the imagination taxed to give birth to all grotesque and fantastic combinations, when the natural passions of the human breast were thought to possess sufficient interest in themselves, without being distorted into hideous convulsions, or microscopically magnified into impossible proportions,-when beauty was not considered less beautiful because it was simple, or sorrow less deep because it was unpretending ;-and last of all, there was a time, and it commenced with the commencement of the nineteenth century, when this order of things was entirely reversed,-when mere classical correctness was pronounced tame and spiritless, and fast producing that apathetic monotony which would never be roused into animation, startled into energy, or surprised into delight then came the restless longing after novelty, however perplexing, the never-ceasing anxiety to explore regions of thought-of sentiment of passion-of sensation, hitherto undiscovered, the dangerous craving after strong and stimulating intellectual food, intent only on the present excitement, and altogether regardless of the consequent languor; innumerable delineations fol. lowed, not of what human nature was, but of what it was possible it might become; genius was deified, genius was called upon to create, and judgment and knowledge were taken from their thrones, and made to bow the knee before the idols which genius erected. In every country there have been intellectual changes such as these ; and the comprehensive mind, without allowing itself to be stamped with the features of any one era, may find much profit in all. The gay wild songs of the Troubadour need not be despised, because Milton, lifted on the wings of religion, soared a far higher flight; the rural felicities in which Sidney delighted need not be turned from as weak and girlish, because Donne and Cowley thought more intensely, if not with a sounder estimation of the beauty of creation's works; nor should Addison be left unread, and Pope pronounced uninspired, because the author of "Waverley" sprung into existence, and Byron conceived "Childe Harold." The peculiar character which distinguishes any passing generation must be interesting to it, and may afford matter for much useful discourse; but the peculiar character of man, and of the mind of man-for ever active, yet for ever varying-is a theme of more permanent utility and sublimer interest. Let us not then rashly join with those who, with a flippant cleverness, the very common endowment of inferior minds, either maintain that the present infinitely surpasses all past ages, or, falling into an opposite extreme, affect to undervalue every thing that does not agree with their own ideal standard of excellence, and to discover nothing in the unwearying exertion of mental activity which this country exhibits but extreme unprofitableness,—a mere gilding of the external surface of thought, or vain and unjustifiable attempts to penetrate into the hidden arcana of the material and immaterial universe. Let us rejoice, rather, that whatever may be the imperfections attendant upon the mode of its dissemination, the light of knowledge, and the softening influence of the litteræ humaniores, now rest, as a sunbeam, alike upon the palace of the prince and the cabin of the peasant. Much may we have to say, ere the labours which we now commence be concluded, concerning the errors or excellencies of many systems and schools, as well as of the merits or imperfections of those by whom they are supported; but let us always remember, that wherever there is thought, there is an exertion of the most godlike attribute which belongs to man-of all his posses. sions the most valuable; and that in exact proportion tc its value is the importance of the use to which it may be put, and the deep responsibility of those who undertake to superintend its progress, and advise regarding its management. We hope that we feel as we ought the weight of this responsibility; we hope we are sufficiently aware that it is no light sin to send forth to the world crude and hastily formed opinions upon works which it took long time and much labour to produce. It is our most earnest desire never to attempt to influence our readers by ill-digested speculations, in which a certain sparkling facility of diction might occupy the place of those solid conclusions to be alone deduced from careful and accurate inquiry. Never may we be led to speak of the books which come before us, until we have bestow. ed upon them that sufficient and impartial examination, which will satisfy even the authors themselves of our candour, and prove to our readers that we are actuated only by an honourable anxiety to lay before them their true merits. Steadily guided by these principles, we may proceed boldly, and whatever worldly success may crown our labours, we shall ever carry along with us the abiding happiness of a clear conscience. LITERARY CRITICISM. THE ANNUALS FOR 1829. It is the peculiar feature of Annuals—a class of books unknown to our ancestors, and of very recent and rapid growth-that they embody in their pages all the miscellaneous, minor, and fugitive pieces of most living authors of celebrity. The plan, in theory at least, is a good one. If the shorter productions of a Sir Walter Scott, a Wordsworth, or