By the craggy hillside, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring

To dig one up in spite,

He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

climbed up to the giant's house. Jack-how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swift

ness.

Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which the tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me information of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding Hood I should have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the procession, on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded.

Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the ani

HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree.

Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top-for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, -I look into my youngest Christmas recollections.

All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of the tree lower down, how thick the books begin to hang! Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with!

he was.

"A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course He was an apple-pie also, and there he is! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe: like Y, who was always confined to a yacht or a yew-tree: and Z, condemned forever to be a zebra or a zany.

But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk-the marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack

have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in even there; and then ter to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch; but what was that against it?

Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant; the lady-bird, the butterfly—all triumphs of art! Consider the goose, whose feet were so small and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually tumbled forward and knocked down all the animal creation! Consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco stoppers; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string.

Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world!

A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Raiser of the dead gir! and the widow's son-and God is good!

CHARLES Dickens.

DESCRIPTION OF JANE DE MONTFORT.

AGE.-Madam, there

is a lady in your hall Who begs to be admitted

to your presence. Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends? Page. No; far unlike to them. It is a stranger. Lady. How looks her countenance?

Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble,

I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled, Methought I could have compassed sea and land To do her bidding.

Lady. Is she young or old?

Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair,
For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her,
As he, too, had been awed.

Lady. The foolish strippling!

She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature?
Page. So stately and so graceful is her form,
I thought at first her stature was gigantic ;
But on a near approach, I found, in truth,
She scarcely doth surpass the middle size.
Lady. What is her garb?

Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it:
She is not decked in any gallant trim,
But seems to me clad in her usual weeds
Of high habitual state; for as she moves,
Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold,
As I have seen unfurled banners play
With the soft breeze.

Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy;
It is an apparition thou hast seen.
Freberg.

[Starting from his seat, where he has been sitting during the conversation between the Lady and the Page.]

It is an apparition he has seen, JOANNA BAILLIE. SPEECH OF PRINCE EDWARD IN HIS DUNGEON.

Or it is Jane de Montfort.

OTH the bright sun from the high arch of heaven,
In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds,
And ruddy vapors, and deep-glowing flames,
And softly varied shades, look gloriously?

Do the green woods dance to the wind? the lake!
Cast up their sparkling waters to the light?
Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells

Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke
On the soft morning air?

Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound
In antic happiness! and mazy birds

Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands?
Ay, all this is-men do behold all this-
The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault,
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear
The crowing of the cock so near my walls,
And sadly think how small a space divides me
From all this fair creation.

JOANNA BAILLIE,

THE GROWTH OF MURDEROUS HATE.

[Scene from De Montfort.]

De Montfort explains to his sister Jane his hatred of Rezenvelt which at last hurries him into the crime of murder. The gradual deepening of this malignant passion, and its frightful catastrophe. are powerfully depicted. We may remark, that the character of De Montfort, his altered habits and appearance after his travers, his settled gloom, and the violence of his passions seem to have been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and Lara.

D

E MONTFORT. No more, my sister; urge
me not again :

My secret troubles cannot be revealed.
From all participation of its thoughts

My heart recoils: I pray thee, be contented.
Jane. What! must I, like a distant humble friend,
Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed
In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart
I turn aside to weep? O no, De Montfort!
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give;
Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be.

De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee
Jane. Then fie upon! fie upon it, Montfort;
There was a time when e'en with murder stained.
Had it been possible that such dire deed
Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous,
Thou wouldst have told it me.

De Mon. So would I now but ask of this n

more.

All other troubles but the one I feel

I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me
It is the secret weakness of my nature.

Jane. Then secret let it be: I urge no further
The eldest of our valiant father's hopes,
So sadly orphaned side by side we stood,
Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove,
And brave the storm together.

I have so long, as if by nature's right,
Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been,

I thought through life I should have so remained,
Nor ever know a change. Forgive me, Montfort;
A humbler station will I take by thee;
The close attendant of thy wandering steps,

The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought,
The soother of those griefs, I must not know.
This is mine office now: I ask no more.

For in my breast a raging passion burns,
To which thy soul no sympathy will own--
A passion which hath made my nightly coach
A place of torment, and the light of day,
With the gay intercourse of social man,
Feel like the oppressive, airless pestilence.
O Jane! thou wilt despise me.

Jane. Say not so:

I never can despise thee, gentle brother.

