THE best part of education in England 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.

The critical rod, too, is, for the most part, thrown aside. This, however, was subject to more abuses than the scholastic rod (which was applied moderately only, and to parts where the defences against injury are naturally strong); critics were too fierce with their weapon, and did not mind 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 flagellifer 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 modesty, and beat about the bush?— i

WE

that particular method which adopt. If the subject to be operated upon be a poor weak creature, switch him gently, and then take him down. If he be a pert pretender, as well as an ignoramus, cut smartly, and make him cry out; his antics will not only be amusing to the lookers on, but instructive likewise: a warning to other impostors, who will hold their vain tongues, and not be quite so ready for the future to thrust themselves in the way of the public. But, as a general rule, never flog a man, unless there are hopes of him; if he be a real malefactor, sinning not against taste merely, but truth, give him a grave trial and punishment: don't flog him, but brand him solemnly, and then cast him loose. The best cure for humbug is satirehere 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 ourselves have sate on the bench.

Some such gentle switching as we have spoken of (mingled, however, with much sweet praise and honour 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 belaboured 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 Raphael, 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 revert to the Annuals, for there are dangerous symptoms of a return to the old superstition, and unless we cry out it is not improbable that the public will begin to fancy once more that the verses which they contain are real poetry, and the pictures real painting and thus painters, poets, and public, will be spoiled alike.

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 Dullness only grows angry, and is not a whit less dull than before, —such being its nature. But when I becomes wc-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 shew no favour. 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 to value, to the best of his power, the article that is for sale. The critic does not value rightly, it is true, once in a thousand times; but if he do not deal honestly, wo be to him! The hulks are too pleasant for him, transportation too light. For ourselves, our honesty is known; every man of the band of critics (that awful, unknown Vehmgericht, that sits in judgment in the halls of REGINA) is gentle, though inexorable, loving though stern, just above all. As fathers, we have for our dutiful children the most tender yearning and love; but we are, every one of us, Brutuses, and at the sad intelligence of our childrens' treason we weep-the father will; but we chop their heads off.

Enough of apology and exposition of our critical creed; let us proceed 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, gaily coloured with plenty of carmine, emerald green, and cobalt blue. The pictures are agreeable, though not very elaborateperhaps 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 meretricious, 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 nowadays, in which there is no force, breadth, texture, nor feeling of drawing; but only that paltry smoothness and effect which are the result of pure mechanical skill, and which a hundred workhouse-boys or tailors' apprentices would learn equally wellbetter than a man of genius would do. But, what matters? The beauty of certain English engravings is, that they are so entirely without character, that one may look at them year after year, and forget them always; especially if a new set of verses appear every Christmas, being fresh illustrations of the old plates.

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 mothers-young Jupiters, who have deposed the old paternal dynasty. Unable to say much for the pictorial part of the Forget-Me-Not, we 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, 63° 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 apprentice 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 appetite. Let me have some soda-water.

"The order was obeyed, and the solitary mate hurried over his meal in silence. The day passed on with its accustomed duties; and, to the astonishment of every one, the captain appeared on deck with a more cheerful countenance than he had ever been seen to assume he looked around and inhaled the cool breeze of the evening with apparent pleasure. He spoke kindly to the mate, and attempted to smile at the fine lad who had reported the progress of the ship. A gentle ripple curled against the sides of the vessel; and there was almost an air of gladness throughout her inhabitants, as she skimmed the surface of the deep blue

waters.

"The next day, the mate, the apprentice, and the captain himself, prepared to make their observations. The sun reached its meridian, and the latitude was worked; the lad looked at the mate with astonishment-the latitude was the same as the day before. The quadrant dropped from the hands of the captain; but, as Mr. Osborne picked it up, he said, 'Perhaps we have had too much easting, sir; we will work the longitude.'

"Ah, true!' said the captain.

"I am sure,' said the helmsman, 'we have been steering N.E. by N. ever since yesterday.'

