ANTHOLOGY FOR 1830. THE ANNUALS. LITERARY SPECTATOR.

THE materials for a national Anthology are this year increased in quan- tity, not so in quality. A certain average mediocrity is attained, and' only rarely passed; when it is passed,it is not by the poets of the greatest name. Our truly great names, however, the emeriti professors of their art, have this time scarcely condescended to show themselves among their minor brethren. Last year the giants joined in the child's play, in memory, as it were, of their bygone sports : this year, we presume, they have intrenched themselves behind their dignity. Even SCOTT, the most affable and facile of all the poetical dignitaries of the day, has only thrown upon the poetical produce of the season, reaped from so many fields, a manuscript thirty years old, which we recollect had lost its rarity in Edinburgh even as far back as 1811. The House oj Aspen is a production certainly of other and not better times. Its au thor is one of the geniuses that ripen late. We are far from consider- ing- otherwise than curious the earliest works to which he put his pen The publication of this tragedy, however, at this late day, with tlu name of the author, suited the purposes of the conductors of the wort in which it appeared ; who seem to go wholly upon the converse ol the negative question "What's in a name ?" The editor of the Keep sake would, apparently, answer "Every thing." In the lack of poetica names, lie is glad of aristocratical ones. He places no fewer than si: lords in his front rank. In a few years, if the same system continues, th Keepsake will supersede Debrett's Peerage. We do not deny that lord may be a poet ; but because. BYRON was a baron, it seems to b, becoming popular doctrine that bard and baron is synonymous However, the Keepsake for 1830 will go a long way towards refutirq this untenable proposition. We miss the Agniversary. We suppose we must compensate our selves with the increased size and excellence of the Winter's Wreath, and the addition to the number of these works in the Emmanuel, such as it is. We take, however, the whole body together ; and it is our favourite mode of reading to pursue a poet from annual to annual, as boys do bees from flower to flower—we shall in the same manner speak of such as hale pleased us. Here follow our marginal notes—our pencil-marks—Lour points of admiration. CAROLINE BOWLES is one of the rarest contributors to the antho- logy of the year; she is, however, one of the most precious. Mr. ALAnic WATTS has not only been lucky enough to secure one of her poems for the Souvenir, but he has had the good taste to commemo- rate her genius in some stanzas dedicated to the description of her culiar style. True to the somewhat melancholy train of thought in which she has a pensive delight in indulging, her two best poems this year are " The Dying Mother to her Infant," in the Literary Souvenir, and the verses " To Death," in the Gem. The first of these poems is truth and pathos, homely yet tender, melancholy yet consolatory. A rt of it runs thus :— " Yet motherless thou'lt not be long—not long in name, my life;

Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer wife. Be loving, dutiful to her—find favour in her sight ; But never, oh my child, forget thine own poor mother quite.

But who will speak to thee of her ? The gravestone at her head Will only tell the name and age, and lineage of the dead; But not a word of all the love—the mighty love for thee,

That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity.

They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another there—

That picture, that was thought so like, and yet so passing fair. Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let thee call thine own ; Oh! take it there—to look upon when thou art all alone."

There are several other touching points in this little poem : not the east affecting one is the expression of disappointment in the last stanza- " And hast thou not one look for me ?—those little restless eyes

Are wandering, wandering everywhere, the while thy mother dies !" Mr. WATTS justly characterizes this pciet's favourite topics : "Sonic low, sweet dirge, of softest power, To stir the bosom's inmost strings:— When friends departed, pleasures fled,

Or a sinless infant's dying bed—

Are the themes thy fancy brings."

W. S. WALKER, Esq. There is a generous Hymn to Liberty, in

he Souvenir, by this gentleman, which begins thus- " 0 Freedom ! who can tell thy worth,

Thou, sent of heaven to suffering earth,

Save him 7r/to bath thee in his lot,

Anil him who seeks, but yin. thee not."

This designation would lead us to suppose that the true estimators

f freedom are as numerous as the population of the globe ; for we uppose they all come within the category—they either have it, or

hey have it not. However there is a noble spirit in the remainder : he poet flickers a little on the earth before taking wing—there are

ome powerful birds that start feebly on their course. BARRY CORNWALL was a name of promise a few years ago : it is aurious to see how gradually, but how thoroughly, the bearer of it has Arritten down its charm. A piece called the "Ruins of Time" ends his, in a kind of climax of silliness:— " Look out, while I note down each thing that Time (Tyrannous Time) hath left, in deep amaze—

Count on, count on—do I not bid thee gaze ?

