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in the land-locked bay, close to whose shores of silvery sand had grown the trees that furnished timber both for hull and mast, slip their tiny cables on some summer day, and gathering every breeze that blows, go dancing over the waves in sunshine, and melt far off into the main! Or, haply, some were like fair young trees, transplanted during no favourable season, and never to take root in another soil, but soon leaf and branch to wither beneath the tropic sun, and die almost unheeded by those who knew not how beautiful they were beneath the dews and mists of their own native clime. Vain images! and therefore chosen by fancy not too painfully to touch the heart! For some hearts grew cold and forbidding in selfish cares-some, warm as ever in their own generous glow, were touched by the chill of Fortune's frowns, that are ever worst to bear when suddenly succeeding her smiles -some, to rid themselves of painful regrets, took refuge in forgetfulness, and closed their eyes to the past-duty banished some abroad, and duty imprisoned others at home-estrangements there were, at first unconscious and unintended, yet ere long, though causeless, complete-changes were wrought insensibly, invisibly, even in the innermost nature of those, who being friends knew no guile, yet came thereby at last to be friends no more -unrequited love broke some bonds -requited love relaxed others-the death of one altered the conditions of many-and so-year after year the Christmas Meeting was interrupt ed-deferred-till finally it ceased, with one accord, unrenewed and unrenewable. For when Some things cease -for a time-that time turns out to be for ever. Survivors of those happy circles! wherever ye be-should these imperfect remembrances of days of old chance, in some thoughtful pause of life's busy turmoil, for a moment to meet your eyes, let there be towards the inditer a few throbs of revived affection in your hearts-for his, though" absent long and distant far," has never been utterly forgetful of the loves and friendships that charmed his youth. To be parted in body is not to be estranged in souland many a dream-and many a vision, sacred to nature's best affections, may pass before the mind of one whose lips are silent. "Out of sight out of

mind," is rather the expression of a doubt of a fear-than of a belief or conviction. The soul surely has eyes that can see the objects it loves, through all intervening darkness-and of those more especially dear it keeps within itself almost undimmed images, on which, when they know it not, think it not, believe it not, it often loves to gaze, as on a relic imperishable as it is hallowed.

Hail! rising beautiful, and magnificent, through the mists of morninghail! hail! ye Woods, Groves, Towers, and Temples, overshadowing that famous Stream beloved by all the Muses! Through this midnight hush-methinks I hear faint and far off a sacred music,

"Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise!"

How steeped in the beauty of moonlight are all those pale, pillared churches, courts and cloisters, shrines and altars, with here and there a Statue standing in the shade, or Monument sacred to the memory of the piousthe immortal dead! Some great clock is striking from one of many domes

from the majestic tower of St Mary Magdalen-and in the deepened hush that follows the solemn sound, hark how the mingling waters of the Cherwell and the Isis soften the severe silence of the holy night!

Remote from kindred, and from all the friendships that were the native growth of the fair fields where our boyhood and our youth had roamed, and meditated, and dreamed, those were yet years of high and lofty mood, which held us in converse with the shades of great poets and sages of old in Rhedicyna's hallowed groves, still, serene, and solemn, as that Grecian Academe where divine Plato, with all Hybla on his lips, discoursed such excellent music, that this Life seemed to the imagination spiritualized-a dim reminiscence of some former state of being. How sank then the Christmas Service of that beautiful Liturgy into our hearts! Not faithless we to the simple worship that our forefathers had loved; but Conscience told us there was no apostacy in the feelings that rose within us when that deep organ 'gan to blow, that choir of youthful voices so sweetly to join the diapason,

-our eyes fixed all the while on that divine Picture over the Altar, of our Saviour

"Bearing his cross up rueful Calvary."

But" a change comes o'er the spirit of my dream." How beautiful in the setting sunlight are these mountains of soft crimson snow! The sun hath set, and even more beautiful are the bright-starred nights of winter, than summer in all its glories beneath the broad moons of June! Through the woods of Windermere, from cottage to cottage, by coppice-pathways winding up to dwellings among the hill-rocks, where the birch-trees cease to grow,

"Nodding their heads, before us go, The merry Minstrelsy."

