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 beyou, 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

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--and there will be no harm in thinking-that you would rather be-what you are a little Scottish girl, than even an English one-although, 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. Wil. liam 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 memorybut 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!

CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET.

(Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, 1828.)

FYTTE FIRST.

WE delight, as all the world has long well known, in every kind of fishing, from the whale to the minnow; but we also delight, as all the world now well knows, in every kind of fowling, from the roc to the wren. Not that we ever killed either a roc or a wren; but what comes to the same thing, we have, on two occasions, by design brought down an eagle, and, on one occasion, accidentally levelled a tom-tit. In short, we are considerable shakes of a shot; and, should any one of our readers doubt the fact, his scepticism will probably be removed by a perusal of the following article.

There is a fine and beautiful alliance between all pastimes pursued on flood and field and fell. The principles in human nature on which they are pursued, are in all the same; but those principles are subject to infinite modifications and varieties, according to the difference of individual and national character. All such pastimes, whether followed merely as pastimes, or as professions, or as the immediate means of sustaining life, require sense, sagacity, and knowledge of nature and nature's laws; nor less, patience, perseverence, courage even, and bodily strength or activity, while the spirit which animates and supports them is a spirit of anxiety, doubt, fear, hope, joy, exultation, and triumph, in the heart of the young a fierce passion,-in the heart of the old a passion still, but subdued and tamed