'1 gaze—but see no work of tune save one—

The little dial pointing to the sun.'."

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD is, as usual, hearty and kind. There arc ;ome verses to his youngest daughter, which show the father all over:

re trust he may not be disappointed when he anticipates

"Some credit from thy name will flow To the old bard who loved thee so."

A "Seats Luve Song" in '7riends1tip's Offering, which indeed has

icon greatly favoured by the Shepherd, has all the ease and sonic of

the humour of BURNS, with none, however, of his gallantry.

" Could this ill warld hac been contrived To stand without mischievous woman, How pcacefu' bodies wed Ilse lived, Released frae a%the ills sae common !

But since it is the waefu' case, That man maim hat this teasing crony, Why sic a sweet bewitching face ?—

o had they no been made so bonny !"

THOMAS HAYNES BAyLy, Esq. has 'come to not undeserved honour in having his " 0 no, we never mention her," translated into

five languages in the IT-J.:ilex's Wreath. Several annuals contain

very sweet pieces by him, but none conic up in simplicity mid beauty :o "The Neglected Child.''

"I never was a favourite—

My mother never smiled On me, with half the tenderness That blessed her fairer child.

I've seen her kiss my sister's check While fondled on her knee :

I've turned away to hide my tears—

There was no kiss for me !

I am sure I was affectionate; But in my sister's face There was a look of love that claimed A smile or an embrace.

But when I raised my lip, to meet The pressure children prize,

None knew the feelings of my heart— They spoke not in my eyes."

Mr. BANim, who names himself before verse, but simply signifies

lama as a member a the Olfarajimily who there is question of

prose, has written two or three spirited pieces. One, in which an old Irishman is swearing at the altar, Conciliation and peace with his

ancient enemy in a family feud, presents a fine picture of half-stilled

passion. '''Mr. BArkum writes with force—Irish force; which implies considerable power, not managed to the best advantage. This poem

is in the Amulet, one of the most successful of the year's Annuals. WILLIAM and MARY HOWITT, the drab poets, have been industrious

this year : their contributions are very numerous, and MARY has, moreover, struck a new chord—in the "British Children" she departs from the quiet mood which characterizes her gentler muse, and bursts out into a national and somewhat vain-glorious exultation over the superiority of Britons above all other men.

"Oh ! children of the Islands !

Your guarded rights are sure;

Your's is a glorious heritage,

A birthright proud and pure !

Look to your mountain-bulwarks, To each unwalled town, To the free flocks on the pastoral hills, And the scenes of old renown; Look to the peasant's dwelling,

To the city's busy erowd,

To the port with its ten thousand ships, And well may ye be proud!

Turn to the household virtues, To your mother's loving eyes, To the watchful kindness round your hearths, And what deep love will rise !

Oh, by all precious memories,

By the steadfast hearts of yore,

By the glories of your fathers' names

In freedom, faith, and lore—

Keep ye your hearts inviolate, Pure soul, and spotless hand ! And in your manhood's noble strength Make glad your native land : Make glad the glorious Islands, And light their history's page, For the beauty of their old renown Is a noble heritage."

This is the conclusion of the piece entitled " British: Children," in

the Friendship's 011erin: it is worthy of being COWPER'S, and might have been his—this is eulogy. It is singular how your very quiet and

demure people will break out sometimes when the spirit is moved. WILLIAM KENNEDY—a name which we are but slightly acquainted with : there are under it, however, some papers which display talent. His "Thirty Years," beginning

"Summers I have number'd three times ten,"

is impressive, though 'cheerless. It is a gloomy anticipation of the changes about to take place in an individual in his second thirty years, when

" O'er the smooth white of an ample brow Will lie frequent tracks of Time's rusty plough."

HENRY MACKENZIE, the bard of other days, has furnished a poem

on the Highlanders, addressed to Sir WALTER SCOTT: it was written

on occasion of the King's visit to Scotland. It is in heroic verse, and in the old-fashioned manner of GoLOsurrit. The praise of the Highlander is enthusiastic, and, as might be anticipated, expressed with elegance.

Mrs. HEMANS can scarcely be said to be in the vein this year. Many of her admirers, however, will probably not find it out ; for the solemnity and stateliness of her mariner is still in high preservation, and these in poetry, as well astin life, conceal the want of and in good

part make up for ideas. The Winter's Wreath contains her two most

successful pieces of this year,—he Minster," and "Night." The

latter is really distinguished by some happy images, expressed with feli- city. Thus Night, in enumerating her beauties and qualities, speaks

of the blessings she brings to childhood.