They sing a salutation at every door, familiarly naming old and young by their Christian names; and the eyes that look upward from the vales to the hanging huts among the plats and cliffs, see the shadows of the dancers ever and anon crossing the light of the star-like window; and the merry music is heard like an echo dwelling in the sky! across those humble thresholds often did we on Christmas nights of yore-wandering through our solitary sylvan haunts, under the branches of trees within whose hollow trunk the squirrel slept-venture in, unasked, perhaps, but not unwelcome; and in the kindly spirit of the season, did our best to merrify the Festival by tale or song. And now that we behold them not, are all those woods, and cliffs, and rivers, and tarns, and lakes, as beautiful as when they softened and brightened beneath our living eyes half-creating, as they gazed, the very Paradise that they worshipped! And are all those hearths as bright as of yore, without the shadow of our figure? And the roofs, do they ring as mirthfully, though our voice be forgotten?

But little cause have we to lament that that Paradise is now to us but as remembered poetry-poetry got by heart-deeply engraven there-and to be read at any thoughtful hour we choose-charged deeper and deeper still with old memories and new inspirations. The soul's best happiness is independent of time and place.

Such accidents touch it not-they "offer not even any show of violence, it being a thing so majestical." And lo! another New Series of Christmas Festivals has to us been born! For there are our own Living Flowers in our family garland! And as long as He, who gave them their bloom and their balm, averts not from them or us the sunshine of his countenance, content-oh! far beyond contentwould we be with this, the most sacred of all Religious Festivals, were it even to be holden by us far apart from them in some dungeon's depth!

Ay-well may we say-in gratitude, not in pride-though, at such a sight, pride might be thought but a venial sin within a father's heart,"There is our Christmas rose"-while a blush brightens the beauty of a face that we will call "fair, not pale," and brighter and softer than the leaves of any rose, the ringlets dance over her forehead to the breeze of joy, and bliss and innocence give themselves vent in one of our own Scotia's pleasant but pathetic songs!

But the heart hugs such treasures as these in secret, and if revealed at all to other eyes, it must be by but a fleeting and a partial light. Few words are needed to awaken, before parental eyes, the visions now stealing before mine,-and, broken and all imperfect though these effusions be, yet may they touch with pensive pleasure some simple hearts, that recognise the expression of some of their own emotions,-similar, or the same,-although life and its circumstances may have been different,-for in every single sentence, if it be but sincere, a word or two may be found, that shall awaken some complete reminiscence of joy, as the striking but of two notes at once fills ear and heart with a wellknown tune, and gives it the full power of all the melody.

The lamp glimmers as it would expire,-the few embers are red and low,

and those are the shadows of moonlight on the walls. How deep a hush! Let me go and hear them breathing in their sleep, and whisper-for it will not disturb them-a prayer by the bedside of my children. To-morrow is Christmas Day-and thankful am I indeed to Providence!

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.

A Bank of Flowers is certainly one of the most gorgeous sights beneath the sun; but what is it to that Board of Books? Our old eyes are dazzled with the splendour, and are forced to seek relief and repose on the mild moreen of those window curtains, whose drapery descends as simply as the garb of a modest quakeress. Even then, all the colours of the rainbow continue dancing on their orbs, and will permit them to see nothing in its true light. But now, the optical spectra evanish-our sight becomes reconciled to the various glitter-the too powerful blaze seems tamed down-the lustre of the hues subside, and we can bear, without winking, or placing our fingers before our face, to keep a steady gaze on the bright confusion. Why, Book-binding has become a beautiful art! Chance it was that flung together all those duodecimos, post-octavos, quartos, and folios, of kid, calf, silk, satin, velvet, russia, morocco,-white, grey, green, blue, yellow, violet, red, scarlet, crimson-yet what painter, with the most glorious eye for colour, ever with laborious study, cheered by fits of sudden inspiration, pictured a board of fruits, although worthy of the trees of Paradise, of more multifarious splendour?

Lovers are we, and have been all our life long, of charming, of divine Simplicity. But Simplicity is a lady, not only of fine taste, but, would you believe it, of rich imagination? Often have we seen her gazing with rapt spirit and tearful eyes on the setting sun, on the sea, on cataracts, on regiments of cavalry, on an English county of groves, woods, gardens, orchards, rivers, plains, noblemen's and gentlemen's old family-mansions, steeple-towers, churches, abbeys, cathedrals. We have seen Simplicity, like a nun at worship, reading Isaiah, and Homer, and Dante, and Ariosto, and Tasso, and Shakspeare, and Milton, and MAGA. Simplicity loves all the riches and splendour of the east and of the west, the north and the south. Her hair she loves not to adorn with many diamonds-one single solitary jewel on her forehead, like a star. But pale pearls are here and there interspersed among her locks, at once softening and deepening their

darkness; they lie like dew-drops or buds of white roses, along the lilies of her breast; with pearls of great price is her virgin zone bespangled-and, as she lifts her snow-white hand, there is a twinkle of radiance from a stone that "would ransom great kings from captivity!"