"Hold your tongue,' said the mate. He and the lad retired to the cuddy, and made their calculations; and the longitude proved to be the same as the day before.

"There must have been some mistake,' said the mate; but we must enter it as such. She seems to be going along nicely now, however. But so she did yesterday,' thought he. hanging over us?'

'What can be

"No rest was taken by either master or mate the whole of that night: the latter paced the deck, and the former the cuddy, throughout the dreamy hours; and they met at breakfast without exchanging a word. Noon approached; and, as they took their stand, Now, my lad,' said the mate to the apprentice, 'we have been steering due north all night, and I think we shall find some difference.'

Elder.

"

Again did the sun, with its dazzling brightness, reach the southernmost point, and again did the mate and the apprentice look aghast at each other: the figures were the same; and yet the quadrants were in excellent order. The mate first recovered himself: For your life,' said he, in a low voice, tell this to no man, but see what your longitude is, and come quietly into the cuddy with it, written on the edge of your quadrant. Again, I charge you not to utter a sound.'

"The lad sat down in a corner close to the door, and having performed his task, tremblingly presented it to the mate within, who was leaning his head upon his hand, as if buried in thought, but evidently knowing the result: he copied the figures into the log-book, left it open on the table, and quitted the cuddy with the apprentice. No sooner had they departed than the captain softly opened the door of his cabin, and, with stealthy pace, crept to the log: the same figures, three times repeated, saluted his eyes. A look of frenzied despair passed over his features; then, clenching his fist and striking his forehead, he rushed back into his cabin.

"A deathlike stillness reigned upon deck; the crew stared at each other with wondering and anxious looks; the mate seemed to gasp for breath as he sadly leaned over the gangway; the sky was bright and clear, and of that deep colour which is so beautiful between the tropics; not another living thing was seen in the equally clear and blue ocean; and that doomed vessel, with her twenty-six souls, seemed to be the only speck in the vast wilderness around. Five minutes more, and the captain rushed on deck in a frantic state: Crowd on all sail, Osborne-let her stagger under it! By all the powers in Heaven, we will leave this accursed spot!'

"His orders were obeyed, and he himself lent a hand to facilitate their execution; his hat fell off; his long black locks blew from his ample forehead; his flashing eyes, his finely cut features, his muscular frame, seeming to possess superhuman strength; his sonorous, yet melodious voice, resounding from stem to stern, seemed to fill the vault above. But, crowd as they would, they were now sensible that the vessel did not move. The sea became smooth as glass; the canvass flapped listlessly against the masts: but still the ship did not roll as in a calm; she seemed to be out of the power of ordinary events.

"As the last rope was pulled, and the men could do no more, a loud ringing laugh was heard by every one; each thought it was his neighbour. A breeze passed over every wondering face; and

"A white squall do you call it?' said one of the men, sulkily.' I call it a black one.'

They looked round for the captain for orders, but he was gone; and they heard his door close with frightful violence.

"The black cloud came, and spread over a large surface immediately above the ship it then opened, and two figures of frightful form descended from it, bearing between them a coffin, which they placed on the deck. One of them stationed himself by its side, with a huge hammer and several nails in his hand, and the other took the lid from the coffin.

Charles Osborne !' exclaimed he. The mate advanced, and was laid in the coffin: it was much too narrow for him, and he was rudely pushed upon the deck. Another and another was summoned by name, till all the twenty-five had tried the dimensions: for some it was too short, for others too long; it was then too wide, or too slender in its proportions but, as each took his station in it, the figure with the hammer and nails stood with uplifted hands, ready to strike and to close the victim within it.

"Those who had clear consciences advanced with pale but calm countenances; others trembled violently. Those who had much to repent of were convulsed, and big drops of perspiration stood upon their foreheads. These were so near fitting, that the figures grinned with delight; they were even pressed down into the coffin, as if to stuff them in but the demons, shaking their heads, violently tossed them out again, with an impatient gesture.

"At length the whole of the twentyfive had taken their turn; and, while they blessed their own escape, they anxiously fixed their eyes on the cuddydoor.

"There is yet another,' said one of the demons, in a hollow tone: Come forth, Ferdinand Conder!'

"With erect mien and ghastly smile, the captain for the last time issued from his place of refuge, looking like a man who knew that his hour was come, but determined to meet his fate with firmness. He gave one look of affection at the mate, and quietly laid himself in the coffin. In an instant the lid was closed over him; nine nails were driven in, with one blow to each: and, taking the coffin in their arms, the figures ascended into the black cloud, which closed over

them. The vessel seemed to rise out of the waters; and as she returned to their surface with a mighty plunge, a tremendous rush and the word Murder' were heard above. The cloud disappeared, and all was still!"

The first and most important fact of the Keepsake is the binding. Hancock's India-rubber binding answers to a wonder, and displays the plates and the letterpress of the Keepsake as they never were displayed before: as for the latter, perhaps, the binding is a little too liberal towards it, for it compels one to read the text willy-nilly, and, of course, to grow angry over the silly twaddle one reads. How much better, in this respect, is the arrangement of the Forget-Me-Not; of which the copies before us will neither open nor shut, so cleverly has the binder arranged it.

66 But, revenons à nos Kipsicks." In the frontispiece figures Madame Guiccioli, a clever engraving by Thompson, after Chalon the monopolizer. Next follows:

:

2. "The Unearthly Visitant." A beautiful picture, by Herbert; engraved by Stocks. This picture is in the very best style of English art, carefully drawn, well composed, graceful, earnest, and poetical; and we, the most ruthless critics in the world, are pleased to say, "Well done, Herbert!"

3. "The Shipwreck." A scene from Don Juan. By Bentley.

4. "Maida. By Miss Corbaux. Portraits, most probably. The child is pretty and graceful, like one of Sir Joshua's.

5. "Mary Danvers." Dyce. A charming, smiling, little girl. One of the very best figures that appear among the prints of the season.

6. "The Tableau," alias Beppo. Mr. Herbert never makes bad pictures, but this is not a very good one.

7. "The Battle-Field." Harding. Alp's midnight interview with Miss Minotti, from the popular poem of the Siege of Corinth. Guns, ruins, horsetails, moonlight, ghosts, and Turks. Not quite the best of Mr. Harding's works.

8. "Constantine and Euphrasia." A picture, by E. Corbould, in the fiddle-faddle style. This picture represents Conrad carrying off Gulnare in the most milk-and-water manner

imaginable. The corsair has his right foot forwards, like Monsieur Albert; and Gulnare, in his arms, smiles like Mademoiselle Duvernay.

9. "The Reefer." Chalon. One of Mr. Chalon's pretty affectations. A young midshipman leans across the foretop-gallant yard, and turns towards heaven the largest pair of eyes ever seen. The dear little fellow's collar is sadly rumpled, and his hair entirely out of curl. Sweet fellow ! Pray Heaven he don't catch cold!

Miss

10. "Mary of Mantua." Corbaux. A beautiful head, but a droll pair of hands.

11. "Speranza appearing to Vane," alias Manfred. Meadows. Oh, Mr. Meadows!

And this is the catalogue raisonné of the Keepsake gallery for the present year: an improvement, decidedly, on the last, containing, for the most part, better pictures, and of a better class. A great improvement, too, is in the size of the plates, which, since the first unlucky discovery of Annuals, have been expanding and expanding, until, at last, painter and engraver may hope for justice, and their hands need no longer be so miserably cramped as they have been.

So much for the plates of the Keepsake; and now for the poetry and the prose. We have bestowed praise enough on Mr. Herbert's "Unearthly Visitors;" a noble lady has composed the following verses to it :

"The grave hath opened now, and hath restored

The lost, the loved, the lovely, and the adored.

Death! thou'rt the awful, thou'rt the mighty Death!

And who but trembles at thy power beneath!

But thou art not the almighty Death; thou'rt not

Despite thy mastery o'er our troubled lot

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The unconquerable, the unconquered of

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