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 writerelegance is the peculiar characteristic of his souvenirs; but an elegance congenial 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 selfor easily distinguishable, unpresuming though it be, amid the brightest bouquet that e'er bloomed on the bosom of beauty.

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Love and Friendship are sisters, and there is their joint Offering," although Love, as usual, is shame-faced, 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 dropped 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 Ilkdale—“ a 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 shethine 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 grass of his own illustrious father's wide-spread 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 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 tranquillises 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 genuis 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 every thing 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 gray hairs.

Who now advances with the pink sash so broad-yet not too broad-with timid though not downcast eyes, and with footsteps so 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 Hemans, 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 tames the myrtle bower. 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 knees in the sunshine. Only you would have to remember not to leave them 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 more especially you love--because 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 every thing, 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