You understand, then, that there is no reason in the world, or in the nature of things, why Simplicity should not stand with her arm in ours, leaning lovingly on our shoulder-pressing fondly on our side-and admire with us the mild, meek, soft, gentle, tender, dim, dazzling, bold, fierce, fiery, corruscating, cometary, planetary, lunar, solar, aurora borealis and lightning-like radiance of that Sea-green Board, mad with the magnificence of that myriad-minded multitude of— CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.

But let Simplicity by and by turn her eyes towards that opening doorfor footsteps are on the stair-and like Hours are they coming-all dressed in white raiment, as befits and bespeaks their innocence-a Chosen Band of Maidens, to receive from the hands of good old Father Christopher-each an appropriate volume or volumes to add to her little library, growing by degrees, year after year, like a garden that the skilful florist extends with its sloping banks towards the sunny south,-each spring visiting a rarer, richer show of her own fairest and most favourite flowers.

We are not a married man, like the writer of Christmas Dreams—yet dearly do we love the young-yea the young of all animals-the lows twittering from their straw-built young swalshed-the young lambs bleating on the lea-the young bees, God bless them, on their first flight away off to the heather-the young butterflies, who, born in the morning, will die of old age ere night-the young salmon-fry glorying in the gravel at the first feeling of their fins-the young adders basking, ere they can bite, in the sun, as yet unconscious, like sucking satirists, of their stings-young pigs, pretty dears, all a-squeak with their curled tails after prolific grumphy-young lions and tigers, charming cubs, like very Christian children nuzzling in their nurse's breast-young devils-if

you will-ere Satan has sent them to Sin, who keeps a fashionable boarding-school in Hades, and sends up into the world above-ground only her finished scholars.

But lo! North's Fair Family-all children of his old age! Yes, the offspring they of his dearest-his chosen

his faithful-his bosom-friends! There, daughters of delight-there is a shower of kisses to bedew the beloved heads of you all-and now be seated in a circle-look all as grave as you possibly can for those struggling smiles-no quizzing of our new Christmas wig-and first, and before we begin to distribute,

"Pure healthy children of the God of Heaven,"

in your hearts as in ours, let there be a short silent prayer.

Now for business. Emily Callander-oldest of the young-and tallest too-for, in truth, thou art as a cedar-for thee have we selected Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, The Trials of Margaret Lyndsay, and The Foresters. The first is bound-as thy sweet eyes see-in variegated silk-too ornamental as some might haply think-but not so thou -for thou knowest that the barest field in all Scotland is not without its little flowers-daisies, and gowans, and clover, and primroses in their short vernal day-and that her richest fields are all a glow as at evening the western heavens. Margaret Lyndsay, you see, my love, is bound in satin-but not of the richest sort-the colour is something quakerish-but we know you like that-and the narrow ornaments round the sides you will find to be either flowers or stars-for, in truth, flowers and stars are not dissimilar

for they both have rays - but dew brightens the one while the other it bedims into beauty. The Foresters are bound in green linen - and these yellow trees, emblazoned upon such a ground, as if autumn had tinted them, have a good effect-have they not?-So, sweetest and best-a kiss of thy forehead-sure a more graceful curtsy was never seen- and it will make the author, who is my very dear friend-whom I love more than I can venture to express, and whom I have, on that account, placed foremost nowand not for his mere merits-proud and happy, too, to be told with what

a smile Emily Callander received his volumes-works we were going to say

but that is too prodigious a word for such effusions--and one smile from her will to him be worth all the chaff and chatter of all the critics in Cockaigne.

