too timid, perhaps, as Mr. Maclise's are too bold; but the figures are beautifully drawn, the coloring and effect excellent, and the accessories painted with great faithfulness and skill. "The Parting Benison" is, perhaps, the most interesting picture of the two. And now we arrive at Mr. Etty, whose rich luscious pencil has covered a hundred glowing canvases, which every painter must love. I don't know whether the Duke has this year produced any thing which one might have expected from a man of his rank and consequence. He is, like great men, lazy, or indifferent, perhaps, about public approbation; and also, like great men, somewhat too luxurious, and fond of pleasure. For instance, here is a picture of a sleepy nymph, most richly painted; but tipsy looking, coarse, and so naked, as to be unfit for appearance among respectable people at an exhi bition. You will understand what I mean. There are some figures, without a rag to cover them, which look modest and decent for all that; and others, which may be clothed to the chin, and yet are not fit for modest eyes to gaze on. Verbum satthis naughty" Somnolency" ought to go to sleep in her night-gown. But here is a far nobler painting, the prodigal kneeling down lonely in the stormy evening, and praying to Heaven for pardon. It is a grand and touching picture; and looks as large as if the three foot canvas had been twenty. His wan, wretched figure, and clasped hands, are lighted up by the sunset; the clouds are livid and heavy; and the wind is howling over the solitary common, and numbing the chill limbs of the poor wanderer. A goat and a boar are looking at him, with horrid obscure eyes. They are the demons of Lust and Gluttony, which have brought him to this sad pass. And there seems no hope, no succor, no Ear for the prayer of this wretched, wayworn, miserable man, who kneels there alone shuddering. Only above, in the gusty blue sky, you see a glistening, peaceful, silver star, which points to home and hope as clearly as if the little star were a sign-post, and home at the very next turn of the road. Away, then, O conscience-stricken prodigal! and you shall find a good father, who loves you; and an elder brother, who hates you - but never mind that; and a dear, kind, stout old mother, who liked you twice as well as the elder, for all his goodness and psalm-singing, and has a tear and a prayer for you night and morning; and a pair of gentle sisters, may be; and a poor young thing down in the village, who has never forgotten your walks in the quiet nut-woods, and the birds' nests you brought her, and the big boy you thrashed, because he broke the eggs: he is squire now, the big boy, and would marry her, but she will not marry him-not she!-her thoughts are with her dark-eyed, bold-browed, devil-maycare playmate, who swore she should be his little wife and then went to college and then came back sick and changed — and then got into debt and then But never mind, man! down to her at once. She will pretend to be cold at first, and then shiver, and turn red and deadly pale; and then she tumbles into your arms, with a gush of sweet tears, and a pair of rainbows in her soft eyes, welcoming the sunshine back to her bosom again. To her, man! - never fear, miss! Hug him, and kiss him, as though you would draw the heart from his lips. When she has done, the poor thing falls stone pale, and sobbing on young Prodigal's shoulder; and he carries her quite gently to that old bench where he carved her name fourteen years ago, and steals his arm round her waist, and kisses her hand, and soothes her. Then comes out the poor widow, her mother, who is pale and tearful too, and tries to look cold and unconcerned. She kisses her 1 daughter, and leads her trembling | too, and says, "Ah, Tom Prodigal, into the house. "You will come to us to-morrow, Tom?" says she, as she takes his hand at the gate. To-morrow! To be sure he will; and this very night, too, after supper with the old people. (Young Squire Prodigal never sups; and has found out that he must ride into town, to arrange about a missionary meeting with the Rev. Dr. Slackjaw.) To be sure, Tom Prodigal will go the moon will be up, and who knows but Lucy may be looking at it about twelve o'clock. At one, back trots the young squire, and he sees two people whispering at a window; and he gives something very like a curse, as he digs into the ribs of his mare, and canters, clattering, down the silent road. Yes-but, in the mean time, there is the old housekeeper, with "Lord bless us!" and "Heaven save us!" and "Who'd have thought ever again to see his dear face? And master forgot it all, who swore so dreadful, that he never would see him!-as for missis, she always loved him." There, I say, is the old housekeeper, logging the fire, airing the sheets, and flapping the feather-bed-for Master Tom's room has never been used this many a day; and the young ladies have got some flowers for his chimney-piece, and put back his mother's portrait, which they have had in their room ever since he went away and forgot it, woe is me! And old John, the butler, coachman, footman, valet, factotum, consults with master about supper. "What can we have?" says master: "all the shops are shut, and there's nothing in the house." John. — “No, no more there isn't; only Guernsey's calf. Butcher kill'd'n yesterday, as your honor knowth." Master. Come, John, a calf's enough. Tell the cook to send us up that." And he gives a hoarse haw, haw! at his wit; and Mrs. Prodigal smiles you were