LITERATURE OF THE ANNUALS.

THE Winter weather is bringing in the Winter Annuals, albeit they are not of the hardiest kind. We have now before us-

1. The American in Paris during the Summer. (HEATH'S Picturesque Annual.)

2. The Keepsake. 3. The Book of Beauty. 4. The Forget Me Not.

5. The Drawingromn Scrap-Book.

6. The Juvenile Scrap-Book.

1. The reader of this second series of The American in Paris will be tempted to exclaim with the Queen to Polonius, "More matter and less art ! " to which may be added, that M. JULES JANIN has a very staring mannerism, which Polonius had not. The two faults here indicated are native to the man ; but their full development on the present occasion may partly be ascribed to the book being a continuation. In his first publication the writer said his say upon Paris ; but, the book having succeeded, he now says his leavings. Much of what is done in the present volume for Paris might be done for any city by a clever bookmaker who got hold of a history and the town-guide. If it were Madrid instead of Paris, be would pass rapidly over the history of the country, indicating the independence of the Spanish provinces and the enmity of the Moorish ; and when he had run through the general story, he would take to the particular, walking about the town and calling up pictures of the past, at any historical building or site which he catne to, besides mingling public events with individual traits of historical personages. How this would be done, must depend upon the skill of the workman ; and it is impossible to deny to JULES JANIN the merit of being a very clever French litterateur. But it is a cleverness of man- ner and mechanicals, without heart or soul, and with little more mind than a trained animal exhibits. One sees that he looks at things with no other view than to say something about them ; and that he would as lief say one thing as another, if he thought be could say it better. Ile extends the art of a complimenter of the old school to criticism, attack, sentiment, and description. This remark may extend to the manner of the whole book : the matter of many parts of it is drawn from reality, and could not have been presented but by a man acquainted with Paris. The author carries the reader to the summer-sights of the city and its vicinity; and in point of subjects there is no lack. A country- excursion and a pie-nic, a race and a steeple-chase, (both, appa- rently, poor affairs, not understood,) Fontainbleau, Versailles, St. Cloud, and the Circus in the Champs Elysees, are among the sights presented. What we desiderate is, more of the subjects themselves and less of the manner of M. JULES Ionic One point, however, should be noted, for it is a remarkable one. A better general idea of the features of Paris is indicated by the work of M. JANIN than in any other we remember : not the mere shows or buildings, but the historical, national, and, in a less de- gree, the natural features of the capital,—meaning natural features as modified by art and the habits of the people. For example, let the reader try to treat of London in the same way as JANIN treats of Paris in the first chapter. The difference between English and French history, and the influence of the respective capitals on the whole country, will be at once apparent. To make the charac- teristics and influence of so many provinces converge together upon London, we must go back to the Ileptarchy. England was as compact at the Conquest as France at the time of our TUDORS. Scotland and Ireland, no doubt, were later incorporations, (as we are now feeling with Ireland,) and they resist mere metropolis influence in a way of which there is no example in France. Edin- burgh and Dublin have a power both of resistance and example which cannot be found in any French provincial city. Again, let any one reckon up round London excursions to places of what may be called palatial display, and he will find but two— Windsor and Hampton Court—in strictness, perhaps but one that can compete with the French in this direction, and that is Windsor : and what a different style is that in ! It is the same in the town itself. The National Gallery and the British Museum exhaust our purely public sights ; and whatever excellences they may possess, that of display to the best advantage is not among the nttmber. All this, however, may be an accident, and not designed by the author. Had he seen it, he might have spoiled it by trying to make more of it ; though he is entitled to the credit of a natural treatment of his subject. But this merit is latent, and suggestive rather than exhibitive. It adds nothing to the execution, or to the effect of parts. These are not equal to the previous volume ; and for the reasons already mentioned. But we will pick out a few samples as well as we can.

IMPORTANT TRIPLES.

When the question was about things less important than riding in the Ring's carriages, there was not so much strictness exercised. For instance, to lie a page of the great or little Mews, to he apage of the Bedchamber to the Bing, nay, even to the Due d'Orleaus, the Prince de Conde, or the Duke de Benthavre, only two hundred years of nobility were requisite. At that time dress made a great distinction among men. Now the black teat is the universal one ; master and servant wear nearly the same. Formerly, there were as many d ffcrent costumes as there were different professions, and almost as many as men. Royalty hod made of the slightest distinctions so many privileges: witness the close coat worn by warrant of Louis the Four- teenth ; witness the red heels of the CEil-de-Boeuf. The use of the red-heeled shoe was restricted to the highest noblemen, dukes, counts, and marquises: some barons might wear it, but not all. The whole history of France in the brightest days of the Monarchy would be found, by him who understands how to read it, in the Royal Almanack.