a Coleridge, would be eagerly purchased when published separately, it is but fair to calculate that the volume will be greatly increased in interest that contains within itself joint effusions from the pens of those and many other master-spirits of the day. But in this, as in all terrestrial undertakings, theory is one thing and execution another. There are moments when the very mon-place, and in those moments, pressed as they alablest men are little more inspired than the most commost always are for time, they are frequently tempted to commit their thoughts to paper. It is natural to suppose that, in looking over their manuscripts to select scraps for the Annuals, they do not always reject things of this sort, which might never otherwise have seen the light. "Aliquando dormitat bonus Homerus;" but sleep are eagerly pounced on by the whole host of even the broken mutterings that fall from him in his Annual Editors. Besides, it by no means follows, that, because an author is a great novelist or poet, he is on that account better fitted than any body else to write a short love-tale, or an harmonious copy of verses, cal. culated to kindle the smiles or draw forth the tears of a fair reader. Milton, we suspect, would have made but an indifferent contributor to the "Keepsake;" and Locke, Bacon, and Jeremy Taylor, would in all probability have ranked among the rejected writers to the "Forget-me-Not." Byron failed in his attempt to establish a periodical; and Southey's articles in the Annuals are in general among the very worst they contain. The truth seems to be, that they who, at the promptings of nature, have accustomed their minds to take enlarged tract their thoughts into a narrower compass, and to views of all subjects, find it extremely difficult to concontent themselves with a more microscopic range of vision. A much humbler degree of talent accomplishes this task with far greater facility. It is upon these principles that we are inclined to account for the disappointment we commonly experience in looking over an Annual. For weeks before, our expectations have been raised by advertisements of all kinds, and announcements of the splendid preparations which the editor and publishers are making;-long lists of names are circulated; and every name is a household word in our lips, and seems in itself a host. But when at length the expected volume is put into our hands, and we anxiously turn over leaf after leaf, till we come to the end, our exclamation, with the countryman in the fable, is one of mingled regret and surprise,-Quale caput! cerebrum non habet! There is, at the same time, an elegance and grace about these little books—a lucky choice in the time of their appearance-and a pleasant feeling in their intended appropriation,—all of which are apt to soften the critic's heart, and to "Win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last." When there were only one or two of these New-Year's Gifts, it was perhaps right to treat them thus leniently; but now that their numbers have so amazingly increased, -that so much money is expended on them, and that so much time is occupied in preparing and in reading them, we are far from thinking that this over-indulgence should be continued. Wherever there is competition to so great an extent, it becomes the duty of the public to ascertain which of the parties are most entitled to support, and instead of scattering their unprofitable favours among the whole, bestow upon the really deserving a liberal and steady patronage. We cannot, therefore, in the present instance, join with those who repeat the hackneyed proverb, that "comparisons are odious," and refuse to point out any distinctions, because all possess a greater or less degree of merit. We think that more Annuals have been published this year than will ever be again; and as some must perish, we consider it our duty to assign to each its comparative rank, and thus give those that deserve it the best chance of remunerating their respective proprietors, both now and afterwards. We shall say a few words upon each, and shall endeavour to point out all the substantially good articles it contains ;-of the inferior pieces, we shall either be silent, or express in passing our disapprobation. We shall take them up not in any particular order; but after reviewing the whole, we shall class them as their merits seem to deserve. The Keepsake, edited by F. M. Reynolds. Hurst, disagreeably felt, although want of experience might fail to suggest the remedy. In like manner, the paper. maker may have his own partialities for ribbed paper, for wove paper, for cream-coloured paper, for thick paper, or for thin paper; but there is only one sort of paper which, under the circumstances, is the paper that should be used;-the binder also may prefer plain binding, or rich tooling, or crimson, blue, or green silk, but nothing which he proposes may be exactly that which ought to be adopted ;-and the engraver may see beauties in certain paintings which no one else sees, and may insist on making them the subjects of his burine, until a superior mind either convinces him of his mistake, or declines making use of his assistance. When we give praise to a book, therefore, for its nearly unequalled excellence in all these