The editor, or _editress_, (for we doubt whether the former is epicene,)
of this elegant little volume is the lady of Mr. Alaric A. Watts, the
editor of the _Literary Souvenir_. It is expressly designed for the
perusal of children from six to twelve years old, and is, we think, both
by its embellishments and literary contents, calculated to attract
hundreds of juvenile admirers. Indeed, we are surprised that the
children have been so long without _their_ "Annuals," whilst those of
"a larger growth" have been supplied in abundance; but, as Sir Walter
Scott has set the example of writing for masters and misses, we hope
that our nursery literature will rise in character, and it will not
henceforth be the business of after-years to correct erroneous ideas
imbibed from silly books during our childhood. In this task much time
has been lost. Mrs. Watts is of the same opinion; and with this view,
"the extravagances of those apocryphal personages--giants, ghosts, and
fairies--have been entirely banished from her pages, as tending not only
to enervate the infant mind, and unfit it for the reception of more
wholesome nutriment, but also to increase the superstitious terrors of
childhood,--the editor has not less scrupulously excluded those novel-like
stories of exaggerated sentiment, which may now almost be said
to form the staple commodity of our nursery literature."--(_Preface_.)
Accordingly, we have in the _New Year's Gift_ three historical pieces
and engravings, illustrating the murder of the young princes in the
Tower; Arthur imploring Hubert not to put out his eyes; and another.
There are from thirty to forty tales, sketches, and poems, among which
are a pretty story, by Mrs. Hofland; a Cricketing Story, by Miss Mitford,
&c. There are two or three little pieces enjoining humanity to animals,
and some pleasing anecdotes of monkeys and tame robins, and a few lines
on the Reed-Sparrow's Nest:--
Only see what a neat, warm, compact little thing!
Mister Nash could not build such a house for the king;
Not he, let him labour his best.
Among the poetry are some graceful lines by Mr. Watts to his son;
but our extract must be "The Spider and the Fly, a new version of
an old story," by Mrs. Howitt. It is a lesson for all folks--great
and small--from the infant in the nursery to the emperor of Russia,
the grand signior of Turkey, and the queen of Portugal--or from those
who play with toy-cannons to such as are now figuring on the theatre
of war:--
"Will you walk into my parlour" said a spider to a fly:
"'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to show you when you are there."
"Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
"I'm sure you must be weary with soaring up so high,
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in."
"Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"
Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice--
I'm sure you're very welcome--will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh, no, no!" said the little fly, "kind sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see."
"Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise.
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."
The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner, sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.
Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple--there's a crest upon your head--
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead,"
Alas, alas how very soon this silly little fly.
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;
Thinking only of her crested head--poor foolish thing!--At last
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour--but she ne'er came out again!
--And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
Among the more serious pieces, we notice a beautiful lament of childhood
by Mrs. Hemans, and a hymn by Mrs. Opie.
The engravings, twelve in number, with several little wood-cut
tail-pieces, are beautifully executed; and altogether, the New Year's
Gift deserves a place on the _cheffonier_ shelf of every nursery in the
kingdom.
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We have received several other "Annuals," which we shall notice in an
early Supplementary Number.
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