cimen may suffice it is the description of a trooper in the Life Guards, in the year of grace 1827, by name Esterhazy :—

'He was a tall man, standing six feet four inches, with a countenance indicative of determination, if not of ferocity. A circular mark, in which the blue colour had begun to yield to the yellow, round his left eye, testified that he had not long before been engaged in personal rencontre; while the pustulary excrescences that disfigured his aquiline nose, showed that he was not less accustomed to the combats of Bacchus than those of Mars. He wore a fur tiara, of enormous dimensions and a conical figure. A pewter plate, indented with the royal arms of England-gules sable, on a lion passant, guarded by an unicorn wavy, on a fess double of or argent, with a crest sinople of the third quarter proper, and inscribed with the names of several victories, won or claimed by the household troops of England, proved him to be a member of the Horse Guards. A red doublet, with a blue cuff, cape, and lappelles, was buttoned with mother-of-pearl buttons, reaching from his waist to his chin, where they were met by a black leather stock, garnished and fastened by a brass clasp, on which was inscribed, Dieu et mon Droit, the well known war-cry of the English nation. White kerseymere trowsers, buttoned at the knee, and a pair of D. D. boots-as they were called, from the circumstance of their having been invented by a Duke of Darlington-completed his dress. His arms were a ponderous cut-and-thrust sword, with a handle imitating a lion's head, sheathed in an iron scabbard, that clanked as he moved along. Over his shoulder was slung a carbine, or short gun, which military law required to be always primed, loaded, and cocked. A pair of horse-pistols were stuck in his leathern belt, and in his hand he bore a large spontoon, or pike. Such was the dress of the Hanoverian Horse Guards of England at that period; and such, even in secondary occasions, their formidable armour; for the absence of the hauberk, (or morion) and of the ponderous target of bull's-hide and ormolu, showed that the gigantic Hussar was not at present upon actual duty.'-Whitehall, p. 88-91.

After this, Mr. Smith will probably have some mercy on the feelings of Dr. Meyrick.

We now approach the literary pocket books,' a species of publication which we have recently borrowed from the Germans, and in which we have little doubt we shall ere long far surpass our masters. We should have noticed them before now, had the literary part of the performances appeared to deserve much either of praise or of blame. This year, we think, they begin to assume a somewhat better character than heretofore; and, at all events, the taste for them is so evidently gaining strength, that we must hazard a few words on what they are-and on what they ought to be.

Mr. Ackermann's book, the Forget Me Not, deserves the praise of having led the way in this new path. A gentleman, bearing the name of Alaric Attila Watts, and, notwithstanding his name,

the

the author of some minor poems which really have nothing either Gothic, or Hunnish, or Methodistical about them, has the higher merit of having refined it first, and taught its use' in the Literary Souvenir. The other publications named at the head of our paper are (with one exception) mere imitations of these-none of them, on the whole, superior to their originals--the majority far below them.

Mr. Watts unquestionably gave a new turn to the affair. He it was who introduced the fashion of embellishing these little books with really fine engravings from really fine pictures: he is justified, accordingly, in claiming the honour of having been of considerable service in promoting a taste for the fine arts in every part of the kingdom.'

With the exception of the Keepsake,' which is double the price of the Souvenir,' his embellishments have not been surpassed; and, although the terms in which he speaks of the literary part of his publication, in his prefaces, are sufficiently self-complacent, he has not, perhaps, been beaten, taking things in the mass, in that department neither. Some of his rivals have, undoubtedly, printed a few detached poems better than any he has been able to produce; but, on the average, his sheets need not fear any such comparison.

The Keepsake, which is the most splendid of its class as to the embellishments, is, we are sorry to see, in literary merit, about the meanest of them all. Except the clever sketch Cavendish,' (the author of which ought to set about a comic novel,) a tale entitled The False One,' and one or two more novelettes, there is nothing in this silk-clothed volume that has the slightest right to be bound up with engravings by Heath and Goodall, from paintings by Lawrence, Turner, Cooper, Stothard, and Chalon.

The Winter's Wreath may deserve to be specially noticed, as being the first provincial Souvenir. It is of necessity much below its London predecessors as to the matter of embellishment-but in other respects may hold its ground with the best of them. We understand it has been published for the benefit of some of the Liverpool charities; and hope it will have success. The writing in it is generally of a graver cast than in the rival works; and Mr. Wordsworth has honoured it with two or three little pieces of great beauty..

