THE FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING, FOR MDCCCXXXII. It is not very easy for a good natured person to notice any of the elegant and pleasing volumes that are intended as Christmas Presents with much severity of criticism. They are doubtless sufficiently open to objection, but even he who, by his very vocation, is "nothing if not critical" is ready to waive, for awhile, the rigid dignity of a Fadladeen, and to regard these Annual Offerings with a generous indulgence, and a willingness to be pleased. There is something in their external splendour, which combined with a knowledge of the gentle purpose for which they are prepared, and the various associations of the season at which they are published, that seems to disarm the judgment and soften the asperities of criticism. People may talk as philosophically as they please about their contempt for mere embellishment, and of merit, like beauty, being the most attractive when the least adorned, but it is impossible, after all, to be wholly unbiassed by extrinsic advantages; and the elegant engravings, delicate typography, and smooth and snowy paper of these tasteful publications, have more influence on the reader than he is, perhaps, aware of, or is ready to acknowledge. We like to have a fine thought not only finely expressed but finely printed; and when we see polished and sparkling verses superbly printed on hot-pressed paper, we are conscious of a certain fitness and consistency. For this reason we abominate the coarse American editions of Mrs. Hemans and L. E. L. Their feminine sensibilities and radiant diction seem to lose half their attraction with such beggarly accompaniments of brown paper and coarse typography. The reader perhaps, may smile at these remarks, but if the smile be succeeded by a thought, he will hardly disagree with us. The appearance of a volume of poems is almost of as much consequence as the mood in which we read it, and every one knows what a different impression the same book will make upon him at different hours. If a man wishes to read Milton to advantage let him beg, borrow, or steal one of the "lovely editions" of Baskerville. Paradise Lost would be Paradise Lost indeed if we were obliged to look for it at New York. We fell the other day upon an American edition of a Drawing-room Poet, (whose name, in common charity, we suppress,) that would disgrace an Alehouse. Some poetaster of the last century is said to have broken his heart on the way from the printer to his patron, at discovering a single error of the press-but what an agony of grief and indignation would such a man have experienced, had he been treated by the Americans, like the fashionable author we have just alluded to. It must not be supposed, however, that we wish to make a dead set at our Trans-Atlantic friends, for they do not always dress an author in dirty rags. Some of their own Christmas Presents are got up with great taste and elegance, and are far superior to the similar publications from the London press only a few years ago. It is only when Jonathan, in the spirit of Franklin, is determined to make the most of a penny, that he does injustice to elegant literature, for which he has really, perhaps, a great deal more respect than our own Nation of Shopkeepers ” is willing to suppose. If Napoleon was right in thus characterising the English people, they at all events carry on their business in a very liberal and enterprising manner, of which, amongst other things, our countless publications afford a glorious evidence. Not to mention the more costly and important embellished works that reflect so much honour on English art, the literary Annuals, (which though they originated in Germany, have been perfected in England,) have raised the character of the London book-trade above that of any other nation. Nothing can exceed the spirit and good taste with which these elegant bijoux are prepared. Many of the engravings are perfect gems of art, and the typography, paper, binding, and general appearance are as attractive as it is possible to make them. The most fastidious of human beings must be satisfied with the pictorial and mechanical arrangements of these works, and a critic may find ample occasion for praise even in the literary department, if he be one of those who can look on the sunny side of all things. The Friendship's Offering for 1832, which is now before us, is one of the prettiest and best of these publications. The Editor is an elegant poet and a man of fine taste and fine feeling. He professes in his preface, that he does not aim so much at the imposing qualities of novelty, brilliancy, and excitement, as at the more quiet graces of a literature combining simplicity of style with elevation of sentiment, and possessing a salutary moral tendency in its general effect." Though it cannot be said that every separate article in the volume displays these qualities, or distinctly indicates this purpose, it gives us pleasure to testify, that the work is, upon the whole, distinguished by a certain subdued elegance of manner and a chastity of sentiment, that render it