Would I could tell it thee!

ears,

Nor from the yearnings of affection wring

brother.

I'll stay by thee; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee;
Pursue with thee the study of some art,
Or nobler science, that compels the mind
To steady thought progressive, driving forth
All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies,

Till thou, with brow unclouded, smilest again;
Like one who, from dark visions of the night,
When the active soul within its lifeless cell
Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy pressed
Of some dire, terrible, or murderous deed,
Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses Heaven.

De Mon. It will not pass away; 'twill haunt me still.
Jane. Ah! say not so, for I will haunt thee too,
And be to it so close an adversary,

That, though I wrestle darkling with the fiend,
1 shall o'ercome it.

De Mon. Thou most generous woman,
Why do I treat thee thus? It should not be-
And yet I cannot- that cursed villain !
He would not let me be the man I would.

Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed.

Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible!
What being, by the Almighty Father formed
Of flesh and blood, created even as thou,
Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake,
Who art thyself his fellow?

Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched

hands.

Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother! Strive bravely with it; drive it from thy heart; 'Tis the degrader of a noble heart.

Curse it, and bid it part.

De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here to long.

With my first cares, I felt its rankling touch.

I loathed him when a boy.

Jane. Whom didst thou say?

De Mon. Detested Rezenvelt!

E'en in our early sports, like two young wheips

Of hostile breed, instinctively averse,

are these!

They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts.

I do beseech thee, speak!

By the affection thou did'st ever bear me;
By the dear memory of our infant days;
By kindred living ties-ay, and by those
Who sleep in the tomb, and cannot call to thee,
I do conjure thee, speak!

Ha! wilt thou not?
Then, if affection, most unwearied love,
Tried early, long, and never wanting found,
O'er generous man hath more authority,
More rightful power than crown or sceptre give,
I do command thee!

De Montfort, do not thus resist my love,
Here I entreat thee on my bended knees.
Aias! my brother!

De Mon. [Raising her, and kneeling.] Thus let him kneel who should the abased be, And at thine honored feet confession make.

I'll tell thee all-but, oh! thou wilt despise me.

And frowned defiance. As we onward passed
From youth to man's estate, his narrow art
And envious gibing malice, poorly veiled
In the affected carelessness of mirth,
Still more detestable and odious grew.
There is no living being on this earth
Who can conceive the malice of his soul,
With all his gay and damnèd merriment,
To those by fortune or by merit placed
Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune,
He looked upon the state of prosperous men,
As nightly birds, roused from their murky holes
Do scowl and chatter at the light of day,
I could endure it; even as we bear

The impotent bite of some half-trodden worm,
I could endure it. But when honors came,
And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride;
Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise
And grovelling idiots grinned applause on him ;
Oh! then I could no longer suffer it!

It drove me frantic. What, what would I give

What would I give to crush the bloated toad,
So rankly do I loathe him '

Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man
Who gave to thee that life he might have taken?
That life which thou so rashly did t expose

To aim at his? Oh, this is horrible!

De Mon. Ha! thou hast heard it then! From all

the world,

But most of all from thee, I thought it hid.

Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolved Upon the instant to return to thee.

Didst thou receive my letter?

De Mon. I did! I did! 'Twas that which drove me thither.

I could not bear to meet thine eye again.

Jane. Alas! that tempted by a sister's tears,

I ever left thy house! These few past months,
These absent months, have brought us all this woe.
Had I remained with thee, it had not been.
And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus.
You dared him to the field; both bravely fought;
He, more adroit, disarmed you; courteously
Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned,
You did refuse to use against him more;

And then, as says report, you parted friends.

In better days was wont to be my pride.

De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself, And still more wretched in the pain I give. O curse that villain, that detested villain! He has spread misery o'er my fated life; He will undo us all.

Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world And borne with steady mind my share of ill; For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou. But now the wane of life comes darkly on, And hideous passion tears thee from my heart, Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this. De Mon. What shall I do?

My Alvar loved sad music from a child. Once he was lost, and after weary search

less hand

Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared
From devilish pride, which now derives a bliss
In seeing me thus fettered, shamed, subjected
With the vile favor of his poor forbearance ·
Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow,
And basely baits me like a muzzled cur,
Who cannot turn again.

Until that day, till that accursed day,

I knew not half the torment of this hell

Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings

blast him!

Jane. Oh, this is horrible! Forbear, forbear! Lest Heaven's vengeance light upon thy head For this most impious wish.

