Aha, Jane my pretty little rosycheeked, dark-eyed, curly-pated Jane -can you control no longer the impatience, which, for this last half hour, you have not attempted to conceal ? And are you there unbeckoned upon my knee, and, with uplifted frock, ready to receive into your lap your destined Prize? There, thou impthou elf-thou fairy-there is a Christmas-Box for thee, on which thou wilt stare out thine eyes-having first filled them many times and oft-now with sighing, and now with laughing tears. You remember that I gave you last year the nicest of all little books, about the strangest and most curious pranky little beings that ever were born

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Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland ;' and do you know that the Christmas-Box is from the same gentleman-you know his name-T. Crofton Croker; and that it is published by that Mr Ainsworth, now a bookseller in London, who carried you in his arms into the boat, you remember, and kept you there all the time we were sailing about on the lake? but he is a faithless man, and cannot be your husband, as he said he would, for he has married a beautiful wife of his own; and-only think of his impudence!-sent you this Christmas-Box to purchase your forgiveness. I assure you it is the nicest book for a child like you that ever was; for, do you know, that you are in your teens now, and, for a young child, are getting quite an old woman. Only look at that picture (the book you will find is full of delightful pictures) of the Enchanted Ass! Saw you ever anything so funny? Read the story about it, and you will die of laughing. But, fond as thou art of laughter, and fun and noise-yet art thou, too, my most merry mad-cap, at times, like all the happiest, not disinclined to gentle weeping-therefore, read the story of "Little Willie Bell," and then lay it down and think upon itand weep and wonder if the "pale boy with the long curled hair," was indeed a ghost! Whether, child, there be any ghosts or no, it is not for me-old man as I am-to say; but if there be, they visit us not unpermitted, and you, my innocent, need not be afraid, were something you thought a ghost to draw the curtains of your little bed at night, and look in upon you, with a pale pale face, and all dressed in white, even like the clothes

in which people are buried. For it is only to the bad that dreadful ghosts appear, sometimes, it is said, driving them mad by glaring on them with their eyes, and pointing to wounds, all streaming with blood, in their side or breast; but the ghosts that glide before the eyes of the good, whether they are shut in sleep, or open in what we call a waking dream, are the gentlest beings that ever walked beneath the light of the moon and stars-and it would make your heart to sing within you, were your eyes to fall on their faces-pale though they might be-as upon the faces of angels, who were once Christians on earth, sent, to bless the slumbers of little pious children, from Heaven. After "Little Willie Bell," thou must read "The Fairy and the Peach Tree," written by Mr Ainsworth himself-and you will know from it—what you were too young and too much in love with him that long-ago summer to know— that he is a truly good man, and, I will add, Jane, a writer of fine fancy and true feeling. What, off and away to the window without a single kiss-to hold up the pretty pictures, one after another in the sunshine!

Caroline Graham! Nay-Caroline, no far-off flirtation behind backs with such an old Quiz as Christopher North. There you are-bounding stately up from your affectedly-humble bending down, like a tall Harebell, that, depressed more than seemed natural with a weight of dew, among whose sweets the bees are murmuring, all of a sudden lifts itself up from the greensward, and, to the passing zephyr, shakes its blue blossoms in the sunshine. What! a basket-shall I call it -or rather a net of dense hair-of your own elegant handy-work no doubtlined with what would seem to be either delicate light-blue satin or woven dew-to receive-what think ye? Why, all the Souvenirs-There they go, one after another-like so many birds of soft or bright plumage, not unwillingly dancing into the cage. There goes the " Forget me Not,' one of the fairest flutterers of them all, a bird of beautiful plumage and sweet song. Why so intent your eyes, my Caroline, on the very first page of your first Christmas Present? Ha! Stephanoff's Picture of the Bridal Morning! There she sits, surveying in her mirror, which cannot well flatter, what is so finely framed-that Figure, with

bashful pride, which one about to rescue her to himself from an adoring world will gaze upon, and scarcely dare to embrace, with the trembling ecstasy of devoted passion. But hush, hush! Thy cheek, alternately rosy-red and lily-pale, each flower alike "love's proper hue," warns me to respect to venerate the unconcealable secret of innocent nature-So-so! Not a wordnot a look more, bright Caroline! of the "Forget me Not"-or of the "Bridal Morning," except that-now you have recovered from the confusion which some youth or other might understand perfectly, but of which the old man knows nothing-except that Mr Frederic Shoberl, the editor, is a pleasant gentleman, and Mr Ackermann, the publisher, a producer of many amiable elegancies-many trifles that touch the heart, and not a few more serious, though haply not more salutary works,—for strong nourishment can be distilled from flowers; and there is a spirit with which many of his literary friends are imbued, reminding one of these lines of Wordsworth

The device

To each and all might well belong;
It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such works; a Spirit strong,
That gives to all the self-same bent,
When Life is wise and innocent.

