is so happy as to be applicable to the Poet of all Nature. It expresses
as much, if not more merit, than any single line often quoted, and its
frequent repetition has probably induced us to consider the latter
half--"simplicity a child"--as the peculiar talent of writing for
young people, aimed at by many, yet accomplished by so few. What is it
that so delights the young reader--we may say ourselves--in Robinson
Crusoe[3]--the Shakspeare of the play-ground--but _simplicity;_
and where, among the thousands of nursery books that have since been
written, can we find its match? In childhood, youth, manhood, and old
age, this is the great charm of life; and even the vitiated appetite is
not unfrequently coaxed into amendment by its very delightful character
when contrasted with coarser enjoyments. Metaphysicians deal out this
fact to the world over and over again, and all the philosophy of Locke,
Newton, and Bacon would be of little worth without it.
[3] A few weeks since we gave a copy of Robinson Crusoe to a young
man, "whose education had been neglected," and who had never
read this delightful book: the account of his delight from its
perusal has more than recompensed us tenfold.
But this is too philosophical a strain for noticing a child's book--a
little volume that is among books what a child is in human nature--"man
in a small letter;" and such is Mrs. Watt's "New Year's Gift." To
express all the kindly feelings which it must produce in a mind occupied
as ours often is with graver matters--would be only to repeat what we
said a fortnight since; and so without further premise, we will open
this little casket of gems for the reader. We shall not string names
together, but take a few of them. First, the "Sisters of Scio," a true
story, by the author of "Constantinople in 1828," of two little Greek
girls being saved from the Turks, by a good Christian. Next is "The
Recall," by Mrs. Hemans:--
Music is sorrowful
Since thou wert gone;
Sisters are mourning thee--
Come to thine own
Hark! the home voices call,
Back to thy rest!
Come to thy father's hall,
Thy mother's breast!
O'er the far blue mountains,
O'er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long parted one!
Back to thy home!
--How appropriate is the story and its sequel; nay, almost as good as
two of Mr. Farley's pantomime scenes at Christmas. "The Miller's
Daughter," a tale of the French Revolution, which follows, is hardly so
fit: even the mention of Robespierre and the Reign of Terror chills
one's blood. "The Sights of London," is a string of "City Scenes" in
verse; and "May Maxwell," and "The Broken Pitcher," are pretty ballads,
by the Howitts. We are not half through the book, and can only mention
"the Young Governess," a school story--"the Birds and the Beggar of
Bagdad," a fairy tale--"Lady Lucy's Petition," an historiette--"the
Restless Boy," by Mrs. Opie, and the "Passionate Little Girl," by Mrs.
Hofland--all sparkling trifles in prose. Among the poetry is "the
African Mier-Vark," or Ant-eater, by Mr. Pringle, and "the Deadly
Nightshade," a sweetly touching ballad, dated from Florence; "the
Vulture of the Alps" is of similar character; and we are much pleased
with some lines on Birds, by Barry Cornwall, one set of which we copy,
the best prose papers being too long for extract: