STANZAS. By the Countess of Blessington. If her ladyship had sent these stanzas for publication in the Royal Lady's Magazine, we are not quite sure we should have admitted them, unless they happened to fit in at the bottom of a page which must otherwise have been left blank. But they are quite good enough for the Keepsake, and infinitely better than the tawdry jingle of Miss Landon; simply because they contain a meaning, and do not aim to be so fine that they become fustian. A PARTY OF PLEASURE UP THE RIVER TAMAR. By the Countess of Morley. A lively, elegant, and agreeable trifle, in which the sportive muse of the Countess of Morley appears to advantage. ON THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF LORD BYRON. By Archdeacon Spencer. Shall we never see the last of dissertations, conversations, diaries, essays, memoirs, opinions, &c. &c. about Lord Byron? Why cannot people be content to read and enjoy a poet, without pestering the world with an account of how they have been delighted? Ärchdeacon Spencer's paper is one of these lucubrations; and its object, to show that Byron depicted his own character in his writings, and that those writings are not favourable to religion or morality. The archdeacon tells us all this in a very mild, gentlemanly, temperate, and sensible manner; and we agree with every thing he says upon the subject; but, then, not only ourselves, but every one who has read Byron, know it already. We would not give a rush for the finest essay that human wit could produce, if written only to convince us that Shakspeare was a great poet. THE SAVOYARD. By the Hon. Henry Lyddell. We hear that this lady complains bitterly of our criticisms. Has she any right to do so? Cause, she may have: but right, none. We have dealt with her as we deal with all. An impostor offers to sell us rare pearls and sparkling diamonds. We look at them, and finding them only mock pearls and Bristol stones, expose the fraud. "Oh," say the friends of the impostor, you are wrong, they are not mock pearls, they are real and beautiful, and the diamonds are genuine Golcondas."-" Well," we reply, "if you think so, buy them and wear them. You can judge for yourselves, for there they lie before you, subjected to the test which proves their genuine quality, and we make no secret either of our copel, or the process of applying it." We are at least honest critics, for we commit ourselves to our proofs; and, as we have repeatedly said, they who before found any thing but sheer nonsense in the passages we have quoted from Miss Landon, and other metrical twaddlers, may continue to find it still. With regard to Miss Landon, however, what need she care for us? She has a new ally now in Mr. Bulwer, himself a writer of delectable sentences, where turgid words are huddled together, and made to stand for ideas. His puffery is not, indeed, quite so indiscriminate, or so trowelled on as that of the Literary Gazette, but it is unctuous enough. In the last number of the New Monthly Magazine there is a notice of Miss Landon's novel, à la Colburn and Bentley, in which we are told "the author of these volumes is a lady of remarkable genius," and so forth. We are not able to assert of our own knowledge, that this notice is written by Mr. Bulwer; but we are ready to swear, from internal evidence, that it is written either by him or Miss Landon. It has too much of the appearance of good writing for Mr. Jerdan. We have never caught him inditing such English as “to encourage rather than dampen and satirize that ambition which directs women to intellectual cultivation," &c. Neither would he say "the height of literary ambition may be clombe by all." No-no-these are indubitably the piebald felicities of style peculiar to such geniuses as Mr. Bulwer and Miss Landon. Perhaps we may be tempted to undertake the task of reading this novel, (though the awful presentiment we have of what it must be, from the slip-slop Mr. Bulwer has quoted with admiration, makes us doubtful of our own prowess) and if we do, we promise to say nothing of it—not even to praise it—without adducing evidence for what we say. STANZAS. By Lord Morpeth. We are relieved from the necessity of expressing our opinion of these two poems, because we have transplanted them to our own pages; a distinction which at once stamps them as the best in the volume, if not the best that might be written. THE BRIDEMAID. A Sketch. By the Earl of Mulgrave. The following letter is bound up opposite this sketch: SIR, You must be perfectly aware that the following pages were written solely and expressly as an accompaniment to the beautiful engraving of the Bridemaid. They have no separate merit whatever. As it now appears (somewhat late), that this engraving cannot be completed in time, I most decidedly object to any thing so trivial as this sketch appearing without its