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THE GRACES, OR LITERARY SOUVENIR.*

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But the gloomy month of November, and the still gloomier month that "treads upon its kibe," are cheered by a whole carnival of minute volumes, recording the "days of the month,' and the "months of the year," the shape of those bonnets and jupons which have hitherto given new beauty to the British fair; memorandums of all the innumerable elegancies necessary to the manufacture of the sex; quadrilles to be danced, shapes to be assumed, and attitudes to be imbibed, by all candidates for admiration in the year to come. However, all things go on in melius, and this year has produced some very pretty and ingenious attempts at turning the epidemic curiosity of Christmas into channels of instruction and intellectual amusement. Among those in the natural progress of improve ment, the last is to be presumed the best; and the work, whose title stands at the head of this article, strikes us as not merely the best in point of invention and decoration, but to be, from its original composition, the subjects of its poetry, and the tendency of its spirit, as strikingly deserving of a place in the library, as on the table of the drawing-room of fashion.

The Germans, of all men the wisest in their literary generation, have led the way in this species of performance, and some of the greatest names that ever figured in German literature, have indulged their taste, and enhanced their reputation, by contributing to the Yearly Literary Pocket Books, and Souvenirs. Schiller's most vivid poems first found their way to popular applause through this avenue; Goethe, the idol of his countrymen, and undoubtedly a poet of singular genius, sent out some of his most beautiful tales and scattered conceptions on what

he quaintly calls, The "Papillon Wings" of the "Tuschen buch." Kotzebue, a writer of more dubious fame, though at the height of the lighter drama, often floated his lesser plays into the world on those wings; and, perhaps, on the whole, there is no portion of German authorship more popular, than those yearly records of its happy thoughts, and slighter sketches of vigorous design ;-those memorials of past beauty and promises of future attraction. Their productiveness as a mere speculation is evident from their number, their eager rivalry, and their increasing excellence; and our English neglect of so interesting a mode of authorship, is among the more striking instances of the tardiness with which ingenuity sometimes crosses the

seas.

The majority, however, of these German Souvenirs, have the stamp of their country rather too heavily laid upon them for our taste. Wisdom out of season, and prolixity that disdains an aid, solemn catalogues of names important to none but their possessors, and unwieldy labour of a reluctant and cloudy imagination, make the majority the weightiest performances that ever augmented the weight of a winter, between the Rhine and the Danube. But, unquestionably, all the good may be accessible without its counterpoise; and it might be difficult to limit the interest capable of being brought within the pages of an annual publication, expressly devoted to mingling the graceful and the useful; the attractive tale, the animated poetry, the dignity of moral thought, and the elegance of high life, and its captivating and brilliant recollections.

"The Graces, or Literary Souve nir,” aims at all these objects, and the mere mention of the heads of its portions, gives an idea of the variety and interest which it is the purpose of the volume to supply.

Its first department is "The Months." Each month is described in poetry, and to this is appended, a Calendar of the Flower Garden, or directions for its cultivation in each month; we presume, a very acceptable species of informa

* An Annual Pocket Volume. Hurst and Robinson. London. pp. 350.

tion to the fair florists of our country. Its next head is a Spanish Tale of considerable length, a melancholy narrative, but one of remarkable beauty and nature. This is followed by occasional poetry, by various contributors; by new anecdotes of fashionable life, new and frequently amusing and characteristic; by poetry-and this again by an obituary of the more remarkable persons who have died during the year-Kemble, the political Bishop of Meath, Vaccination-Jenner, General Dumouriez, Lord St Vincent, Ricardo, &c.

Nothing is more absurd than to suppose that we look with a fretful eye upon contemporary literature. On this point we will not condescend to argue. Our whole course has been one of cheering and congratulation, when we found anything worth being cheered, no matter what the thing was; whether the work of lukewarm Tory or of furious Whig; of those who wore down their quills in open and impotent insolence against us, or wrapped themselves in the cover of the Blue and Yellow, or within the involucra of the Speaker's gown, to indulge their malignant absurdity in safety. To us it was all the same; if we found an able article, we praised it straight forward; if we found a silly one, we never spared our opinion on the subject; and in the way that we have dealt, we will deal, as the only way in which honest literature, and honest men, can be sustained and honoured.

