them to the reader. Taken altogether, they form one of the finest Annual
Galleries or Collections.

* * * * *

THE KEEPSAKE.

* * * * *

Without going into a dreamy discussion on the _literature_ of this work,
we venture to say it has rather retrograded from, than improved upon the
volume of last year. Great and titled names only furnish the _gilt:_ and
this fact is now so generally understood, that readers are no longer
deceived by them, in the quality of the gingerbread. Mr. Watts is so
convinced of this fact, that he has given the cut direct to many titled
authors; and, for aught we know, he has produced as good a volume this
year as on any former occasion. The proprietor of the _Keepsake_ appears
to think otherwise; and his editor has accordingly produced a book of
very meagre interest, though of mightier pretensions than his rivals.
Months ago we were told by announcement, paragraph and advertisement, of
a tragedy, _The House of Aspen_, by Sir Walter Scott, which now turns
out to be as dull an affair as any known in these days of dramatic
poverty and theatrical ups and downs. Sir Walter, in an advertisement of
great modesty, dated April 1, says, that "being of too small a size of
consequence for a separate publication, the piece is sent as a
contribution to the _Keepsake_, where its demerits may be hidden amid
the beauties of more valuable articles." The piece has been adapted to a
minor stage with some effect, but nothing higher than a melodrama. We
have neither room nor inclination to extract a scene, but one of the
metrical pieces has tempted us:--

Sweet shone the sun on the fair Lake of Toro,
Weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood,
As a fair maiden bewilder'd in sorrow,
Sigh'd to the breezes and wept to the flood.

"Saints from the mansion of bliss lowly bending,
Virgin, that hear'st the poor suppliant's cry,
Grant my petition, in anguish ascending.
My Frederick restore, or let Eleanor die."

Distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle,
And the chase's wild clamour came loading the gale.

Breathless she gaz'd through the woodland so dreary,
Slowly approaching, a warrior was seen;
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footstep so weary,
Cleft was his helmet