This is the second volume of the Picturesque Annual. The Public are stated, in its preface, to have contributed from ten to twelve thousand guineas to the support of last year’s volume; and we are inclined to think, that, in his next, the Editor will have the gratification of reporting still more munificent patronage:  for, if guineas be somewhat less abundant than twelve months since, the disposition to foster British art, and a liberal appreciation of its merits, has been and is on the increase; and, though the proverb be somewhat musty, “Where there is a will,” &c.

    [1] Copied by permission of the Proprietor.

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THE BOOK OF BEAUTY.

[This is a title of no small pretension.  It is in certain respects ill chosen, though it may, in some degree, denote the exquisite triumphs which art has here accomplished.  The Illustrations consist of eighteen portraits of every order of beauty, of variety enough to realize Sir Philip Sidney’s aphorism, that “whatsoever is liked, to the liker is beautiful.”  But here all must be liked; therefore all are beautiful.  The very names would make out a sort of court-roll of Venus, and the book itself the enchanting effect of the goddess’ embroidered girdle, which had the gift of inspiring love.  This charm will doubtless ensure the volume hundreds of possessors.  The names of a few of the galaxy will give the reader a faint idea of their charms, unless the reader accord with Juliet’s somewhat peevish “What’s in a name.”  Thus, we find Julia, the queen of sentimentality; Belinda, gay and sparkling; Madeline, the early prey of despair; Lolah, languishing amid Eastern magnificence; the Orphan, pencilled in the very simplicity of nature, and finely contrasted with the coquetry of art; Theresa, the very type of romance; Geraldine, Meditation, the Bride, and Lucy Ashton.  But we must not omit the heroine of our extract—­with tall, etherial form, raven ringlets, and pearly eyes—­such charms as would attune the wise man to another Song of Beauty.

The letter-press of the volume is too in the type of beauty—­from the chastely-elegant pen of Miss Landon.  It consists of tales and sketches, lights and shadows, such as none but her accomplished pen could tell or harmonize.  Here is probably the best illustration—­]

THE ENCHANTRESS. (By herself.)

You see in me, “the only living descendant of those Eastern Magi to whom the stars revealed their mysteries, and spirits gave their power.  Age after age did sages add to that knowledge which, by bequeathing to their posterity, they trusted would in time combat to conquer their mortality.  But the glorious race perished from the earth, till only my father was left, and I his orphan child.  Marvels and knowledge paid his life of fasting and study.  All the spirits of the elements bowed down before