"On my own heart I lay The weary babe, and sealing' with a breath. Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath The shadowing lids to play."

The silence of Night is also most beautifully denied : the following

verses stand out from among the entire anthology of the year. N ight speaks :

"Who calls me silent ?—I have many tones. The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans, Borne on my sweeping wings :

I waft them not alone— From the deep organ of the forest shades,

Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades, Tell the bright clay is done.

But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past—

From true hearts broken, gentle spirits lorn, From crush'd affections, which long o'crborne Make their tone heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb O'er the sad couch of late repentant love They pass, though low as murmurs of a dove, Like trumpets through the gloom."

UGO FOSCOLO has drawn a stern, and yet a vain portrait of him-

self: it is in the shape of a sonnet, in the Bijou. The original Italian

is striking and interesting,—tempting a sneer, it is true, but after all sanctified by the genius of the man—a sacred folly. The ':ranslation is utterly ridiculous—chiefly, however, owing to the different charac-

ter of the languages. TheBijou, acting, we suppose, on the very op- posite principle to the Keepsoise, publishes its pleasantest things with out a. name ; while the illustrious obscure, the " Quillinans and " Dyces," names greedy of satire, usher in their nothings with a flourish of capital letters. The proprietor tells us, that it has so hap- pened that his best writers had resolved on appearing anonymously ; we fear they had heard for the first time that those curious combinations of letters " Quillinan" and " Dyce" were to cut a figure in the Bijou's table of contents. Mr. QUILLINAN commences a poem on the King thus—(he is not like WALLER—he does not succeed best in fiction :)

" For war and conquest and the Regent's days, Let others ply the graceful arts of praise, Revive the pomp of arms on land and main, Awake the martial symphonies of Spain. Bid all the Regent's splendour blaze anew, And all his trophies crowd upon his view." (1830!) The anonymi of the Bijou write after a better fashion. For example, the verses called " Bachelors :"- U As lone clouds in autumn eves, As a tree without its leaves, As a shirt without its sleeves,

So are-bachelors.

As syllabubs without a head, As jokes not Iaugh'd at when they're said, As cucumbers without a bed, Such are bachelors."

Afterwards comes the turn of the Benedicts :— " These perform their functions high, They bear their fruit and then they die, And little sprouts come by and by ; So die married men."

Sir THOMAS ELMSLEY CROFT, by virtue of his baronetcy, ought to have written in the Keepsake—if indeed they condescend to take in members of the equestrian order. The Bijou would have been spared this description of wax candles:—

See where the waxen tapers shine, Made from the spoil of bees, who fed

On sweets purloined from Flora's bed."

Sir WALTER SCOTT'S tragedy, it seems, had been rejected by the management of Covent Garden. JOHN KEMBLE was afraid of the scenes Of the denouement, which require the assistance of numerous understrappers, who might by their awkwardness have turned the tragedy into farce. We cannot, however, help thinking that the piece is much better worth representation than numerous Fosearis, and other melodramatic exhibitions; which have found a certain degree of favour in the eyes of the public. After all, the tragedy of the House qf Aspen is not by Sir WALTER SCOTT—he is only the adapter of it. The real author is a certain German, who wrote under the name of BEIT WEBER. The most curious thing respecting it is the impres- sion which the institution of the Heilige Vehme has made upon the mind of this gifted writer. It is introduced into one of his earliest productions from the German, and it forms the groundwork of his very last ; they who read both the House of Aspen and Anne of Geier- stein will have to remark the tenacity of early impressions, and may see how carefully Sir WALTER uses up all the stores of his reading and experience, not neglecting even the shavings and leavings of a former work.

The prose writers of the Annuals at once arrived at their standard of excellence : it is not very high. They have not varied very much this year from their ordinary degree of merit. There are tales upon tales, but we do not remember one of any distinguished excellence. There are some remarks on Selfishness by the author of Anastatius in the Keepsake, which, however true, will excite no little horror among the benevolent, who are not at the same time thinking persons. We apprehend that Mr. HOPE has either been spending his days and nights upon HELVETIUS, or still worse, dining with the philosopher of Queen Square. There is a simple and unpretendino- piece by WIL- LIAM HOWITT, entitled " a Passage in Human Life'," which pleased us much. It occurs in the Winter's Wreath. These two things are out of the ordinary track of tales, of which positively we can take no account. The little piece called " Saturday Night," in illustration of the picture so called, by WILKIE, is so excellent, that it must surely have come from the antique pen of CHARLES LAMB, though it bears not the signature of "Elia" or other quaint device. We will quote it, it is very short—too short,—and our readers will have an opportunity of judging the correctness of our guess.

