This is a magnificent affair, and is one of the proud triumphs of the union of Painting, Engraving, and Literature--to which we took occasion to allude in a recent number of THE MIRROR. Each department is _unique_, and the lists are like the Morning Post account of a drawing room, or Almack's--the princes of the arts, and the peers of the pen. _Painters_--Lawrence, Howard, Corbould, Westall, Turner, Landseer, Stephanoff, Chalon, Stothard, &c. _Engravers_--C. Heath, Finden, Engleheart, Portbury, Wallis, Rolls, Goodyear, &c. _Contributors_--Scott, Mackintosh, Moore, the Lords Normanby, Morpeth, Porchester, Holland, Gower, and Nugent; Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Shelley, Hook, Lockhart, Croker, Mrs. Hemans, and Miss Landon; and the cost of the whole _eleven thousand guineas!_ Of 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 have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill-fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have every where sought, and have found only repulse and disappointment.