only excuse. And if I do not now, even though it is printed, persist in my objection, and withhold its publication, it is only from an unwillingness to delay, on any account personal to myself, the amusement the public may derive from the other pages of the Keepsake. Your humble servant, MULGRAVE. We suspect the above epistle lets out a secret which might as well have been kept in-viz., that in the manufacture of the Keepsake, tales and poetry are written for the engravings, instead of the engravings being prepared from them. It certainly gives one an odd notion of the value of the literary matter, when we find an author himself denouncing what he has written as worthless separated from the picture. The tale without the engraving, it seems, is like a pump without a handle, or a violin without a bow. We remember in our early days, when our curiosity was somewhat greater than it is now, following a fellow up and down several streets, with a basket upon his head, who kept bawling out, "Who'll buy-who'll buy my wares!-one won't do without the other-come, maids and wives, who'll buy, who'll buy?" At length, to our inexpressible delight, a good woman, who knew in what merchandise this circumforaneous trader dealt, called him, to make a purchase; and then we discovered that he sold spigots and faucets, a commodity that certainly required to be inseparable. In the same way, the engravings and writings of the Keepsake have their spigot and faucet quality; and hence, we suppose, the reason why it, and other annuals, stripped of their plates, are selling at the corners of streets for two and three shillings apiece. But to return to the "Bridemaid." What increased attraction it might have derived from the "beautiful engraving" which ought to have accompanied it, we are, of course, unable to say, and almost unable to comprehend. However, it is a very agreeable tale as it stands; nothing remarkably brilliant about it, and, on the other hand, nothing outrageously bad in it. LONDON IN SEPTEMBER (NOT IN 1831). By Lord John Russell. We should have wondered if this jeu d'esprit had been written in September 1831, considering how his lordship was then occupied with his notable bill for tinkering the constitution. The lines are only intended to be a trifle, and they are what they were intended to be. But we must tell his lordship, that although we are not so inveterate in our hatred of puns as Dennis was, yet we show no mercy to bad ones: therefore we fix our brand upon the following, which is execrable: From shop deserted hastes the 'prentice dandy, THE FAMILY OF DAMMAREL. By Ralph Bernard, M. P. "What do you think of Miss Applejohn?" "How do you like Mr. Frizzleton ?" These are questions which one feels it extremely difficult to answer, when Miss Applejohn and Mr. Frizzleton happen to have no mark of any kind that distinguishes them from the common rout. What can you say? You have never once thought abou Miss Applejohn, so how can you tell what you think? And as to Mr. Frizzleton, it has never occurred to you whether you like or dislike him. In this predicament you naturally reply, "Oh, I think Miss Applejohn a nice, good-natured girl; and Mr. Frizzleton I like very well, from what I have seen of him." So say we of the Family of Dammarel, which has a prodigious likeness to the family of the Respectables. It is a nice story, and we like it very well. LINES By the Countess of Blessington. A lachrymose effusion about the " fondly loved-the lost-the wept"-and (as we said of her ladyship's "Stanzas ") infinitely better than the tawdry jingle of Miss Landon, because it contains some meaning, and is not fustian. BUDE. By Lord Porchester. I stood upon the shore of Bude, and on the deep I bent my astonish'd eye, for such a world Of raging waters and unbroken foam I never yet beheld. And yet his lordship tells us, in a note, he has "crossed the Bay of Biscay in its roughest mood." So have we-and lay tossing about under bare poles for twice fourand-twenty hours: but, as we never" stood upon the shore of Bude" (a small port on the northern coast of Cornwall), we cannot contradict his lordship, when he says, it beats the Bay of Biscay hollow. But Heaven bless us! If this be poetry, why should not the following be so too? I stood in Piccadilly, and through the railings I bent my astonish'd eye; for such a sight I never yet beheld, as thronged the Green Park THE BIRTH OF RHODES. By Lord Morpeth. (The story is taken from the Seventh Olympic Ode of Pindar.) A classical subject, classically treated. Why have we nothing from Lord Morpeth's pen but these amusements of his leisure hours? He has that in him which, if he would bring it to bear upon some one subject, might add lustre to English literature. A HIGHLAND ANECDOTE. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. and -, and Has it never happened to any of our readers to visit the studio of a twenty-fourthrate artist (such as or Mr. Sevier, for example), and in gazing listlessly upon sundry yards of daubed canvass or various lumps of chiselled stone, to come all at once to a sketch by Titian, or an unfinished head by Canova? If such a delicious surprise hath ever been his lot, he may judge from what he felt, what our own feelings were when we arrived at p. 283 of the Keepsake, and found three pages of Sir Walter Scott. It is, as he calls it, a mere anecdote; but it is his, and though evidently indebted to no more time and thought than were sufficient to write the letter it constituted, yet, being surrounded by so much imbecility, it shows as bravely as a finished gentleman in dishabille would in a crowd of vulgar men and women dressed in their holiday-clothes. The anecdote itself is striking, and related with all that graphic effect which is so peculiar to Sir Walter's pen. We shall only add, that we have extracted it elsewhere for the gratification of our readers. THE WEDDING. By the Hon. Charles Phipps. A well-imagined story, but heavily told; and spun out to twice the length which the interest of the incidents will bear. THE PROMISE. "WHY can't you tell the girl that you do not, that you never can, love her; and that you will not, for the sake of fulfilling a rash promise, involve her happiness by sacrificing your own?" "My good Allan, you speak like one who has never felt the burden of such an engagement as I have been compelled to enter into." "And will you really go to Castle de Courcy? You know Lady Emmeline will be there; and, of course, she will fall in love with so handsome a fellow as yourself; and then, with your highflown notions of honour, you will go and sacrifice your happiness for ever. Come, now, promise me that you will give up this rash intention-you know I must bid you farewell the moment you embark for Ireland, for I have not above a week more to spare in this delightful country; and when you lose me, by the by, where are we? The two friends suddenly stopped, and resting their guns on the heather knoll on which they stood, surveyed the scene around them. It was one well fitted to arrest the attention of the traveller, or the stranger; and such were these who, at a late hour in the evening, found themselves many miles from the village of Kingorrach, where they had taken up their abode for a short time, to be devoted to the sports of fishing, shooting, and otter-hunting. Kingorrach is situated in a romantic little bay on the coast of Kintyre, in Argyllshire. The village is composed of a few fishermen's huts, chiefly constructed of large pieces of rock, piled one above the other, and roofed with heather. Behind a scattered row of these dwellings, huge masses of rock arise as if in bold defence; and here and there the old ruin of an ash-tree entwines its silvered arms with the light-green leaves and scarlet berries of the rowan. One two-storied house stands pre-eminent in the centre of the bay, as the largest and least picturesque building in the village; but it is regarded by the inhabitants with respect and curiosity, as claiming the appellation of "the inn," which is announced to the passengers in flaming red letters on a blue board above the door. This humble hostelry, though seldom visited by any other travellers than drovers and farmers, and once a-year by the neighbouring laird on his route to Glasgow, had now the honour of entertaining two strange English gentlemen, who, though their names were unknown, yet had recommended themselves to the admiration of the host, and the wonder of most of the villagers, by the liberal payments and donations which they had made during their stay with Mr. M'Injore. "In truth," said Oswald, after surveying the beautiful scenery of the place for several minutes in admiring silence, “I wish we had not discarded our little guide so soon. I begin to feel the wait of these birds on my shoulder, and—” "The worst of it is," interrupted Allan, his friend, "the black cock will be roasted to a stick by the time we reach home; so that I fear, after all our fatigues, we shall have to retire to rest with empty stomachs. Come, I will take my turn of the bag, and here comes an old woman with peats on her back, who will, no doubt, tell us the nearest road to the village." They made their inquiries, were directed into the right path, and contrived, after an hour's hard walking, to reach the village, not a little fatigued with their day's work. They were saluted at the door by their old host, Mr. M'Injore, who had been for some time sympathizing with Allan in his fears respecting the fate of the dinner, and who now began to call loudly upon Jeaine to prepare for the entertainment of his visiters. When they had finished their repast, Oswald and Allan proceeded to make arrangements with a boatman