Without further delay, we proceed to give some specimens from different parts of this Work, which, after all, will put our readers in a better condition to judge, than a dozen prefaces and dissertations. The following is from the series of "The Months.'

DECEMBER.

And after him came next the chill December,
Yet he, through merry feasting which he made,
And great bonfires, did not the cold remember.
SPENSER.

WELCOME-Ancient of the year!
Though thy face be pale and drear,
Though thine eye be veil'd in night,
Though thy scatter'd locks be white,
Though thy feeble form be bow'd
In the mantle of the cloud.

Yet, December, with thee come
All the old delights of home;
Lovelier never stole the hour
In the summer's rosy bower,

Than around thy social hearth,
When the few we love on earth,
With their hearts of holiday,
Meet to laugh the night away;
Talking of the thousand things
That to time give swiftest wings;
Not unmixt with memories dear;
Such as, in a higher sphere,
Might bedim an angel's eye,
Feelings of the days gone by;
Of the friends who made a part
Of our early heart of heart;
Thoughts that still around us twine
With a chasten'd woe divine.

But, when all are wrapp'd in sleep,
Let me list the whirlwind's sweep,
Rushing through the forest hoar
Like a charging army's roar.
Or, with thoughts of riper age,
Wonder o'er some splendid page,
Writ as with the burning coal,
Transcript of the Grecian's soul!
Or the ponderous tomes unhasp
Where a later spirit's grasp,
Summon'd from a loftier band,
Spite of rack, and blade, and brand,
With the might of Miracle,
Rent the more than pagan veil,
And disclosed to mankind's eyes
God's true pathway to the skies.

Every autumn leaf has fled,
But a nobler tree has shed
Nobler scions from its bough;
Pale Mortality! 'tis thou
That hast flung them on the ground
In the year's mysterious round!
Thou that had'st the great "To come,"
Thing of terror !-Darkness !-Tomb!
Oh! for some celestial one,

That has through thy portals gone!
To pour upon our cloudy eye
The vision-what it is to die.".
Yet, no seraph traveller

Bends his starry pinion here;
Since the birth of hoary Time,
All is silent, stern, sublime,
All unlimited,-unknown!
Father! may thy will be done!
Let me die, or let me live,
KING OF SPIRITS! but forgive!

There are about fifty pages of anec dote and jeux-d'esprit, which form by no means the least interesting part of the work. They are almost entirely from the highest rank of society, and in some instances, by individuals whose wit has hitherto been but little known to the public. Talleyrand, whom we suppose to be meant under the name of the Minister, is, however, sufficiently acknowledged as one of the most fertile and subtle wits of the day;

but the bon mots which we have attributed to him, are to us perfectly original. The following seems extremely piquant.

"The late Fouche and T. had quarrelled. On their next meeting, M. de T.,' said Fouche, you need not triumph in your rank. Under an usurpation, the greatest scoundrel may be prime minister, if he please. How fortunate, then, for me, M. Fouche,' said T., that you condescended to be Minister of Police !'"

An anecdote of Fox, at a time when declining life had taught him the more sober views of character, is interesting. He had now lost his old homage for our republican imperial neighbours.

"In one of the latest days of Fox, the conversation turned on the comparative wisdom of the French and English character. The Frenchman,' it was observed, · delights himself with the present; the Englishman makes himself anxious about the future. Is not the Frenchman the wiser?' He may be the merrier,' said Fox; but did you ever hear of a savage who did not buy a mirror in preference to a telescope ?" "

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The late Sir Philip Francis has not figured extensively as a diseur de bons mots; yet he was a powerful conversationist, practised in a remarkably keen and studied diction, and before the period when he sunk into a kind of eloquent dotage, was pungent almost beyond any man of his time. Though a declared Whig, he had felt himself ill used by the Whigs; and his sarcasms were let loose with no unfrequent bitterness against his party. The following anecdote seems to us one of the happiest instances imaginable of the whole embodied feeling of such a mind:

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"In a conversation on the merits of the successive ministers during the late war, it was observed, in dispraise of Pitt, that 'he suffered no man of talents in the cabinet, while some of his successors adopted a more liberal system. Sir,' said Sir P. Francis, in his peculiar style, I owed the living man no love; but I will not trample on any man in his coffin. Pitt could fear no antagonist, and therefore could want no auxiliary. Jackalls prey in packs! but who ever heard of a hunting party of lions!'"