eminently fitted for the perusal of youthful and ingenuous minds. The only paper which seems a contradiction to the Editor's views, is a story called" The Church-yard Watch, " which partakes a little too much of the character of German fiction, and is rather vulgar and exaggerated. Some brief passages, few and far between, occur also in two other prose stories, that are not quite consistent with the prevailing tone of the volume. These exceptions, however, are not of great importance, and would be scarcely worth alluding to, if the prominence of such small blemishes were not an evidence of the general excellence of the work, The first article is a very interesting contribution from Miss Mitford, entitled "The Incendiary, a Country Tale." Like every thing from this Lady's pen, it is exquisitely natural and unaffected. If Claude had painted figures as happily as landscapes, we should have called Miss Mitford a Claude-like writer, There is the same truth, the same delicacy of touch, and the same quiet grace and amenity in her pictures of rural life which we recognize in the works of that most enchanting of painters. It is curious to observe with what an air of labour some of the most fluent writers commence their articles, and Miss Mitford, easy and graceful as she generally is, begins her present story in rather an ungainly manner. The second sentence is a long and lumbering paragraph of twentythree closely printed lines. The moment she gets over this difficulty, her style is delightful, for its perfect nature and facility. The characters and incidents are admirably conceived, and the whole story is finally wound up in the most pleasant and satisfactory way imaginable. The next article is a very sweet and fanciful poem by the Editor, who by his elegance and purity of mind is fitted for a literary companionship with the preceding writer. The author of "Tales of the O'Hara Family" has two stories in the book; the first of which, entitled " The Substitute," is by far the best. The distress of a gentle-minded and feeble-bodied youth at being drawn for a soldier, and the heroism of his sister, who disguises herself in man's apparel and becomes his substitute, is described in a delicate and touching manner. The author has done right in rescuing the brother from eventual disgrace, by making him at last rush into battle, and nobly bear up against the weakness of his organization. This is followed by a piece called "The Poet's Dream," originally published by Mr. Bulwer in his volume of Poems. As it was not contributed to the Friendship's Offering, the Editor makes a kind of apology for its insertion, on the plea that it is a better illustration of one of the engravings than could easily be procured. The poem does great credit to the author, and has a vigour and freshness that indicate no ordinary powers. A little memoir of a " Queen Anne's Sixpence," though the idea is not very new, is managed with a good deal of cleverness, and as the narrative is not continuous, but is broken into fragments of an extractable nature, we are tempted to give a specimen: 66 "Hoot awa, man, never tell me; the loons complain, do they, of my cutting down the feathers in their caps, and giving them worsted lace? "The extravagant dogs, they will thank me yet for it.' 66 6 Yet, Sir David, we may lop down even feathers too much; and " after all, the whole will be but a sixpenny saving,' said the Adjutant General, whose solid figure formed a striking contrast to the tall and 56 meagre anatomy before him. 66 "A saxpenny saving,' exclaimed the anatomy, do I hear ye right, or am I deaf or demented? A saxpenny saving, Sir Harry! Why, man, what saving in the wide world is there, if it be not a saxpenny saving? Do ye think the wealth of England grew by punds sterling? No, Sir, it was not even by punds scots, it was by farthings, Sir, let "alone saxpenses, Sir; and let me tell you, Sir Harry, that the Adjutant "General, who does not honour the saxpence as the ancestor and proge"nitor, the father and grandfather, the atavus, abavus, and proavus,' as they say in the high school, of all coins and denominations thereof, is "not likely to be long Adjutant General of his Majesty's Forces, under existing circumstances.' 66 "All this,' was the answer, may be very true, Sir, in a merchant's "office, however, it may be unfitted for the Horse-Guards. But the sys"tem of lopping and docking is becoming unpopular already. You "have already stripped the lace off the line, and given them a beggarly "substitute, for epaulettes, that leaves no distinction between the Captain dan the Corporal. The fusileers are scribbling verses upon you; the "Guards shrink from promenading Bond-street; and the Lancers swear "that they will shave and desert. And this I call a pitiful reform, a saving 66 66 worthier of some withered old chairman of some eternal finance committee, some garrulous, querulous, dry, old slave of detail, than of the enlightened economy of a British Government. The old General had alternately lifted up and let down his spectacles on his forehead, in ut❝ter astonishment, as he perused the