FONTAINBLEAU.

It is hardly thirty years ago—already two ages !—since, in that same court

of the Palace of Fontainbleau, which at the present day appears so calm, stood, motionless, silent, afflicted, concealing their tears, the Old Guard of the great Imperial Army. This Old Guard, whose very name overthrew capitals, had fought upon every field of battle in the world. They were at Arcola, at • Aboukir, at Marengo; they were the soldiers of Austerlitz, of Jena, of Fried-

land, of Madrid, of Wagrarn : and now, after having passed through so much glory and so many perils, they found themselves, vanquished and decimated, in that narrow space, which was their last kingdom, their last field of battle ; and even this they must quit on the morrow, never again to see it, this corner of desolated earth. In this Palace of Fontainbleau, each door and each window of which is now open to the sun of May and the flowers of the garden, the Emperor Napoleon concealed himself, in his grief and his anguish. In vain had he resisted allied Europe : the Imperial eagle, mortally wounded in the sky of

Moscow, had barely strength enough to come here and expire, beneath the

heavens of Fontainblean. And finally, the hour had come when the Emperor himself must lay down this sword, which had weighed so heavily in the balance of the world : his sacrifice was completed, like his glory. Then opened the door of the Palace: the Old Guard, which was below, presented arms,—bearts beat so quickly !—tears were in every eye! They waited. At last, this army, or, to speak more correctly, this handful of brave men, saw descend into the frightened court, which seemed to recoil before him, a single man, with a proud look and a bold step, sad, but not prostrate : he was wrapped in the gray riding- coat; he carried in his hand the hat of the Little Corporal; a single month of these misfortunes had aged him more than ten battles would have done. His old soldiers, finding him so great in adversity, were profoundly affected. and could not understand, poor heroes! how and why the Emperor and they were thus separated,—they, who were always the Great Army ; he, who was always the Emperor. A well-known voice aroused them from their stupor. "Soldiers," said he to them, "I bid you adieu. During the forty (?)years that we have been together, I have been pleased with you,-1 have always hound you in the path of honour !" After which, be embraced the eagles, and reascended with a firm and tranquil step that same staircase of Fontainbleau, now laden with flowers.

Thus they separated—in that same spot—the Emperor and the Great Army, to go and die, here and there, all in the same sadness, in the same glory, in the same destitution.

QUIET GREEN-BOOM.

Since it was necessary to see every thing, we went into the green-room of the actors. This green-room is large, airy, well-inhabited; you may enter with- out the slightest notice being taken of your presence; not a salutation, not a smile or a look will you receive, even from the young leader : these worthy performers are wholly absorbed in their appointed parts. When their turn comes to appear upon the stage, they go there naturally, without exclamation, without gesture, without even looking at themselves in the glass ; their task accomplished, they return to the green-room, not in the least elated by the applause lavished upon them by the crowd. They never paid the most insig- nificant clapper to enhance their merits to the injury of their rivals. They never insulted or calumniated each other for a part which they thought parti- cularly suited themselves. Never did you see, in this model for green-rooms, the coquette displaying her jewels, the tyrant in the act of having his white hair painted black, the arguer tottering upon his legs : they are all sober, grave, and serious; they are contented with their daily food for salary ; they do not have a single dispute with the wardrobe-keeper for a piece of cloth or velvet ; they obey the manager as a faithful servant would obey his master. The excellent green-room There you can neither smell musk nor patchouli, nor eau de Cologne, nor dried rose-leaves; there you can neither see false tufts, nor powder, nor rouge, nor ceruse, nor patches, nor false teeth, nor false calves: there all is real, old age and youth, beauty and ugliness, strength and grace, intelligence and passion. The excellent green-room! And yet people are so obstinate as to call it a stable!