always a merry fellow ! Well, John Footman carries down the message to cook, who is a country wench, and takes people at their word; and what do you think she sends up? of Mr. Moth (who, from being the active and experienced head-waiter, is now the obliging landlord of that establishment), and were told that a gentleman unknown had dined there at three, and had been ceaselessly occupied in writing and drinking until a quarter to twelve, when he abruptly quitted the house. Mr. Moth regretted to add that the stranger had neglected to pay for thirteen glasses of gin and water, half a pint of porter, a bottle of soda-water, and a plate of ham sandwiches, which he had consumed in the course of the day. We have paid Mr. Moth (whose very moderate charges, and excellent stock of wines and spirits, cannot be too highly commended), and shall gladly hand over to Mr. Titmarsh the remaining sum which is his due. Has he any more of his rhapsody? — O. Y. OUR ANNUAL EXECUTION. THE best part of education in Eng-| land used formerly to be the ROD. It made good scholars, brave soldiers, and honest gentlemen: it acted upon our English youth in a manner the most gentle, the most wholesome, the most effectual. It was applied indiscriminately, it is true; but were any the worse for it? Is there any man of Eton or Westminster, who reads this, and can say that any part of him was injured by the rod-application? Not one? Is there any, to go a step further, who can say that he was not benefited? We pause for a reply. None? Then none has it offended. Blessings be on the memory of the rod! It is dead now: all the twigs are withered, all the buds have dropped off. It is a moss-grown and forgotten ruin, sacred only to a few, who worship timidly at the shrine where their fathers bowed openly, who still exercise the rod-worship, and cherish the recollections of the dear old times. where their blows hit. A poor, harmless fellow has been whipped unto death's door almost, when the critic thought that he was only wholesomely correcting him; another has been maimed for life, whom fierce-handed flagellifier had thought only to tickle. Such abuses came sometimes from sheer exuberance of spirits on the part of the critic (take the great professor, who, in fun, merely seizes on an unlucky devil, and flogs every morsel of skin off his back, so that he shall not be able to sit, lie, or walk, for months to come); sometimes from professional enthusiasm (like that which some great surgeons have, who cannot keep their fingers from the knife); sometimes, alas! from personal malice, when the critic is no more than a literary cut-throat and brutal assassin, for whose infamy no punishment is too strong. The proper method, finally for why affect mod esty, and beat about the bush? — is that particular method which we The critical rod, too, is, for the adopt. If the subject to be operated most part, thrown aside. This, how-upon be a poor weak creature, switch ever, was subject to more abuses than him gently, and then take him down. the scholastic rod (which was applied If he be a pert pretender, as well as an moderately only, and to parts where ignoramus, cut smartly, and make the defences against injury are nat- him cry out; his antics will not only urally strong); critics were too fierce be amusing to the lookers-on, but with their weapon, and did not mind instructive likewise: a warning to other impostors, who will hold their | revert to the Annuals, for there are vain tongues, and not be quite so dangerous symptoms of a return to ready for the future to thrust them- the old superstition, and unless we selves in the way of the public. But, cry out it is not improbable that the as a general rule, never flog a man, public will begin to fancy once more unless there are hopes of him; if he that the verses which they contain be a real malefactor, sinning not are real poetry, and the pictures real against taste merely, but truth, give painting: and thus painters, poets, him a grave trial and punishment: and public, will be spoiled alike. don't flog him, but brand him solemnly, and then cast him loose. The best cure for humbug is satire-here above typified as the rod; for crime, you must use the hot iron: but this, thank Heaven! is seldom needful, not more than once or twice in the seven and thirty years that we our selves have sat on the bench. Some such gentle switching as we have spoken of (mingled, however, with much sweet praise and honor for the meritorious) we are about to administer to the writers and draughtsmen for the Annuals of the present year. We had intended to pass them over altogether, having belabored one or two of them twelve months since, had not the rest of the London critics, as we see by the advertisements, chosen to indulge in such unseemly praises and indecent raptures as may mislead the painters, authors, and the public, and prove the critics themselves to be quite unworthy of the posts they fill. Bad as the system of too much abusing is, the system of too much praising is a thousand times worse; and praise, monstrous, indiscriminate, wholesale, is the fashion of the day. The critics, for the most part, are down on their knees to authors and artists: every twaddling rhymester who fills a page in an Annual, and every poor dabbler in art who illustrates it, turn out to be a Raffaelle, a Byron the Second; and the public with respect be it spoken, in matters of art the most ignorant, the most credulous public in Europe -falls down on its knees in imitation of the