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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 may 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 well known-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.

(Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, 1828.)

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, bookbinding 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, gray, 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

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English county of groves, woods, gardens, orchards, rivers, plains, noblemen's and gentlemen's old familymansions, 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 dewdrops 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 door-for 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 Christ

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mas Dreams-yet dearly do we love the young-yea the young of all animals-the young swallows twittering from their straw-built shed-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 willere Satan hath sent them forth 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 are 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 circlelook 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 thoufor 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 now-and 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 Cock. aigne.

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 lovely lustre 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

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