particulars, the praise is of some consequence; and certainly a lovelier volume than the "Keepsake" we could never wish to hold in our hands. It is to the admirable artist, Charles Heath, that it is chiefly indebted for its exquisite embellishments. Line engraving was undoubtedly never before carried to the perfection it has attained in this country within the last few years. We do not mean to assert that finer specimens of the art have been recently produced upon that larger scale, which till lately was rarely deviated from by engravers of celebrity. But the rapidly-increasing taste for combining pictorial embellishment with literary productions, and the lucrative employment thus afforded to artists, have induced an attention to minuteness of detail and inimitable delicacy of execution, which have not hitherto been paralleled. The largest picture is reduced to the size of a duodecimo page, with a degree of accuracy so complete, that the smallest leaf does not disappear from a landscape,-nor is the slightest shade of dif ference in the expression of the individual features of a magnificent portrait ever perceived. There is here a very great triumph of human ingenuity; and it is impossible to avoid feeling obligation to the artist who thus not only gives to perpetuity, but sends into our own closet bound up with the books we read, all the most brilliant creations of painting. Judging by the numerous engravings in the Annuals before us, the persons to whom England is most indebted for their successful exertions in this way are, Charles Heath, Charles Rolls, E. and W. Finden, E. Goodall, J. H. Robinson, H. Le Keux, F. Engleheart, F. and E. Portbury, J. Romney, R. Graves, J. Goodyear, and one or two others who, we doubt not, deserve to be named, though we have not had the same opportunities of discovering their abilities. There are nineteen embellishments in the " Keepsake," of which Heath himself has supplied ten, and on the whole the best,-if we except "Anne Page and Slender," by Rolls, who is an artist of first-rate talent. It is unnecessary to particularize the engravings which please us most-they are all beautiful." Lucy and her Bird" is probably the most commonplace, both in subject and execution; whilst the portraits of the Duchess of Bedford and Mrs Peel are of that sort which set criticism at defiance. 66 Though we have dwelt thus long on the embellish THIS Annual is of a larger size, and sold at a higher price, than any of the rest, with the exception of the "Anniversary." All that it is in the power of typography, paper, binding, and engraving, to do for a book, has been done for the " Keepsake," of which one of the earliest copies that has been sent to Scotland is now before us. When we give the " Keepsake" this praise, we say a good deal more than some of our read-ments, we are happy to have it in our power to say, that ers may be inclined at first sight to suspect. It is no easy matter either for editor or publisher, and implies Do trifling degree of taste and judgment, to get up a work which, in so far as external beauty is concerned, will, in all respects, do honour to the drawing-room of the fairest and the noblest of the land. This is a talent of itself, which ought not to go unnoticed. Printers, however excellent, may, to the cultivated eye, destroy the appearance of a whole page, by making the margin too long or too short by a single line, too broad or too narrow by a single letter, by misarranging a title, by using capitals instead of italics, by inserting a single space more or a single space less, by a thousand minute errors of judgment, the general effect of which would be the literary contents of the "Keepsake" are in many respects little less deserving of notice. None of the Annuals exhibits so strong a list of names, though several of them contain a greater number of articles. There is scarcely a contribution in the "Keepsake" to which a well-known signature is not attached. Sir Walter Scott comes first. He has contributed four pieces of prose,two of which are little more than anecdotes; the third is only a new edition of a story he heard many years ago from Miss Seward; but the fourth is a very powerful and highly graphic sketch, occupying the first forty-four pages of the book, and entitled "My Aunt Margaret's Mirror." It is a tale of necromancy; and the scene is laid in Edinburgh, about the beginning of the eighteenth century. It is one of those productions which, however hurriedly the Author of Waverley may occasionally write, are continually presenting themselves to convince us that no man living possesses the same graphic and extraordinary powers. The three other pieces are of a much inferior kind. That called the "Death of the Laird's Jock," which was written to furnish a subject for the pencil, does not, we think, supply very successfully what was wanted; and accordingly, we perceive by Heath's engraving after Corbould, that the attempt to make a fine picture out of it has entirely failed, the effect produced is overstrained, disagreeable, and unnatural. Sir Walter Scott is not altogether to blame for this: the incident, as he relates it, is poetical, but not resting on any known historical foundation, it does not possess any point sufficiently striking to merit its being embodied