SATURDAY NIGHT.

"There is a Saturday Night—I speak not to the admirers of Burns, eroti- cally or theologically considered. His of the Cotters may be a very charm- ing picture, granting it may be but half true. Nor speak I now of the Saturday Night at Sea' which Dibdin has dressed up with a gusto more poig- nant to the mere nautical palate of uncalvanized South Britons. Nor that it is marketing night with the pretty trippina.p servant-maids all over London, who with judicious and economic eye select the white and well-blown fillet, that the blue-aproned contunder of the calf can safely recommend as 'prime veal,' and which they are to be sure and not over-brown on the morrow. Nor speak I of the hard-handed artisan, who on this night receives the pit- tance which is to furnish the neat Sabbatical dinner ; not always reserved with Judaical rigour for that laudable purpose, but broken in upon perchance by inciting pot of ale satisfactory to the present orifice. These are allevi- atory—care-consoling. But the hebdomadal finale which I contemplate hath neither comfort nor alleviation in it. I pronounce it from memory, altogether punitive and to be abhorred. It is SATURDAY NIGHT TO THE SCHOOLBOY.

"Cleanliness, saith some sage man, is next to Godliness. It may be—but how it came to sit so very near is the marvel. Methinks some of the more human virtues might have put in for a place before it,—Justice, Humanity, Temperance, are positive qualities. The courtesies and little civil offices of life, had I been master of the ceremonies to that court, should have sat above the salt in preference to mere negation. I confess there is something won- derfully refreshing, in warm countries, in the act of ablution ;—those Ma- hometan washings, how cool to the imagination : but in all these super- stitions the action itself, if not the duty, is voluntary. But to be washed perforce I to have a detestable flannel rag, soaked in hot water, and redolent

of the very coarsest coarse soap—ingrained with hard beads for torment— thrust into your mouth, eyes, nostrils—positively Burking you, under pre tence of cleansing—substituting soap for dirt—the worse dirt of the two— making your poor red eyes smart all night, that they might look out brightei on the sabbath,—for their clearness was the effect of pain more than cleanli: ness—could this be true religion?

”The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel : I am always disposed to add; so are those of grandmothers. Mine—the print has made her look rather to young—had never-failing pretexts of tormenting children for their good. I was a chit then—and I well remember when a fly had got into a corner of my eye, and I was complaining of it to her, the old lady deliberately pounded two ounces or more of the finest loaf sugar that could be got ; and making me hold open the eye as wide as I could, all innocent of her purpose, she blew from delicate white paper with a full breath the whole saccharine contents into the part afflicted—saying, there now, the fly is out.' It was most true— a legion of blue bottles, with the prince of flies at their head, must have dis- lodged with the torrent and deluge of tears which followed. I kept my own council, and my fly in my eye, when I had got one in future, without troubling her dulcet applications for the remedy. Then her medicine-ease was a per feet magazine of tortures for infants. She seemed to have no notion of the comparative tender drenches which young internals require : her potions were anything but milk for babes. Then her sewing up of a cut finger, prick- ing a whitloe before it was ripe, because she could not see well, with the Aggravation of the pitying tone she did it in ! " But of all her nostrums—rest her soul—nothing came up to the Satur- day Night's flannel—that wide fragment of a Witney blanket, Wales spins! none so coarse—thrust into the corners of a weak child's eye, with soap that might have absterged an iEthiop, whitened the hands of Duncan's She-. murderer, and scoured away Original Sin itself. A faint image of my" penance you see in the print (Wilkie's), but the artist has sunk the flannel. The age, I suppose, is too nice to bear it ; and he has faintly shadowed the expostulatory suspension of the razor-strop in the hand of my grandfather, when my pains and clamours had waxed intolerable. Peace to the shades of them both ; and if their well-meaning souls had need of cleansing when they quitted earth, may the process of it have been milder than that of my old. purgatorial Saturday Night's path to the Sabbatical rest of the morrow.

" NEPOS."

We miss Mr. T. Hoot) and his puns in these Annuals • but it' seems he has taken the entire inside of the coach to himself—like: MATHEWS, he is to give us a monopolylogue of pun. We are afraid that all pun will be as bad as all pepper. We may perhaps be laughed at for the singularity of our taste, but' it is nevertheless true, and we will say it, that on looking back to the entertainment we have had in going through the pile of Annuals be- fore us, we have been most delighted with the Children's books—the Juveniles. It appears to us that they are in truth more original, and better-managed ; an opinion which we may perhaps take an opportunity f of maintaining.