Sheridan's pleasantries are proverbial; but the following instance of his conversational sportiveness is new :

"Sheridan used to say, that the life of a manager was like the life of the Ordinary of Newgate a constant superintendence of executions. The number of authors whom he was forced to extinguish, was,' he said, 6 a perpetual literary massacre, that made St Bartholomew's shrink in comparison. Play-writing, singly, accounted for the employment of that immense multitude who drain away obscure years beside the ink-stand, and haunt the streets with iron-moulded visages, and study-coloured clothes. It singly accounted for the rise of paper, which had exhausted the rags of England and Scotland, and had almost stripped off the last covering of Ireland. He had counted plays until calculation sank under the number; and every rejected play of them all seemed, like the clothes of a Spanish beggar, to turn into a living, restless, merciless, indefatigable progeny.'

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"Dare

Orbi quietem, seculo pacem suo.
Hæc summa virtus, petitur hâc cœlum viâ."

Weep not, though the hero's sleep
On this spot was dark and deep;
And beside him lay.
Hearts that never felt a fear

In the rushing of the spear,-
Silent, glorious clay !

What is life, to death like theirs?
Heartless wishes,-weary years,——
Follies fond and vain !
Theirs a gasp of gallant breath
On the wave, or on the heath-
Momentary pain!

Not upon the sick'ning bed
Has the wasting spirit fled

From their hallow'd mould ;-
In the soldier's hour of pride,-
In the triumph, Picton died!

The boldest of the bold.

Where the famine, where the fight, Bloody day, and deadlier night,

Wore host by host away; Where thy wild Sierra, Spain, Where thy pestilential plain,

Were piled with proud decay

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closed by some lists useful to men of the world, and men of literature; and the whole constitutes a work, from whose annual series we are entitled to expect unusual gratification. Our readers will thank us for giving this touching and powerful fragment.

A BRIDAL SONG.

Caligine profonda

Gia opprime i sensi miei
Del piu fatale orror

Per sempre lo ti perdei.

COME ye to seek me? Then bear me home,'
For the lover is banish'd the bridegroom
is come!

Hear ye the chime of the bridal bell?
Soon shall it toll a funeral knell.
Hear ye the bridal song this morn?
Soon shall ye hear a song forlorn.”
Scatter sweet flowers on my thorny way,
I shall be wither'd as soon as they.
Clothe my form in bridal white,
So shall it serve for my shroud to-night.
Deck with jewels my raven hair,
To-night it a darker wreath shall wear.
Take this fading rose from my breast,
And give it to him that loves me best;
And say, as ye point to my early tomb,
That the lover was dear, though the bride
groom was come..

X.

BEAUTY.

"Quel dommage que tout cela nourrira !"
Oui, Monsieur! mais cela n'est pas pourri."

JOHN BULL and Lord Byron are agreed on one point at least. Both assert "cant" to be the prevailing moral feature of the age we live in. Innumerable scribblers have caught up the same note, and spun it out in endless variation, and I, among the small fry of literature, am fain to join in the chorus. Of all cants, then, one of the most sickening to my taste is that of some parents who pretend (for I give them little credit for sincerity) to deprecate for their female offspring the possession of that precious gift, as it really is, or, as they are pleased to term it, "that dangerous endowment," personal attractiveness. They affect, forsooth, to thank Providence that their daughters are "no beauties" or to sigh and lament over their dangerous comeliness, and then they run out into a long string of trite axioms, and stale common-places, about the snares and vanities of this wicked world, as if

none but beauties were exposed to the assaults of the tempter. Now, I am firmly of opinion, (nay, every day experience proves it so,) that ugly women, called plain by courtesy, are just as likely to slip and stumble in those treacherous pitfalls, as others of their sex, more distinguished by personal attractions; and that, on a fair average, pretty women are the happiest, as well as the most agreeable of the species.