2. 3. The most striking point of comparison between Lady BLES- SINGTON'S twins is that Th7e Keepsake is bound in crimson silk and The Book of Beauty in purple. The Book of Beauty, too, possesses more of fact in its illustrations—we can scarcely say reality, as, either through the fault of the ladies or of the artists, the majority look less like the portraits of English gentlewomen, than of" beauties" dressed out to be painted—not to mention that the subject-matter itself seems getting exhausted. Both books are indifferent enough as regards the letterpress ; exhibiting in some cases a poverty of resource, that is rather odd even in Annual literature. Of the two, however, The Keepsake strikes us as entitled to the preference, though we should not struggle for this opinion • and as rettrds tales, The Book of Beauty has the best, in Mr:RALPH Beattax.'s story of "Anthony Foster,"—whose principal man, by the by, is "Lord Deere of Gilsland," with a similar subject to figure in, the rising of the North: but Mr. BERNAL paints a much darker, and, we doubt not, a truer portrait, than the lady novelist. Contrary to custom, the regular writers are the best in these two aristocratical Annuals: not that they write better than they usually do on these occasions, for they have written worse ; but it seems impossible for any contemptuous negligence to write down to the amateurs. As the hand of a musician, wandering over the keys, will instinctively produce harmony, however commonplace it may be, so habit enables an author to produce a certain effect, which, though poverty itself compared with better things, yet shows a sort of mas- tery compared with the products of the "mob of gentlemen." Thus, MARRYAT spins out an anecdote of a New Zealander, (which smacks amazingly of a jurisprudence tract society,) into six pages, by an ex- position of the very new information that natives were formerly killed for their tattooed heads, and a deserved panegyric on Captain Sy MONDE: but, though poor and out of place, there is still reality about it. Sir GARDENERWILHINSON contributes a paper called "The Ama- zons " ; in which he briefly tells what is known or reported of the ancient Amazons, and gives an account of a discovery made by a late expedition of the Pacha of Egypt into the interior of Africa, not indeed of a nation of Amazons, but of a king with a body- guard of women. The thing is slight, and fabricated upon the principle of "doing something"; but it exhibits the ancient scholar and modern traveller. Mrs. HALL has two tales—one English, one Irish, and both so-so. Mr. WALTER SAVAGE LARDER has several pieces; but the nature of the task has weighed down even his ardent zeal—there are his mannerisms, and not much more. The poetry-writers of name are BULWER, DICKENS, LANDOR, and BARRY CORNWALL. None of their productions rise above the level of album-verses; but BARRY CORNWALL'S "Lines," in The Keep- sake, are the best,—though there is something of theatrical clap- trap about them, reminding one of the days when victories were duly bawled out at the theatre, by the popular vocalist, to the boxes, pit, and gallery ; nor are the images always true.

LINES, BY BUM( CORNWALL.

Out in the savage mountains, Down in the Khyber Pass, Women and men, and babes at breast, Are mown down like the grass: From the dawn until the night, From the night until the dawn, Nothing is beard but Death, and curses From the wild Afghan.

They toil through the swampy (!) rivers,

They struggle amidst the snow, But wherever they turn a bullet rings, And a brave man lieth low.

In vain the captain cheereth; The soldier he fights in vain ; By one and one, a thousand hearts Pour out the red, red rain.

Oh I many will mourn in India The close of this deadly day: Even now there was dread and trembling hearts From Delhi to proud Bombay. The wife, in her lonely fortress, Keeps watch for the distant drum ; And the far-off mother is looking out For her boy—who will never come.

Yet sound, ye brazen trumpets! For through that dark despair A glory shines, like the lightning When it runs through the stormy air. There are spirits whom nought can conquer;

And foremost of all is one, A WOMAN, as brave as the bravest he—

Though she buries her bleeding son.

She cheereth her husband absent ;

She writeth him—“ NEVER yield;

But be of good heart, for England Shall win in a future field."

All fame to the peerless heroine Vs herever our tongue prevail [a]! All honour surround, like a laurel crown, The noble name of Sale !" The noble name of Sale !"

The poetical gem of these two Annuals, as it seems to us, is a few lines by Mr. Ilai..eam the historian ; but the date of " 1826" shows they were the spontaneous effusions of his mind, and not written for The Book of Beauty.

LINES ON MRS. SIMON DIGBY,

BY HENRY HALLAM, ESQ. AUTHOR OF "THE MIDDLE AGES," &C.

Bright be thy path in beauty's gay career, And fair the spring of life's just opening year. Enjoy the hour, while youth and hope are warm— While gleams with rainbow hues thy fairy form ; And oh! may Time but shift the changeful scene, For sweeter cares and pleasures more serene, And these enchanting moments leave behind The tranquil bosom and the cultured mind!