visage of his portly adviser. At length, as an unanswerable refutation of those prodigal máxims, he "took me from his purse, and, gazing on me with a 'love, surpassing the "love of woman,' said-Look at this coin, Sir; it is the vara identical one, which I brought with me from my native place; which was my "sole travelling companion, and which, with my own good will, shall re"main with me, till my dying day.' 66 "His hearer, in return, drew a paper from his pocket. Sir David, "said he, gravely, 'I have come to announce a piece of news, which may give it additional value. You have a successor within this half hour, "and here is his order for abolishing your appointment, and your reform together! He laid the paper before the thin tactician. It was a ‘nine"teenth manœuvre,' and not in his list. The news was electrifying. His nerves for once relaxed their pressure on me. I was rejoiced at the "prospect of escape. I sprang from his hand, took refuge in a chink of "the floor, and was happily lost to him and his heirs, for ever. My loss was felt as a moral reproach, and a physical calamity. I was the first "sixpence that he ever let slip through his fingers." 66 66 The next prose article is " On Green Grass," a curious title, and a curious paper. It is something in the style of one of Hunt's or Hazlitt's essays, but does not exhibit the originality of observation, the freshness of fancy and depth of feeling that distinguish those writers. It is full, however, of pious sentiment and a love of natural beauty. Its chief defect is its diffuseness. A few passages are excellent and interesting, but it becomes wearisome at last, from its great length and want of point and spir.t. We make room for a favorable specimen :— GREEN GRASS. "The first day of summer, in some far northern country, must be enK chanting. The sun blazing forth in unshorn splendour, and melting away the barren snow from the herbage beneath,-grass already thick and luxuriant, and flowers which only waited for the sun, to burst "from their swelling buds. But England-what can equal the verdure "of dear foggy England? Where Daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, Shakspeare. "Orange bowers and myrtle hedges must be very delightful; but then, "when the trees are in their moist, gorgeous attire of fruit and flowers, " and rich foliage, when the air is one soft breath of perfume, and not a "cloud stains the azure depths of heaven, then the grass is usually parched up, and the dew seems out of place, upon the dull brown turf. "I have heard of an English gentleman, residing at Cintra, who hardly 66 "kept a small patch of grass green, by having it watered twice every day. How very different from the fresh grass beneath the dark foliaged "beech trees, during an English summer, where the fairies keep their midnight revels, and leave traces of their tiny presence, in rings of "deeper tinted verdure, all the year long, upon the green sward. Grass " at sunrise is beautiful, when แ 66 Glitter gay With rainbow tints, on every herb, leaf, flower, That C. H. Townsend. Grass even in winter is beautiful, when the delicate blades are bent "and flattened beneath a crystal surface of ice, or when every blade is fringed and spangled with the silver frost; then by moonlight the frosted grass often seems sprinkled with diamonds." This is very pleasing and pretty, but it is not over subtile or imaginative. How differently does Leigh Hunt treat a similar subject! He handles it as only a true poet could. Take, for instance, the following little detached passages from a contribution of his to the Keepsake for 1828, in which he describes the appearances of rain and sunshine in May : "The shadows in the grass chase one another, panting over the fields, ❝ like a pursuit of spirits." "See! the cloud is after the light, gliding over the country, like the "shadow of a God!" "And now the meadows are lit up here and there, with sunshine, as "if the soul of Titian were standing in heaven, and playing his fancies. 66 upon them." There is a description of a green field in the "Arcadia" of Sir Philip Sidney, which is rightly characterised by Mr. Tayler, as quaintly beautiful. We cannot resist the pleasure of transferring so pleasant a picture to our pages. "It was indeed a place of delight, for through the middest of it there ran a sweet brooke, which did both hold the eye open with her azure streams, and yet seek to close the eye with the purling noise it 66 made upon the pebble stones it runne over; the field itself being set in some places with roses, and in all the rest constantly preserving a "flourishing greene; the roses added such a ruddie show into it, as though the field were bashfull at his owne beautie.” This is truly Arcadian. Sir Philip Sidney was a genuine poet, both in prose and verse. Mr. St. John's Story of "The Golden Basket-Bearer," is one of the most purely classical fictions we have read in any modern book. We feel literally transported to Athens, for not a single sentiment or sentence of an uncongenial character ever breaks the pleasant illusion. It is written with great power and |