on canvass. -Some posthumous fragments of Percy Bysshe Shelley next attract our attention. The few remarks, in prose, "On Love," are pregnant with thought, as indeed is all that Shelley has ever written. Yet the remarks will not be popular, for the thoughts do not lie at the surface, and ordinary readers will not give themselves the trouble to penetrate deeper in search of them. There are three scraps of poetry, too, by the same author, which we perused with interest; for all that remains of Shelley tends to throw some light upon the peculiar idiosyncrasy of one of the most remarkable and original minds that this country ever produced. Our readers will be glad to see one of those effusions, which, though on a lighter subject, bears the strong impress of Shelley's usual current of thought :— fuller of words than of ideas. There are two sonnets, however, by the same author, which possess much simple beauty and force.-Lord Nugent's" Apropos of Bread" is clever, but not quite so good as we had hoped.— L. E. L. (Miss Landon) has this year wisely written much less in the Annuals, and consequently what she has written is better, and has a more vigorous tone. She has two copies of verses in the "Keepsake," both of which are good.-Moore is the only living author who seems resolutely to have held out against the temptations offered by the Editors of Annuals. We do not remember ever to have seen a single line of his in any of these books. There is a trifle entitled "Extempore" by him in the "Keepsake," but we are informed in the preface it was obtained from a friend, in whose possession it happened to be-not from the author himself. We are not sure that Moore's conduct is not more dignified, and evinces higher self-respect, than that of those who, from motives either of gain or vanity, allow their name and productions to be continually bound up with so much that is trifling and ephemeral. But this is matter of opinion, upon which we would not too dogmatically insist. If we did, a strong argument would start up against us in Coleridge. He has several contributions in the " Keepsake," and one of these, “The Garden of Boccaccio," is out of all sight the finest poem in the book,-indeed, we regard it as one of the finest minor pieces which even Coleridge himself, with all his variety of imagery, and fine flow of strong and original thought, has ever written. We cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of quoting at least a part of it :— From Shelley the transition is easy to his widowone of the daughters of Godwin-and well known as the author of Frankenstein," and "The Last Man." She has furnished two tales to the "Keepsake," written in a less wild and gloomy style than that in which she usually indulges, and bearing evident indications of a well-cultivated and masculine mind, with here and there some touches of a softer description, which do as much credit to the heart as the rest dees to the head. There is a good deal of poetry from Wordsworth, but we have seen the bard (as his more enthusiastic admirers have christened him) to greater advantage. There are some fine thoughts, sprinkled here and there like flowers over a meadow, in the pieces alluded to; but between these thoughts there is too much of the bare sod-or, to talk less metaphorically, a little of the prolixity and feebleness of advancing life. "The Triad," in particular, is rather a long poem, and is meant to contain a highly poetical description of three beautiful nymphs; but to us we confess it is, on the whole, exceedingly mystical and unintelligible, and, moreover, considerably THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. Of late, in one of those most weary hours, I sate and cower'd o'er my own vacancy! Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep, The brightness of the world, O thou once free, O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills, Thine all delights, and every Muse is thine: But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart, The rest of the contents of the "Keepsake" may be mentioned more rapidly. Southey has several better short poems than he usually produces, especially one entitled Lucy and her Bird"-the author of "The Roné," and the author of " Gilbert Earle," have each a piece of imaginative writing, and each is respectable;― Luttrell has given some tolerable rhymes, but not much poetry;—Lord Porchester some very polished and elegant verses To a Pearl;"-Thomas Bayly rather an insipid story called "A Legend of Killarney ;"-Mrs Hetrans a poem of a more vigorous kind than is common with her;-Theodore Hook a spirited tale called "The Old Gentleman ;"-Sir James Mackintosh a classical and interesting paper entitled "Sketch of a Fragment of the History of the Nineteenth Century," which is occupied principally with an estimate of the character political, intellectual, and domestic, of the late Mr Canning; -Lockhart a very admirable specimen of a translation from the Norman French, called "The King, and the Minstrel of Ely ;"-and Lord Normanby a very carefully finished, and somewhat laboured tale" Clorinda, or the Necklace of Pearl." Scotchmen hold in all these Annuals. Without them, they certainly would not be what they are. Two of them are edited by Scotchmen-" The Anniversary," by