A Large Paper Copy of the "Literary Souvenir," a Perfect Gem, Caroline, and set, after my own fancy, in silver and gold. Look at the "Duke and Duchess reading Don Quixote"an imagination of that fine genius, the American Leslie! Let but a few ripening suns roll on, and thou thyself, The Grahame, wilt be as rich, as rare, as royal, as Queenlike a beauty, as she who, unconsciously obeying the judgments, the feelings, and the fancies, of her lofty and heroic Lord, is there seen dreaming with a smile of the doughty deeds of that Inimitable Crazed whom Cervantes created.-I, for one, know not whether to raise up or run down the Spirit of Romance and Chivalry.

Mr Alaric Watts it was who first called upon the other Fine Arts to aid Poetry in beautifying all the Souvenirs-the happy name of his own "bright consummate" Annual Flower -being, to our ear, the best expression of the aim and meaning of them all. Himself an elegant writer-Elegance is the peculiar characteristic of his Souvenirs; but an elegance con

genial with the truth, and simplicity, and the force of nature. Here, my Caroline-into the magic web it goes -bound in violet-for that is a colour that is felt to be beautiful, whether" by mossy stone half hidden to the eye," or on the open and sunny bank,-all by its single self-or easily distinguishable, unpresuming though it be, amid the brightest bouquet that e'er bloomed on the bosom of Beauty.

Love and Friendship are sisters, and there is their Joint "Offering,"—although Love, as usual, is shamefaced, and conceals her name. The Editor, I have heard, is Mr Charles Knight, and I believe it; taste, and sensibility, and genius, have been brought to the work. It bears dreamy perusal well-and is like a collection of musical pieces, in which, by a certain rare felicity, the compositions of harmonists, comparatively little known to fame, successfully rival the strains of the most famous. Thus, Southey's Grand Funeral Song for the Princess Charlotte of Wales does not disincline us, at its close, to open our ears to the pathetic elegies of Moultrie,-Pringle and Praed touch the harp with a careless, but no unmasterly hand-and there is one song at least by Hervey,—

"Come touch the harp, my gentle one,"

"beautiful exceedingly,"-at least so it would be, my Caroline, if sung by thy voice when the fire was low, and this Study of mine, visited occasionally, even as at present it is visited, by the best and fairest, "now in glimmer, and now in gloom," echoed to that voice which some have compared, in the variety of its thick-gushing richness, to that of the nightingale-but which I do then most dearly love to listen to, when, in its clear-singing and unornamented risings and falls, without one single intermediate grace, shake, or quaver, it doth, to my ears, still ready to catch the tones that awaken ancient memories, most of all resemble the song of Scotia's darling, the Linty, as, by the edge of some birken shaw, it hymns onwards, beginning at the hour of twilight,-its melody becoming still softer and sweeter, as if beneath the mellowing dews-and then, as if the bird wished to escape the eye of the Star of Eve, soon about to rise, all of a sudden hushed-and the songster itself dropt into the broomy brake, or

flitted away into the low edge-trees of the forest-There-let me gently place the "Amulet" in a hand fair even as that of the Lady of Ilkdalea phantom of delight," that will look upon you, Caroline, almost like your own image in a mirror, if you but allow the "Amulet" to open of its own accord-for often and long have I gazed upon that matchless elegance if indeed elegance be not too feeble a word for one so captivating in her conscious accomplishments of art, so far more captivating in her unconscious graces of nature. Maiden like thyself is she-thine elder sister, Caroline--though thou art an only child but the "Morning Walk" displays the easy dignity of the high-born matron -the happy mother teaching, it may be, her first-born son-the heir of an ancient and noble house-to brush away, with his gladsome footsteps, the dews from the flowers and glass of his own illustrious father's widespread demesnes!

A fine genius hast thou, Caroline, for painting; and who of all the old masters, whose works line that long gallery in the Castle, surpasses in art or nature the works of our own Lawrence, pride of his nation and of his age? The gayest heart, my Caroline, when its gaiety is that of innocence, is likewise often, when need is, the most grave; and that such a heart is thine, I saw that night, with solemn emotions, when, by thy mother's sick-bed, thy head was bowed down in low sobbing prayers therefore will the " Amulet" be not the less, nay, far the more, pleasant in thy privacy, because the word "Christian" is on its fair title-page, a sacred word, not misapplied, for a meek and unobtrusive religion breathes over its leaves in undying fragrance; so that the "Amulet" may lie on the couch of the room where friends meet in health and cheerfulness, below the pillow of the room where sickness lies afar from sorrow, and the patient feels that no medicine is better for the weakness of the body than that which soothes and tranquillizes the soul.