to take them early the following morning to a cairn at some distance from the village, where they were promised a famous otterhunt. There was every hope that the weather would prove particularly favourable, and the friends parted at an early hour to obtain the repose they so much needed. As they bade one another good night, Oswald said, "Allan, we will renew the subject which engrossed us to-day no more. Let us at least enjoy the present. Good night. Oh for a heart like yours, unencumbered with cares!" "Ah, my good friend," rejoined Allan, "you forget the Italian rhyme : Se a ciascuno l'interno affanno If you had followed my footsteps all my And while they are sleeping (for sleep they did, in spite of rash promises and remembered sorrows; for who can resist the influence of slumber after healthful fatigue, although the pillows were any thing but down, and the beds something like a disturbed cairn), we will give some account of those who have been so cavalierly introduced to the notice of our readers (if we have any), and who have hitherto a name, but not a character. Oswald was the only son of Lord George de Courcy, and had the misfortune to be brought up to a life of idleness. His father, having exhausted his fortune at an early age, found himself reduced to a state of almost penury, with a son to whom he could leave no other inheritance than the warning to avoid his own example. After the death of his wife, Lord George resided with his brother, the Earl of Aldearn, who, having an only daughter, the two brothers agreed that nothing would render them so happy as to see an alliance between their children as soon as they should be of sufficient age. Lady Emmeline and her youthful cousin were now brought up together, and pursued the same system of education, under the same tuition; till the latter attained the age of fourteen, when he was sent to a German university. Here some of those romantic notions, which are characteristic of that people took possession of his mind, and being of a warm and impetuous temperament, he was sometimes led into follies and difficulties from which youth is seldom exempt. After five years passed at Gottingen, he travelled through Italy, France, and Spain, by his father's desire, before he returned home to claim the hand of the lady Emmeline, now in her sixteenth year, and described to be all that was amiable and delightful. Years passed on, and Oswald was still breathing a foreign air, and enjoying pleasures, and acquiring fresh ideas in foreign climes, when the voice of sickness and sorrow destroyed his happy dreams, and bade him hasten home with anxious expedition. A letter from his father summoned him to attend him in a sickness which he said was pronounced to be a mortal one. The letter was scarcely legible; but at the conclusion, Oswald fancied the words more clearly written, because they were what hope could not decide against, and which, therefore, were most painful. "Remember," they said, "remember my dear son, the promise I have often urged you to make-be the husband of Emmeline-she is all we can wish for you-she is willing to be what her father earnestly desires-to be your wife. Hasten home, my dear son, perhaps you may never again see your father; he was once misled he was once vain and worldly; but the prospect of death has brought to his mind the cause of all his misfortunes, a youth spent in dissipation and idleness. May you, by hearkening to your father's advice, be preserved from this." Oswald lost no time in hastening to obey the awful summons. He travelled night and day, till he reached his native shores; and the next day, panting with breathless anxiety, and affectionate solicitude, he found himself beside the bed of a dying father. It was almost a relief to him when he found that his uncle and Lady Emmeline were not at Castle de Courcy; for while he deceived himself by supposing he rejoiced most that he was to be the comforter of his father's last hours, he was unconsciously gladdened by the hope that he should be spared the pain of promising compliance to that, to which he looked for ward with an unaccountable dread. The disease under which Lord George was labouring, seemed to have taken a favourable turn, and for some days after Oswald's return, he was able to converse freely; but he soon relapsed;-the awful hour approached, and at such a time, when the mind of a child is awed into acquiescence with whatever wish a parent may express; and melted into tenderness by the sight of that nature expiring, which called their offspring into being; that nature too, which must be loved and revered because it is that of our parent. Oswald listened to the last petition breathed from his father's lips, that he would become the husband of Lady Emmeline, and preserve the name of the house of De Courcy. He listened and promised that if he could |