4. The Forget Ale Not remains the same in its outward appear- ance, but, like Friendship's Offering, seems to have improved in its literature. There is nothing very striking either in the authors' names or the articles, but the whole is what we expect an Annual to be—an agreeable intermingling of prose and verse, with a suffi- cient variety of subjects. The Old Sailor has a nautical tale, with some quaint characters, and a storm incident ; the whole good ex- cepting the dandy Lord. Major CALDER CAMPBELL has a High- land story, which might have served for the germ of another Guy Afannering, with an embryo Meg Merrilies ; though it is probably, as the author says, founded on reality, for he seems not to have had Scarr in his head. Mrs. GORE gives, but not very successfully, the diary of a young lady on a twelvemonth's probation ; whose love cools with each succeeding quarter, and finally winds up satis- factorily. Dr. MACKENZIE contributes a good enough story of love and law, with more accuracy in the legal parts than is gene- rally exhibited in novels ; but perhaps his terms are a shade too technical. And there are a variety of other stories—of the times of the Great Rebellion, the Revolution, and the last and present centuries. One of the most amusing is Mr. ROBERT BELL'S "Pleasure-Party "; a tale of our times, narrating a Sunday trip to Richmond, and its consequences. Here is a part of it, after Mr. Curtis and party have left the Star and Garter, whither he had been tempted by the ladies of his family, and "Mr. Purcell of the Sunday Post."

THE RESULTS OF A PARTY OF PLEASURE.

Evening was now fast drawing in. It was already almost dark, and the last steamer for London was gone. There was nothing left for them but an omnibus with four outsides. Mr. Purcell, who had not served an apprentice- ship to such experiences in vain, went forward to secure places; and cleverly contrived to make room for himself and Miss Curtis at the upper end. The others shifted as well as they could ; and Mr. Curtis, who hung back out of an instinctive disrelish to' such miscellaneous collisions, had the mortification to find, when the bustle had subsided a little, that the omnibus was full inside and outside. In this dilemma, the conductor offered him his choice, to ride on the roof or stand on the step ; assuring him at the same time, on his word and honour, that there was a gentleman to get down at Knightsbridge. Curtis buttoned his coat to the throat with rage. While he was foaming at the mouth for want of words, the coachman drove off. There was not a moment to deli- berate. It was no time for indulging in a passion ; and so, hallooing after the omnibus, and running till he was out of breath, he at last overtook it, and, with a spring such as he had not made for many years, planted himself upon the step while the vehicle was going at full speed.

Mr. Curtis had never ridden on the step of an omnibus before; and if any- body had prophesied such a destiny for him at setting out in the morning, he would have regarded him as a madman. Yet there he was obliged to cling, until the crowded machine was emptied of its contents at the White Horse Cellar.

THE DENOUEMENT.

About a fortnight after this eventful day, the Finches were collected at the tea-table—the whole family, Mr. Finch, Mrs. Finch, Miss Finch, her two little brothers, and Miss Emily Finch. The faces of the whole group were lighted up with the excitement of some extraordinary piece of intelligence, which they had just received.

" It's as true as you're there," said Mrs. Finch.

" But who told you, Ma? " eagerly inquired Miss Finch. " Beazley, my love," replied Mrs. Finch: " you know they deal with Bear. Ivy. The poor young man has got a precious bargain in her. Beazley says he hasn't a farthing to bless himself with, and that he's what they call a penny-a- liner—something like a body-snatcher, I b'lieve."

" Do you think they're married ? " interposed Mr. Finch.

" I'm sure I hope so," answered Mrs. Finch, with such a leer in the corner of her mouth, closing one of her eyes so jocosely at the same time, that the younger branches of the family burst out into a roar of laughter. " But, dear ma," inquired Miss Finch, " tell us all about it ; I'm dying with curiosity."

" Well, then, it seems that this young man met them on board the steamer that Sunday you know they made such an exhibition of themselves down the street ; and thinking, I s'pose, that the girl was a great catch—for Curtis, you know, always wants to pass off for a nabob—he stuck to them the whole day, and put them in for a dinner at the Star and Garter. And he was'nt satisfied with that, but he must come home and sup with them ; and I blieve they'd nothing in the house but a cup of tea to give to the poor devil. However, a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse; and so my fine young gentleman made it up with the impudent slut, and yesterday morning she actually eloped with him.'

"Eloped! Eloped !" " And Curtis, I hear, is going to advertise them. Did you ever hear of such a thing?"

" Well—I never !" lisped Miss Finch, in utter and well-displayed amaze- ment.

" No good could ever come of their uppishness and vulgarity. I'm sure no daughter of mine would ever make such a ninny of herself1"—and Mrs. Finch looked cautiously round the table. Miss Finch felt the maternal gaze, and, throwing her eyes down, fidgeted for a moment with the strings of her apron, and slily observed, " Well—I never !"