Last of all-there is the bright bound, beautiful" Bijou,"--so brightly bound, that by pressing it to thy bosom, it will impart very warmth, like a gently-burning fire. You have been at Abbotsford, Caroline? Indeed I have a notion that your image has been flitting before our great Romancer's eyes, during more than one of his

dreams of feminine firmness and force of character, that affects the shade, without shunning the sunshine, and by its composure in the calm, tells how bravely it would stand the storm. There is Sir Walter and his family, all characteristically figured in rustic guise by the genius of Wilkie. And the letter which gives the key to the picture, you will delight in, as a perfect model of manly simplicity,-of that dignified reserve with which a great and good man speaks of himself, and those most near and dear to him, before the world. You will find there, too, that fragment of Coleridge's which you have more than once heard me recite to you from memory-would that you could hear it murmured in the music of his own most poetical voice, -"The Wanderings of Cain." Yet why should his divine genius deal so frequently in fragments? The Muse visits his slumbers nightly, but seems to forsake him during unfinished dreams. In "Christabelle," "that singularly wild and original poem," as Byron rightly called it, mystery is perhaps essential; and there is a wonder that ought never to be broken-a dim uncertain light, that is "darkness visible," and should neither be farther brightened nor obscured. But in the "Wanderings of Cain," the subject being scriptural, and most ruefully and fatally true, the heart demands that its emotions shall be set at rest, and everything told, how dreadful soever it may be, that the poet foresaw in the agonies of his inspiration. I fear Coleridge knows that he cannot conclude " The Wanderings of Cain” according to the meaning of the Bible, and, therefore, verily his lips are mute. But then, what exquisite diction! The imagery how simple,-yet Oriental all,-and placing us, as it were, on the deserts bordering on Paradise, at whose gates now flamed the fiery sword of the Cherubim !

And now, Fairest, thou art released from that attitude in which thou hast so long been standing, obedient to a garrulous old man-nor yet

thinking his prattle to be tedious," for too thoroughly good art thou, my Caroline, to be wearied with any attention which thy high but humble heart willingly pays to one who bears on his forehead the authority of grey hairs.

Who now advances with the pink sash so broad-yet not too broadwith timid though not downcast eyes,

and with footsteps as soft, as noiseless as their own shadows? Thy sirname is of no moment now-but thy Christian name is Mary-to my ear the mildest and most musical and most

melancholy of all. Thy poetical library is already well stored-and so is thy poetical memory-for the music of sweet verse never enters there but to abide always-meeting with melodies within, perpetually inspired by a thoughtful spirit heeding all things in silent wonder and love. Yes, Mary, the old man loves to hear thy low sweet voice repeating some pure and plaintive strain of Heinans, whose finest verse is steeped in sound so exquisite, that it sinks with new and deeper meanings into the heart-or some feeling and fanciful effusion of the rich-minded Landon, wandering at eve, with sighs and tears, amidst the scents of the orange-bloom, and the moonlight glimmer that taines the myrtle-bowers. But at present-I address thee as a small Historian-and lo! here are "The Tales of a Grandfather, being Stories taken from Scottish History, humbly inscribed to Hugh Littlejohn!"

Hugh Littlejohn is about thine own age, Mary,—and pleased should I be to see you and him reposing together on this sofa, reading off one and the same book!-one of those three pretty little volumes! Great, long, broad quartos and folios, are not for little, short, narrow readers, like Mary and Hugh. Were one of them, in an attempt to push it out of its place on the shelf, to tumble upon your heads, you would all three fall down, with the floor, into the parlour below. But three such tiny volumes as these you may carry in your bosom out to the green knolls, when spring returns, and read them on your knee in the sunshine. Only you would have to remember not to leave them lying there all night; for on your return to look for them in the morning, you would lift up your hands to see that they had been stolen by the fairies, after their dance had ceased on those yellow rings. Children though you be-you, Mary and Hugh-yet it is natural for you to wish to know something about the great grown-up people of the world how they behave and employ themselves in different countries-all enlightened, as you know, however distant from one another, by the same

sun.