critic, and to every one of his prayers roars out its stupid amen. Thus we have been compelled to An eminent artist who read those remarkable pages on the Annuals which appeared in this Magazine last year, was pleased to give us his advice, in case we ever should be tempted to return to the same subject at a future season. He had adopted the new faith about criticism, and was of opinion that it is the writer's duty only to speak of pictures particularly, when one could speak in terms of praise; not, of course, to praise unjustly, but to be discreetly silent when there was no opportunity. This was the dictum of old Goethe (as may be seen in Mrs. Austin's "Characteristics" of that gentleman), who employed it, as our own Scott did likewise, as much, we do believe, to save himself trouble, and others annoyance, as from any conviction of the good resulting from the plan. It is a fine maxim, and should be universally adopted across a table. Why should not Mediocrity be content, and fancy itself Genius? Why should not Vanity go home, and be a little more vain? If you tell the truth, ten to one but Dulness only grows angry, and is not a whit less dull than before, - such being its nature. But when I becomes we-sitting in judgment, and delivering solemn opinions -we must tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; for then there is a third party concerned - the public between whom and the writer, or painter, the critic has to arbitrate, and he is bound to show no favor. What is kindness to the one is injustice to the other, who looks for an honest judgment, and is by far the most important party of the three; the two others being, the one the public's servant, the other the public's appraiser, sworn | of drawing; but only that paltry to value, to the best of his power, the smoothness and effect which are the article that is for sale. The critic result of pure mechanical skill, and a hundred workhouse-boys does not value rightly, it is true, which once in a thousand times; but if he or tailors' apprentices would learn do not deal honestly, woe be to him! equally well-better than a man of The hulks are too pleasant for him, genius would do. But, what mattransportation too light. For our ters? The beauty of certain Engselves, our honesty is known; every lish engravings is, that they are so man of the band of critics (that entirely without character, that one awful, unknown Vehmgericht, that may look at them year after year, and sits in judgment in the halls of forget them always; especially if a REGINA) is gentle, though inexorable, new set of verses appear every Christloving though stern, just above all. mas, being fresh illustrations of the As fathers, we have for our dutiful old plates. children the most tender yearning and love; but we are, every one of us, Brutuses, and at the sad intelligence of our children's treason we weepthe father will; but we chop their heads off. Enough of apology and exposition of our critical creed; let us procced to business. "The Book of Royalty" has the finest coat of all the Annuals, and contains, by way of illustration, a number of lithographic drawings, by Messrs. Perring and Brown, gayly colored with plenty of carmine, emerald green, and cobalt blue. The pictures are agreeable, though not very elaborate-perhaps because not very elaborate; for the sketches of the above-named artists are far better than their pictures in a great book which is called "Finden's Tableaux of the Affections," and in which Messrs. Perring and Brown have had every thing in their own way. Nothing can be more false, poor, or meretriIcious, than the taste characteristic of these productions, which consist of female pages, in light pantaloons, dissolved in grief: Moorish ladies; Greek wives; Swiss shepherdesses; and such like. They are bad figures, badly painted, and drawn, standing in the midst of bad landscapes; the whole engraved in that mean, weak, conventional manner, which engravers have now-a-days, in which there is no force, breadth, texture, nor feeling The dumpy little "Forget-Me-Not" opens with a very poor engraving, from a very poor picture by Parris, which is as flimsy as an engraving in the "Petit Courrier des Dames," but not so authentic; and contains a dozen other pieces, of which "Pocahontas," by Middleton, and Nash's "Sir Henry Lee at Prayers," are perhaps the best specimens. This and "The Friendship's Offering" are the last of the original Annuals: and a great comfort it is that the publishers and public have found out the mistake of size, and that the younger Annuals are in dimensions far more capacious than their fathers and moth ers we -young Jupiters, who have deposed the old paternal dynasty. Unable to say much for the pictorial part of "The Forget-Me-Not," are glad to find the literary contents much superior to many of the very biggest Annuals; and quote a piece of an admirable marine story, at which the reader cannot but be frightened: "The lad performed his task, and gave the result to the mate, who was seated before his log-book. Latitude, 3° 6′ N.; longitude, 635 20 5" E., sir,' said he, as the captain slowly opened the door of his cabin. It was instantly closed with the utmost violence, and the startled appren tice hurried away. "The dinner hour arrived, and the steward summoned his chief. No reply was given, till the mate repeated that the table was served. I do not choose any dinner, Mr. Osborne,' was the reply: 'these warm latitudes take away my appe. tite. Let me have some soda-water." |