5. The Drawingroom Scrap-Book has Mrs. Emas for its poetess ; and, bearing in mind that the lady's task is to furnish appropriate verses to each of six-and-thirty plates selected from the various publications of the proprietors, including portraits, views, and Scripture subjects, it is no small praise to say that they are read- able : if the thoughts are seldom above commonplace, they are neatly and sometimes elegantly expressed ; the flow of the verse causes them to glide smoothly over the ear, without offending the understanding, leaving a vague but not unpleasing impres- sion. The objection is to this system of bookmaking, in which the current of poesy is turned on and off by the trader's tap.

6. The Juvenile Scrap-Book scarcely sustains its character. There is, indeed, a fair variety, with an object in the prose papers ; but all is too commonplace : the themes being given, almost any didactic writer for youth could have accomplished the same. There is a life of COOK, telling nothing at all new ; and the only attempt at new illustration is by quotations from the work of Mr. &las on the Sandwich Islands. An article on Affectation, a tale called "Love me Love my Dog," and a conversation between a son and mother, used as a framework for some stories about natural his- tory, are each well enough in its way, but nothing more. The verse is better; not inspired poetry, but, like the verses of The Drawing- room Scrap-Book, agreeable, and better adapted to the young, perhaps, than something higher.

The pictorial art of the Annuals is, for the most part, of that superficial and conventional kind in which mannerism predominates and thought is scarcely apparent : not only the pencil of the artist, but his fancy even, works as it were mechanically ; presenting instead of new ideas recombinations of old ones,—like the patterns of a kaleidoscope, that perpetually vary without producing any sense of novelty. Thus, CATTERMOLE, the most original-minded and sug- gestive of designers, who never fails in an imaginative sort of picturesqueness, reproduces the same figures, accessories, and effects of light and dark, that we have admired so often. But the artist is not alone to blame : the engravers, trained to this flashy sort of task-work, habitually give the approved tone and manner of boudoir art to these Annual plates. Thus has been spoiled in the rendering, one of the very few spontaneous pro- ductions ctf mind, " The Teacher," by REDGRAVE, in The Keepsake: the face in the engraving is mawkish and commonplace, whereas in the painting, exhibited at the Academy last year, the character and expression of the head were touching and without weakness. ALFRED CHALON'S fantastic exaggerations of fashionable costume are the chief embellishments of The Keepsake and The Book of Beauty; and in these theatrical idealisms of millinery, the aristo- cratic sitters are made to assume the meretricious airs and graces of actresses : attractive as they are in a pictorial point of view, from the taste and elegance that appear through the frivolous affectation of the artist's style, one can put no faith in the resemblance, either as regards character or expression. As to form, that is out of the question with your fashionable lim- ner: like the dressmaker, he must conform to the mode. The standard of ideal perfection is the colossal : since health has come into vogue, our beauties of ton are all gigantic, appearing more awful by reason of their formidable proportions than winning in their looks. Ample busts are rendered graceful by falling shoul- ders; long arms and taper fingers have a plump rotundity ; and

large eyes are matched with elongated noses. Mr. W. Daum- MOND'S beauties are ponderous and substantial, with a coarse plebeian cast : Mr. J. Hermes are flimsy and gossamer-like, with looks of preternatural brilliancy and ingenuous sweetness, that would make one believe the aristocracy to be all angelic. Sir W. Ross's faces are the most real-seeming ; but his figures, by con- trast, appear too small for the heads : by the way, he spoils his miniatures by introducing distant objects in the background.

EUGENE Lames pictures of the gayeties of Parisian life, in the Picturesque, are extremely clever, and could hardly be done better : we have no artist in England who could make such sketches, in which architecture, scenery, equipages, and crowds of people, form component parts of the scene. The details are given with suffi- cient distinctness, and are yet held in subordination to the ensemble : the general character is seized, and represented very skilfully. There is an air of movement and enjoyment about the people, that constitutes the charm of these lively delinea- tions: the crowded amphitheatre of Franconi's, the Race-ground, the Fete, and the Promenade, are full of animation ; and the figures have an air characteristic of society and manners : the horsemen mount and sit their horses like Jockies, and the beaux and belles have the tournure of the fashionable toilet. But in the in-door and less crowded scenes, the want of individual character is felt ; or perhaps the insipidity of the persons is too truly de- picted. Generally speaking, the illustrations of the Annuals ap- pear to have been selected not so much for their excellence as the facility with which they could be made available : they must be re- garded as representing not the present state of the arts in this country, but as indicating the class of artists most at the service of the speculators in these wares.