But inore especially you lovebecause you are children-to be told all

about the country in which you yourselves, and your father and mother, and their father and mother, were born. Dearly do your young eyes love to pore over the pages of history, and your young ears to hear the darker passages explained by one who knows everything, because he is old. Now, who do you think is the Grandfather that tells those Tales-and who is Hugh Littlejohn to whom they are told? Sir Walter Scott, Mary, is the grandfather - and Hugh Littlejohn is no other than dear, sweet, clever Johnny Lockhart, whose health you and I, and all of us, shall drink by and by in a glass of cowslip wine. Men are often desperately wicked-as you who read your Bible know-and that which is commonly called history, is but a tale after all of tears and blood-and the tale-teller too often cares little whether he is talking about the good or the bad, vices or virtues,-nay, he too often takes part with the bad against the good, and seems no more to hate sin because it triumphs. But Sir Walter is too good-too wise a man to do so and as the people of Scotland have, for many hundred years been, on the whole, an excellent people, you will far oftener be glad than sorry in reading their history as it is told here-and when you have finished all the volumes and come to Finis, you will think-ånd there will be no harm in thinking—that you would rather be-what you are-a little Scottish girl, than even an English onealthough, now that the two kingdoms have so long been united into one, Scottish and English girls are all sisters; and so on, indeed, up to the very oldest old women.

Never, never ought the time to come when one's own country is less beloved than any other land. Neither you, Mary, nor Hugh, must ever be citizens of the world. William Tell, you have heard, was a glorious Swiss peasant, who made all his countrymen free, and procured for them liberty to live as they liked, without a great king, who cared little about them, having it in his power to plague and humble them in their beautiful little cottages up among the mountains. Love always and honour his memory-but love and honour still more the memory of Sir William Wallace, because he did the same and more for Scotland.I declare-John with the Lunch-Tray!

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CHRISTMAS is come and gone, and I am again alone! That it is not good for man to be so, is a truth which eleven years of absolute solitude have taught me too often to feel, though it is chiefly at this precise period that a sense of utter loneliness finds vent in thought, if not in words. It is not in spring, when the woods are vocal, and the fields instinct with life;-it is not in summer, when a contemplative mind finds tongues in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything;"-still less amid the sober stillness of autumn-the year's gray twilight, when man holds communings with his spirit, too deep and awful to be shared with his nearest and dearest, that the burden of solitude becomes oppressive. No! it is when, after partaking in the refined, the social, or the domestic joys of those, among whose firesides custom and consanguinity have divided my holidays, I return to the cheerless meal and silent vigil of my own bachelor home.

And yet it is a beloved home, hallowed by fond recollections, and rich in present enjoyinents; endeared by the shelter it afforded to the green loveliness of a mother's old age, which had nothing of age save its sanctity; hallowed, as the scene of a transition which had nothing of death but the name; adorned by her own exquisite taste, and my solicitude for her comfort, with a thousand little refinements which few bachelor homes can boast. It is not that I would give the roof that sheltered her (humble though it be) for the stateliest halls of the revellers I have left,-nor the garden she planted for a wilderness" of exotics, nor the little library originally selected for my Emma, and perused with my mother, for the treasures of the Vatican or Escurial,but simply, that man has gregarious and social propensities, which, when awakened by human intercourse, leave a painful void behind.

It is nearly twenty years since, with blighted hopes and paralysed energies,

I ceased fruitlessly to struggle in the race of life, with those who had still bright eyes to cheer them during the contest, and a prize before them at the goal. The world called my retreat pusillanimous and absurd. I deemed it providential, when I found, that slender as were my resources, and humble as my home, both would contribute materially to soothe the decline of my mother. Even selfishness might have found its account in the compact-for who can bind up the immedicable wounds of the heart with the skill or the tenderness of a mother?-one, too, gifted, far beyond the generality of her sex, with almost masculine strength of mind, tempered by more than feminine gentleness of disposition. She had seen enough to be an amusing companion, and suffered enough to be an edifying one. There was a sunshine of conscious integrity and benevolence about her, which no despondence could resist ; and a vigour of principle and intellect before which selfishness and inutility shrunk abashed. If her increasing infirmities forbade her literally "going about doing good," there emana ted from her humble abode, as from some stationary beacon, a ray of Christian charity precious to the safety and welfare of hundreds. She had wisdom to advise, and influence to promote, and experience to warn, many a young adventurer on the voyage of life; and a purse, that, like the widow's cruise, seemed replenished by the miraculous blessing of Heaven. I never knew any one whose tastes and enjoyments were so delightfully perennial-" age could not wither them, nor custom stale their infinite variety." She loved her friends with the singleness and warmth of a novice in the world. She looked on nature with a relish as exquisite, as one who, having been born blind, was revelling in the luxury of vision; and she had for literature the enthusiasm of fifteen, with the tact arising from fifty years' cultivation of a powerful mind!

What did I not owe her, when, bro