its head about select passages. Yet it requires a nice discernment to select those specimens which not only present a whole to the reader, but display at the same time the most characteristic idea of the writer and the highest efforts of his genius. Fur, independent of the critical power which this sup- poses, the compiler has to guard against his own feelings. A long work will always be judged to a certain degree without bias ; but single passages often owe much of their effect to the subject or the sentiment, which, appealing to the studies or the experience of the reader, strike a chord to which the feelings of others may not respond. It is almost as difficult to sink self in criticism as in other things. The rule which Mr. HALL has laid down for his guidance is a sound one : " he has endeavoured to extract such examples as might best exhibit the genius of the poet; and has taken complete poems. though short, in preference to detached passages from more extensive works." Of the minor poets it is unnecessary to say any thing. Of the greater writers, •CAMPBELL appears to HS to have fared the best—perhaps because his excellence is more fully displayed in his smaller pieces. BYRON seems the worst. The "Inscription on the Monument of a Dog," and the two stanzas "Farewell, if ever fondest prayer," are very indifferent specimens of the great poet. And though "The Dream" is of a higher kind, and possesses a personal interest, yet more powerful and characteristic passages might have been readily found. To the specimens of the poets are prefixed skeleton accounts of their lives, and brief criticisms on their poetical character, In dealing with living writers, this, as Mr. HALL observes, was tender ground ; but he has gone over it lightly and fairly. The biographies are little more than dates and genealogical particle. lass, with, a slight leaning, as it strikes us, to heraldic embellish. ments. The criticisms, though not very profound, are generally fair, with what would scarcely have been expected, no disposition to overrate. They, however, are somewhat disproportioned; which, indeed, it was difficult to avoid. In reading them, it would appear that the tninnew had as good a hope of immortality as the triton. But, in despite of all little defects, the book is handsome, pleasing, antl even useful. It will give to most pur- chasers as much te tory as they desire of the modern minor poets. In saying that the author deals only with dates, it should be qualified by observing that there are exceptions to the rule. The following rather felicitous sketch of Mismeet, and the judgment on Wosecer, are of this kind. The licence of the latter, by the be, is treated by Mr. HALL with somewhat of harsh: ess : he is a loyalist of the old school.

MILMAlf.

Mr. Milman is still the Vicar of St. Mary, Reading (?) and in that town he continues to reside. He is described as 03 eloquent preacher, and a zealous clergyman. In person he is tall; his countenance is fine and expressive; his manners are distant and reserved; and, however different he may be in the society of his friends, he is described by those who have hail but little inter- course with hint as perpetually reminding them that he is a dignitary of the Church to which he belongs; and that he is iudisposed to touch any thing "common or unclean.

WOLCOT.

If we judge the personal character of Dr. Wolcot from his writings and the anecdotes that are told of him, his mind and his habits must have been gross and sensual to a degree. lie felt no remorse at wounding—either to procure money or to gratify unncalled-for spleen—the feelings of the highest and the most virtuous persons in the realm. He speaks in one of his satires of his " lean heart;" it was evidently incapable of sympathy with the better sensa- tions of humanity. In all his writings he appears to have been actuated by that sentiment which a later wit ile.crilies as " the malice in a good thing being the barb that makes it stick." The satirist, in his old age, was afflicted with blindness ; his winter Was the opposite of that which has bean described as " frosty but kindly :" still he continued to send forth his squibs; and grieved only that he 11:al last the power of making them hurt. The objects of his enmity had been gradually removed out of his reach. One of his friends visited him on his. deathbed ; and, a,king the worn-out sinner if he could do aught to gratify him, received this memorable reply, " Yes ; give me back my youth !"

Literature is not, however, the only quality of this volume. Its typographical character is of the highest excellence ; and more than forty plates decorate its pages, very fairly representing the present state of the British school of painting. The poetical fancies are few and feeble, and tinctured with affectation. SALYATOR ROSA showing a picture to his patron, might pass for a page holding a looking-glass for his old master to shave himself. A design by STOTHARD, representing four meek-eyed damsels in a row in a sylvan solitude, charms with its grace, despite its want of meaning; and UWINS'S vision of pleasure, though rather too artificial, makes a pretty picture. But the numerous delicious little bits of scenery are worth a score of poor conceits. A sunrise, misty morning, by TURNER, is one of the most exquisite glimpses of nature he has ever shown us, because it is the sober truth. Why will he insist on going mad, when he can so delight us by being in his right senses? Let us hope that this is a sign of returning sanity, or at any rate that we may have more lucid intervals of his chromania. BONINGTON brings up Venice before us "as with the stroke of an enchanter's wand,"—calm, bright, stately, and " fresh from ocean." MARTIN, in a scene of the angels appearing to the shep- herds, reconciles us to his artificial effects by one pure touch of nature—the moon rising behind the city. A green shady lane, by HOFLAND; a churchyard, by CRESWICK ; a flat landscape with cattle and herdsmen, under a warm evening sun, by BAR.. Raw ; a roadside alehouse, by MULREADY ; a coast scene, by STANFIELD; a river scene, by REINAGLE : a wreck, by CHAM- BERS, and another by PROUT ; a noble view of Windsor Castle, on a summer evening, by PYNE,—these realize the peculiar beauties and atmospheric effects of English scenery : that skill which is the forte of our countrymen, and for which they are unrivalled, is developed in these homely pictures; they throw their genuine feeling into them. There is a dog, by LANDSEER, that is all but alive. The portrait of WORDSWORTH, by PICKERSGILL, is rather lackadaisical.

2. The Cynosure is the book of the least pretence and the lowest price of the whole series; but probably the most intrine sically valuable. It is a selection from old and new writers ; not, apparently, got up for any particular purpose, but the result of the selector's reading. And a very extensive reader he appears to be. Ancient and modern authors—historians, philosophers, poets, parsons, and orators—are all laid under contribution for a pithy sentence, a beautiful sentiment, a profound thought. or the matter of an essay. Some of the fragments, however, seem to be original—at least they are without a name: and these are not

of the worst. Take the following very penetrating and true ex- posure of a common prejudice.

He who would do an unworthy act for the sake of power, would do the sore for pelf, if he happened to feel the want of it, or to place as high a value mem it ; and he that reserves the practice of base arts for the gratification of his ambition alone, proves his estimate of the object to vary, rather than his scrupulousuess about the means."