Margaret Wilson !-thou rising star let thine arms drop from around the necks of these two sweet supporters, and come gliding forth within touch of the old man, that he may lay his withered hand upon the lovelylustre of thy soft-braided hair. There-hold them fast to your bosom-and let not one of all the Five slip from your embracing arms. Wordsworth's works! You remember-and never will forget -the mountains at the head of Windermere-behind whose peaked summits the sun sets-and Elleray-but why that haze within those eyes?"A few natural tears thou sheddest, but wipest them soon"-at the sudden sound of that spell-like home-so let that key remain untouched-ay, there is thy bosom all filled with poetry! with poetry often-" not of this noisy world, but silent and divine," with happy hymns for sunshine, and mournful elegies for moonlight-with lyrics that might be set to such music as the lark sings high in heaven-with odes that might be fitly chanted to the softened voice of the waterfall-with ballads such as Bessy Bell or Mary Gray might have sung "in their bower on yonder green," or Helen Irvine, as she" sat upon the banks of Kirtle,"-or thou thyself, sweeter singer than them all, when willing-as I have seen theeto charm with change thy father's ear, after the Bride's Maid's Chorus. But thou hast wept for Ruth-and for Emmeline-and for that lovely crea

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strains inspired into the souls of great Poets by devoutest contemplation of his works. Therefore, child,

"with gentle hand

Touch, for there is a spirit in the leaves !"

Fanny Allardyce-do not make me fall in love with envious eyes, by looking so on Margaret's bosom-full of beautiful books-bound as they are in crimson-for that is the light of setting suns; and although William Wordsworth be often but as a lowly pastoral poet piping in the shade, yet as often is he like the blind John Milton, who sung in his glorious darkness of Paradise-and the Courts of Heaven. For here, for thee, my pensive Frances, are the Poetical Works of Edmond Spenser, in five volumes, presented to me by my friend Mr Pickering of London-and he will not be displeased with me for transferring them to the love of one who is in good truth" like the heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb." You will find much-and many things in the Fairy Queen, that even your almost fully expanded intellect and imagination will not yet understandyet little, and few things that your heart nevertheless will not feel-and not the less touchingly, because love will be mixed with wonder, and pity given to what is at once sorrowful and strange. You have already read the Comus of Milton-and love and admire-and would wish to kneel down at her feet-the Lady whose spotless innocence preserves her from the fiends of that haunted wood. She and the Una of the Fairy Queen might be sisters; nor, were such creatures as they ever to walk over our earth, could they turn away their gracious and benignant smiles from such a maiden as thou art-for thou too art without spot or blemish-nor could force nor fraud prevail against thee; for, true it is as words of holy writ, that “ a thousand liveried angels lacquey thee,” and that vice and wickedness could not live in an atmosphere purified by the breath of innocence from such lips as thine!

Harriet Brisbane-thou hast a heroic spirit-yet a heart formed for peace. And thou lookest, with that fine, high, bold brow of thine,-yet perfectly feminine, and with those large hazel eyes, so mild, yet magnanimous, and that mass of nearly black hair, VOL. XXIII.

that, but for the Christmas roses round it, would seem almost sullenat least most melancholy,-thou lookest, we say, like what thou indeed art, a true descendant of now beatified spirits, who, in the old days of persecution, sang hymns of rejoicing when tied to the stake, and their bodies shrivelling in the fire. Dear virgin martyr! take and keep for our sake, the exquisite Roman tale of Valerius. There you will read how one, whom I could fancy like thy very self, in face, figure, and character, a virgin named Athanasia, touched at the soul by the religion of Jesus, did disencumber herself of all the beautiful and imaginative vanities of the old Mythological faith, and, fearless of the pitchy fire, and of the ravening lion, did fold the cross unto her bosom, and became transfigured from Innocence into Piety. The tale will not make these calm eyes of thine shed many, if any tears; but ever and anon as they follow the fortunes of her who hath forsaken the service of Idols and false Deities, to become a Priestess of the only One, Living, and True God, they will be uplifted" in thoughts that lie too deep for tears"slowly and solemnly, and most beautifully-to the Heaven of Heavens ! Thou, too, take-thou high-souled daughter, of a high-souled sire-this other book, bound in brightest scarlet -for you have heard, that a blind man once said, that he conceived scarlet to be like the sound of a trumpet,-and all emblazoned with the arms of adverse nations, Specimens of Spanish Ballads, celebrating the exploits of the Campeador, and other heroes, against the Saracens ; and all the high and wild warfare that, for centuries, made the rivers run red with mingled Castilian and Moorish blood. old Spanish Ballads are like fragments of fine bold martial music, in their own tongue; but Mr Lockhart is a poet "of strength and state;" and in his noble verses, your eyes dazzle at the brightness of the Spanish sword, tempered in the Ebro, and can scarce endure the flashing of the Moorish scymitar. You read his Ballads in the same mood of mind with which you hear the music-band of a regiment of cavalry-say the Scots Greys-hundreds of heroes following on-on-on --with their glittering casques, and each with a sabre, erst red perchance at Waterloo, in his strong right hand.

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