Allan Cunningham, and "Friendship's Offering," by Thomas Pringle. Then look at the names which shine most conspicuously in their table of contents. Are they not Sir Walter Scott, Professor Wilson, J. G. Lockhart, James Hogg, Montgomery, the Rev. Edward Irving, Kennedy, Malcolm, Moir? The first four names on this list are in themselves a galaxy; and the rest have each a strong light of their own. In so far, then, as any of the Annuals is concerned, we may say with Iago," he who filches from me these good names, will make me poor indeed." Our Southron friends may perhaps discover an over degree of nationality in these observations; but they will hardly blame us that we are proud of men of whom the world is proud. The poetry of the "Anniversary" is considerably superior to its prose, as was naturally to be expected from the habits of its editor. Of the latter the only pieces which seem worthy of mention are two ;-" The Cameronian Preacher's Tale," by Hogg, a story of strange and supernatural interest; "one of those terrible sermons which God preaches to mankind of blood unrighteously shed, and most wondrously avenged ;" and told with all that unadorned strength of narrative, and clear intuitive perception of the best mode of treating those incidents that bear upon the superstitious part of our nature, which unquestionably make the Ettrick Shepherd the best inditer of a ghost story extant ;-and "A Tale of the Time of the Martyrs," by the celebrated Edward Irving, which, though not in any way very astonishing, possesses more vigour, polish, and, what is of still greater consequence, more intelligibleness, than his sermons, orations, or homilies. There are a few other things from persons of inferior note, but it is unnecessary to particularize them. To the Editor, however, Mr F. M. Reynolds, we have a single observation to make. He has acted wisely in not pushing himself too obtrusively forward, and one or two of his contributions are clever; but we discover in his As we have already said, the poetry of the "Annistyle a tendency to occasional coarseness-we might per-versary" deserves more notice than the prose. There haps add vulgarity-which ought to have been most carefully eschewed in a publication like the "Keepsake,' and which, in truth, is the only circumstance that detracts from the general elegance of the whole. The work, however, take it for all in all," cannot fail to be a favourite; and the enterprisi g spirit which has induced the proprietor to expend upon it the enormous sum of eleven thousand guineas, will not, we hope, go unrewarded." The Anniversary; or, Poetry and Frose for 1829, edited by Allan Cunningham. John Sharp, London. NOT less splendid than the "Keepsake" in outward show, though perhaps slightly less perfect in some of the minutiae of elegance, the "Anniversary" presents itself for the first time to the notice of the public. It appears to us, that of all the Annuals, this is the one which possesses peculiar claims upon the people of Scotland. It is edited by our countryman, Allan Cunningham-a man not more remarkable for his free, fresh genius, gushing out like one of his own mountain streams, and natural to him as the yellow broom is to his own hills, than for that artless simplicity of manner, and gentle urbanity of heart, which are ever the concomitants, and most commonly the leading characteristics, of true genius. He loves his country ardently, and he has not hesitated to breathe over the pages of his "Anniversary" a sentiment so dear to his heart. There is a Scottish feeling pervades the work, and wherever it is circulated, it will succeed in awakening a mingled respect and esteem for the "land of the mountain and the flood." Upon this subject we may, indeed, remark generally, that it is highly gratifying to observe the prominent place which the contributions of For some hi hly interesting details of the expense incurred in the publication of these Annuals, we refer our readers to a communication from London, which they will find in a subsequent column. is something curious in Edward Irving writing for an preserved, without deeply regretting the accident that has robbed him of the continuation and conclusion of a composition which opens so beautifully. We regret much that Professor Wilson's multifarious pursuits prevent him from indulging more frequently in that fine poetical vein he unquestionably possesses. There is in his style a richness of imagery, and a fresh unwearying enjoyment of all that is beautiful and sublime in nature, which are themselves sufficient to form the staple commodities of a poem that would delight the fancy and win the heart. Nothing can be more vivid and spirit-stirring than the following description of a fine summer morning: Hark! the martlet twittering by The crevice, where her twittering brood Music is there on the shore, Where these glad creatures build their nest. This the pensive lady knows, So round her lovely frame she throws Soft steps are winding down the stair, up, been a pleasant book to look at, and to read,-light, airy, and elegant. It would scarcely be fair to expect that all the young ladies and gentlemen who keep Albums, and buy Annuals, should consent to the labour of exercising much thought in perusing what is written for their amusement by the numerous joint-stock literary companies of the day. If they can feast upon a sentimental love-story, it would be hard to insist on their swallowing Mount Caucasus ;-if their thirst for poetry is assuaged by a sonnet, it would be cruel to force them to inhale the whole Red Sea. Why should they not be allowed to live on in their own way?-literary, without being particularly learned,-poetical, but not poets,busy, but not industrious.-intelligible, but not intellectual. For them the "Forget-me-Not" is peculiarly fitted. It contains nothing decidedly weak, and nothing decidedly and conspicuously excellent. There are, however, upwards of a hundred pieces in prose and verse, of which the best are "Eastern Apologues," by Hogg, and a comic poem, entitled, "Frolic in a Palace," by W. H. Harrison. One of the embellishments, too, of which there are fourteen, we must mention. It is the first,an engraving by Le Keux, from a painting by Martin, on the subject of the self-immolation of Marcus Curtius the Roman patriot. It is one of the noblest things we have seen in any of the Annuals, and contains within itself a world of poetry. Martin's conceptions are in general possessed of much sublimity, however he may fail in individual parts of the execution. In the present instance, the splendid temples, and pillars, and citadels, and towers of Rome are finely grouped, and gloriously canopied by the dark, lurid, thundery sky. Then the countless multitude of her affrighted inhabitants in the streets and open space that surround the yawning gulf which has been rent by the fury of the earthquake, and which, unless the gods be appeased, is about to desolate the whole city, admirably prepares the mind for the emotions excited by the figure upon which the eye principal. ly rests. It is Marcus Curtius, mounted on a magnificent white steed, which after being urged to its best speed Is it not to be regretted that in the present silence of the has already leaped full upon the abyss, as if proud to mightiest Lyres, he who can write thus, should so sel- die along with its rider. Curtius sits erect upon its dom awaken the music of his own?-Several things in back, his armour on, his shield in one hand, and his the Editor's happiest manner, especially "The Magic arms extended and thrown upwards, as if, with an Bridle," "The Mother Praying," and "The Black-heroic smile upon his countenance, he blessed his counberry Boy," Three Inscriptions for the Caledonian Canal," by Southey,-a" Dramatic Scene," by Barry Cornwall, and "The Carle of Invertime," by Hogg, make up all the rest of the poetry that it is necessary to mention. We are sorry to be obliged to add, that there is a greater mixture of alloy in the "Anniversary,' than we could have wished, but we are well aware of the difficulties attendant upon a first effort; and doubt not that where there is so much promise, the improvement in subsequent years will be great. The embellishments, of which there are twenty, are very splendid; and it gives us much pleasure to be able to state that though the work has hardly yet been seen in Scotland, six or seven thousand copies have already been sold. Lo! morning's dewy hush divine Or, from the glooms emerging bright, The Forget-me-Not, a Christmas or New Year's Present, edited by Frederick Shoberl, Esq. R. Ackermann, London. To Ackermann, the publisher of the "Forget-me-Not," we owe the introduction of Annuals into this country; and it was in 1823 that the first "Forget-me-Not" appeared. It was joined next year by " Friendship's Offering," and in 1825, by the "Literary Souvenir." Till 1828, these, together with the " Amulet," which came out in 1826, kept the field to themselves, but subsequently a whole host, armed cap-a-pie, have rushed to the melee. The "Forget-me-Not" has never possessed the character of being entitled to very high consideration on the score of its literary pretensions, but it has always The try, and gladly for its sake looked his last upon the sky of Rome. The effect produced is such, that it is impossible to stop just at this point of time. imagination instinctively takes a prospective glance, and sees the brave knight fall down-down into the tremendous chasm,-hears the loud shriek of men who never shrieked before, and the screams of women whom the sight drives mad. The earthquake rolls away, but there is silence in the streets and squares of Rome. This single engraving is more than worth the price of the "Forget-me-Not." The Literary Souvenir, edited by Alaric A. Watts. Under the superintendence of Alaric Watts, a scholar, maintained a high rank among publications of this a poet, and a man of taste-the "Souvenir" has always class, and we are happy to have it in our power to say, that the volume for 1829 is the best of the series which has yet appeared. Among other attractions, it contains twelve highlyfinished and beautiful engravings, scarcely one of which, the Editor informs us, has cost less than a hundred guineas, and several from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and seventy guineas each. "The immense expense," he adds, "attendant upon the publication of a volume containing twelve such embellishments as are here given, an expense which has lately been increased by the unusual demand for the talent |