Though last in the field, (for it is scarcely published) the _Bijou_ will doubtless occupy a different place in public favour. Its embellishments are selected with much judgment, and in literary merit, it equals either of its contemporaries. Its second title is an Annual of Literature and the _Fine Arts_, and from the choice of its illustrations, deservedly so. Thus, among the painters, who have furnished subjects for the engravers, we have Holbein, Claude, and Primaticcio; and two from Sir Thomas Lawrence. The engraving from Holbein, Sir Thomas More and his Family,--is a novelty in an Annual, and is beautifully executed by Ensom. It has all the quaintness of the great master, whose pictures may be called the _mosaic_ of painting. The Autumnal Evening, engraved by Dean, after Claude, is not so successful; although it should be considered that little space is allowed for the exquisite effect of the original: still the execution might have been better. The Frontispiece, Lady Wallscourt, after Sir Thomas Lawrence is in part, a first-rate engraving; Young Lambton, after the same master, is of superior merit. The face is beautifully copied; and, by way of hint to the _scrappers_, this print will form a companion to the Mountain Daisy, from the _Amulet_ for the present year. There are, too, some consecrated landscapes, dear to every classical tourist, and of, no common interest at home--as Clisson, the retreat of Heloise; Mont Blanc; and the Cascade of Tivoli--all of which are delightfully picturesque. The view of Mont Blanc is well managed. In the _prose_ compositions we notice some of intense interest, among which are the Stranger Patron and the Castle of Reinspadte--both of German origin. There is too, a faithful historiette of the Battle of Trafalgar, which, with the History of the Family of Sir Thomas More, will be read with peculiar attention. Our extracts from the poetical department are by Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon. THE SLEEPERS. Oh! lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing is sleep. On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep: A holy thing from heaven, A gracious dewy cloud, A covering mantle, given The weary to enshroud. Oh! lightly, lightly tread! Revere the pale still brow, The meekly drooping head, The long hair's willowy flow! Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back, From the world unseen by you, Unto Life's dim faded track. Her soul is far away, In her childhood's land perchance, Where her young sisters play, Where shines her mother's glance. Some old sweet native sound Her spirit haply weaves; A harmony profound Of woods with all their leaves: A murmur of the sea, A laughing tone of streams:-- Long may her sojourn be In the music-land of dreams! Each voice of love is there, Each gleam of beauty fled. Each lost one still more fair-- Oh! lightly, lightly tread!