Let us take a fair sample of this genus-not a perfect specimen. The botanist may select such for his herbal, but it would not so well answer our purpose in exemplifying human varie ties. Let us suppose a child endowed with moderate abilities, an amiable disposition, and a decent share of beau ty, and other children in the same family, gifted in an equal proportion with the same mental qualifications, but wholly destitute of exterior advan

tages. Will not the fair attractive child be the most favoured, the best beloved, generally speaking, even of those parents who endeavour to be, and honestly believe that they are, most conscientiously impartial? The same anxious cares may, it is true, be equally bestowed on all. The same tender and endearing epithets be applied to all-but the eye will linger longest on the sweet countenance of the lovely little one, the parental kiss will dwell more fondly on its cherub lip, and the voice, in speaking to it, will be involuntarily modulated to softer and more tender tones. I am not arguing that this preference, however involuntary and unconscious it may be, is even then wholly defensible, or that, if knowingly, and weakly yielded to, it is not entirely inexcusable. I only -assert that it is in human nature, and waiving that side of the question, which if analyzed would involve a long moral discussion, not necessarily connected with my present subject, I shall simply proceed to observe, that if this unconscious, irresistible preference frequently influences even the fondest parents, how far more unrestrainedly does it manifest itself, in the surrounding circle of friends, guests, relations, and casual visitors. How many indulgences and gratifications are obtained for the irresistible pleader! How many petitions granted for the remuneration of a kiss! How tenderly are the tears of contrition wiped away from eyes that look so beautifully remorseful!-And all this, I firmly believe, if restrained by good feelings and just principle, from reaching a blameable excess, is productive only of good results in the young mind, and that children happily constituted by nature in person and disposition, thrive best (even in a moral sense) in that atmosphere of tender indulgence, and become ultimately most amiable and equable, least selfish and exacting, in all the various relations of life. The reason of this I take to be that they feel the most perfect confidence in their fellow-creatures; and how many of the best affections of our nature spring up and flourish under the kind ly influence of that most Christian feel ing! The fair engaging child expands into womanhood in the warm sunshine of affectionate encouragement, and all the delicate and grateful emotions of her heart are drawn out to bud and

blossom in that congenial clime ;every individual of her family and friends, fondly or courteously contributing to her happiness or pleasure. Will not the desire to repay kindness with kindness, love with love, blessing with blessing, be the responsive impulse of her young heart? She finds by every day's experience, that the tenderest approbation, the warmest encomiums, the fondest caresses, reward her endeavours after the attainment of useful information, and elegant accomplishment, and that blessings more expressively silent, (the eloquent blessings of the eye,) beam unutterable things on her performance of higher duties; that a powerful stimulus to persevere in the paths of well-doing, to strive to be all she is thought capable of being!

Her natural failings and youthful errors are most mildly and tenderly rebuked; her motives most charitably interpreted-what incentives to conquer those failings! to avoid those errors! to realize hopes so fondly sanguine! Happiness is far less selfish than sorrow. Its natural tendency is to communicate, to infuse itself, as it were, into every surrounding object; and certainly nothing inspires us with such good will and charity towards our fellow-creatures, as the sweet consciousness that they are benevolently disposed towards us. If all the discourteous, ill-natured, uncharitable things that are said and done, were traced back to their real source, it would be found that every other one at least, resulted, not from resentment for the infliction of serious injury, but from some wounded feeling, some smarting sense of neglect, unkindness, or, it may be, of conscious insignificance, a consciousness (by the way) widely differing from Christian humility, and operating far otherwise on the heart and temper.

Allowing these to be fancied, or at least fancifully exaggerated injuries, their influence on the character is not therefore less pernicious, and the question is, Would these corroding, crushing thoughts, have sprung up in the cheering sunshine of favour and indulgence? Have they not been generated and fostered in a cold, ungenial shade, where " flowers that love the light" could never blossom?

But "vanity! vanity!" saith the Preacher. What sevenfold shield can

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