De Mon. Then let it light.

Torments more fell than I have known already
It cannot send. To be annihilated,

What all m、n shrink from; to be dust, be nothing,
Were bliss to me compared with what I am!

Jane. Oh! wouldst thou kill me with these dreadful words?

De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look,
Then close mine eyes forever!-

Ha! how is this? Thou'rt ill: thou'rt very pale;
What have I done to thee? Alas! alas!

I meant not to distress thee-O my sister!
Jane. I cannot now speak to thee.

De Mon. I have killed thee.

Turn, turn thee not away! Look on me still!

Oh! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister!

Look on me yet again.

jane. Thou, too, De Montfort,

To which spot he had followed a blind boy,
Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore
Some strangely moving notes; and these, he said,
Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw
Stretched on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank:
And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep,

His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleased me
To mark how he had fastened round the pipe
A silver toy his grandam had late given him.
Methinks I see him now as he then looked-
Even so! He had outgrown his infant dress,
Yet still he wore it.

Alvar. My tears must not flow!

I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father! [Enter TERESA and ATTENDANTS.]

Teresa. Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here,

And I submit; but-Heaven bear witness for meMy heart approves it not! 'tis mockery.

Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence?
Believe you not that spirits throng around us?
Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it

A possible thing: and it has soothed my soul
As other fancies have; but ne'er seduced me
To traffic with the black and frenzied hope
That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard.
[To Alvar.] Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you

Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell!

Soul of Alvar!

Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell :
So may the gates of paradise, unbarred,
Cease thy swift toils! Since happily thou art one
Of that innumerable company

Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow,
Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion,
With noise too vast and constsnt to be heard:
Fitliest unheard! For oh, ye numberless
And rapid travelers! what ear unstunned,
What sense unmaddened, might bear up against
The rushing of your congregated wings?
Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head!

[Music.

[Music expressive of the movements and images
that follow.]

Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands,
That roar and whiten like a burst of waters,
A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion
To the parched caravan that roams by night!
And ye build up on the becalmed waves
That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven
Stands vast, and moves in blackness! Ye, too, split
The ice mount! and with fragments many and huge
Tempest the new-thawed sea, wnose sadden gulfs
Suck in, perchance, some Laptand wizard's skiff!
Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance,
Till from the blue swollen corse the soul toils out,
And joins your mighty army. [Here, behind the scenes,
a voice sings the three words, Hear, sweet spirit.'
Soul of Alvar!

Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm!
By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang
Of a half-dead, yet still undying hope,
Pass visible before our mortal sense!

So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine,
Her knells and masses, that redeem the dead!

Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same instrument as before.]

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Lest a blacker charm compel!
So shall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long lingering knell.
And at evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shore,

Shall the chanters, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chant for thee,
Miserere Domine!

Burst on our sight, a passing visitant !

Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee, O'twere a joy to me!

Alv. A joy to thee!

What if thou heardst him now! What if his spirit
Re-entered its cold corse, and came upon thee
With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard?
What if his steadfast eye still beaming pity
And brother's love-he turned his head aside,
Lest he should look at thee, and with one look
Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence?

Val. These are unholy fancies!

Ord. [Struggling with his feelings.] Yes, my father, he is in heaven!

Alv. [Still to Ordonio.]

brother,

But what if he had a

Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour
The name of heaven would have convulsed his face
More than the death-pang?

Val. Idly prating man!

Thou has guessed ill: Don Alvar's only brother Stands here before thee-a father's blessing on him i He is most virtuous.

Alv. [Still to Ordonio.] What if his very virtues Had pampered his swoolen heart and made him proud?

And what if pride had duped him into guilt?
Yet still he stalked a self-created god,
Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning;
And one that at his mother's icoking-glass
Would force his features to a frowning sternness?
Young lord! I tell thee that there are such beings-
Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damned
To see these most proud men, that loathe makind,
At every stir and buzz of coward conscience,
Trick, cant, and lie; most whining hypocrites!
Away, away! Now let me hear more music.

[Music again

Ter. 'Tis strange. I tremble at my own conjectures' But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer Be present at these lawless mysteries, This dark provoking of the hidden powers! Already I affront-if not high HeavenYet Alvar's memory! Hark! I make appeal Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek That voice which whispers, when the still neart listens Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire.

SAMUEL TAYlor Coleridge