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upon the banks of Kirtle,"—or thou thyself, sweeter singer than them all, when willing-as I have seen thee -to 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 creature,

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And I have seen thee shiver with delight, in the beauty of the sudden apparition, when

"Came gliding in with lovely gleam,
Came gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
That solitary doe!"

Yes-thou mayest, unblamed, place such poetry on the very same shelf, Margaret, with thy Bible; for the word of God itself is better understood by hearts softened and sublimed by 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 Edmund 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 muchand many things in the Fairy Queen, that even your almost fully expanded intellect and imagination will not yet

understand yet 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, that, but for the Christmas roses round it, would seem almost sullen-at 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. The 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 musicband of a regiment of cavalry-say the Scots Grayshundreds 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.

Aha, Jane! my pretty little rosy-checked, 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 imp-thou 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-" 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 any thing 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 madcap, 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 it-and 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 longago 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 affectedlyhumble 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 doubt-lined with what would seem to be either delicate light-blue satin or woven dewto 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 word—not 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

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To each and all might well belong;

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