course, such a book has not been the work of a day, month, or,
perhaps, a year; and its literature entitles it to a permanent place
in the library, where we hope to see it stand _auro perennius_;
were its fate to be otherwise, we should condemn the public--for we
hate ingratitude in every shape--and write in the first page the
epitaph--_For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot_. A guinea to
twopence--Hyperion to a Satyr--how can we extend the fame of _The
Keepsake!_

We cannot particularize the engravings; but they are all worthy
companions of the frontispiece--a lovely portrait of Mrs. Peel,
engraved by Heath, from Sir Thomas Lawrence's picture. In the literary
department--a very court of fiction--is, My Aunt Margaret's Mirror, a
tale of forty-four pages; and, The Tapestried Chamber, by Sir Walter
Scott; both much too long for extract, which would indeed be almost
unfair. Next comes an exquisite gem--


ON LOVE.

_BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY_.


What is Love? Ask him who lives what is life; ask him who adores what
is God.

I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even of thine
whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they
resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to
appeal to something in common, and unburden my inmost soul to them, I