The Christmas Box must also be separately noticed; for it is the first of these little books that professes to be adapted for one particular class of readers, namely, children. It is smaller and much cheaper than any of those designed for babes of larger growth; and its embellishments are not fine, highly-finished engravings, but dozen upon dozen of wood-cuts, from the designs of a

young

young artist of very promising talent, Mr. Brooke. The editor of this 18mo. is Mr. Crofton Croker, the author of Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland,' which we reviewed two or three years ago, and which have, we believe, obtained extensive popularity. He apologises for some obvious enough defects in his coupd'essai-but the conception is good, and he will, we doubt not, be encouraged to satisfy himself better in the continuation of the series. As few of our readers can be supposed to be in possession of more than one or two of these pretty pocket-books,' we, who have the whole brilliant pile on our table, shall without further preface offer selections sufficient, we hope, to justify us in introducing the subject.

Mr. Wordsworth gives, in the Winter's Wreath,' the following Lines To a Skylark.'

Etherial Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will;
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain
("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain;
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with rapture more divine;

Type of the wise who soar-but never roam,

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.'

Mr. Coleridge contributes to the Bijou' the following graceful stanzas, Addressed to a Lady on her recovery from a severe attack of pain.'

'Twas my last waking thought, How can it be,

That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st endure?

When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he

Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.

Methought he fronted me with peering look,
Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud, in game,
The loves and griefs therein, as from a book;
And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame.
In every heart (quoth he), since Adam's sin,
Two FOUNTS there are, of SUFFERING and of CHEER,
That to let forth, and this to keep within!
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,

Of

Of pleasure only will to all dispense;
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress
Choked or turn'd inward; but still issue thence
Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness.

As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,

That gracious thing, made up of tears and light,
Mid the wild rack, and rain that slants below,
Slands smiling forth unmov'd, and freshly bright;
As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.
Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine,
On that benignant face,-whose look alone
(The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine !)
Has power to sooth all anguish but thine own-
A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing;
But with a silent charm compels the stern
And fost'ring Genius of the BITTER SPRING,
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.
Who then needs wonder if (no outlet found
In passion, spleen, or strife) the FOUNT OF PAIN,
O'erflowing, beats against its lovely mound,
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?
Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam,
On his rais'd lip, that aped a critic smile,
Had passed yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream.

Till audibly at length I cried, as though
Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,
O sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so,
I pray thee be less good, less sweet, less wise!

In every look a barbed arrow send;

On those soft lips let scorn and anger live;
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend,

Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give!'

Mr. Coleridge has published, in the same volume, a fragment in prose, entitled the Wanderings of Cain,' which is too long to be quoted entire, and far too good to be mutilated. In this piece the genius of the Ancient Mariner' displays some of its noblest qualities. The pathetic is carried up to the terrible, and the language is as chaste and simple as the conceptions of the great poet are original and sublime.

Mr. Charles Lamb also adorns the pages of the Bijou with some Verses in an Album,' which, in a certain graceful quaint

ness

ness both of thought and expression, remind us of some of the

best trifles of the 17th century.

'Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white,

A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright.

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have "written strange defeature" there.

And time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates-he can't recall.
And error, gilding worst designs-
Like speckled snake that strays and shines-
Betrays his path by crooked lines.

And vice hath left his ugly blot-
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly begun-but finished not.

And fruitless late remorse doth trace,
Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace-
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers-sense unknit-
Huge reams of folly-shreds of wit-
Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalded eyes no longer brook,
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look.

Go-shut the leaves-and clasp the book!'

In the Winter's Wreath' we find a translation of Filicaia's magnificent ode on the deliverance of Vienna from the Turks by John Sobieski, King of Poland, which, but for its length, we should be glad to quote as it stands. It does much credit to the author, Mr. Babington Macaulay: the versification is loftily harmonious, and worthy of Milman. The ode opens thus :— The chords, the sacred chords of gold, Strike, oh Muse, in measure bold;

And frame a sparkling wreath of joyous songs
For that great God to whom revenge belongs.
Who shall resist His might,
Who marshals for the fight

Earthquake and thunder, hurricane and flame?
He smote the haughty race

Of unbelieving Thrace,

And turned their rage to fear, their pride to shame.

He looked in wrath from high

Upon their vast array;

And in the twinkling of an eye

Tambour,