foliage of the AsH (fraxinus excelsior), images of manly strength and female gracefulness. This tree holds a prominent place in the Scandinavian mythology, as an allegorical representation of the universe.

The northern Scalds feigned that there was a mystic ash called Ygdrassil, whose branches spread over all the earth. Its leaves were the clouds; the branches, the atmosphere; the ash-keys or seeds, the constellations. It had three vast roots, one reaching to heaven, one to the abode of the giants, and one to hell, or Nilgheim. And beside the latter root was Hvergelmer, or the abyss, wherein were Nidhogger, the snake-king, and numberless serpents that gnawed continually at the roots of the ash; these typify the evil principle, and the corruptions and vices that injure the world. By the side of the root that reached to the abode of the frost giants was the well of Mimer (i. e., wisdom), in which knowledge and understanding lay hid; and Mimer drank every morning of the dew which fell from the leaves of Ygdrassil, i. e., the dew that flows over the sky before the sun rises. Whenever the All-Father, Odin, came to that well he was not permitted to drink till he gave his eye in pledge (typifying the descent of the sun, Odin's eye, into the sea). By the side of the root, which reached to heaven, was the Urdar Fount (the fountain of the Past), where stood three virgins, named Urd, the Past; Werandi, the Present; and Skulde, the Future, who were perpetually drawing the water of life to refresh the mystic ash, and to keep it in eternal verdure. Two swans (the sun and the moon) were fed on the Urdar Fount. In the branches of the Ygdrassil dwelt an eagle (the air) that knew many things; aud between his eyes sat a sparrow-hawk (pure ether) called Veder lofner (storm damper). Á squirrel (hail, rain, and snow) ran up and down the tree to bring intelligence between the eagle and the snake-king, Nidhogger (expressing the power of the evil one in the air, to raise storms, &c.), and four stags (the four winds) carecred among the branches. It must be confessed that there is much of poetic imagination in this Scandinavian allegory.

The heathen Saxons believed that the human race sprang from a log of ash, which the gods endowed with vitality. Similar was the idea of the Greek Hesiod, the poet of a people so unlike the old Saxons; he sang that in the Brazen age men were made from the ash (a wood well adapted for weapons of war).*

A relic of the ancient veneration for the ash still exists in some parts of Scotland and the north of England; the peasants, when their children are sickly, split young ash trees, and pass the patients through the clefts to ensure convalescence, as though they believed the ash to be endued with a vital principle.

The House of Anhalt, whose principality lies in Upper Saxony, has been productive of great men - warriors, statesmen, literati, &c. George, Prince of Anhalt, in the sixteenth century, thought it not derogatory to his rank to become a Protestant minister, in order to preach the doctrines of Luther. Wolfgang of Anhalt was expelled from his territories for his zeal in the cause of the Reformation. Another prince of this House founded an academy of belles-lettres. Leopold of Anhalt, in the eighteenth century, distinguished himself in the field of battle in Italy and in the Netherlands, and had the merit of creating the Prussian infantry. It were long to enumerate the glories of the House of Anhalt, which deduces its origin from Gomer, son of Japhet, whose descendants, migrating from Ascania in Bythinia, settled in Germany ; hence the princes style themselves also Counts of Ascania. Their principal stronghold, the Castle of Anhalt in the Hartz, was built in the tenth century. All that now remains of it is some of the vaults. In the midst of these relics of Time rises a magnificent ashtree, from whose top streams a whiteand-red banner; and against the trunk of the tree is affixed a tablet, with the following fine inscription: “Amid ruins and shady foliage, in memory of a noble ancestry and their achievements, prowess, and piety, with mourning at the evanescence of all earthly things, and with joyfulness at the imperishable existence of Justice, Virtue, Faith, Hope, and Love, posterity lifts its eyes to a higher sphere."

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The poets fabled that Cupid at first made his arrows of the ash, but afterwards chose the funereal cypress. The wood of the ash, combining lightness with strength, has always been highly esteemed for making warlike weapons, such as the spear, the lance, and the bow. The spear with which Chiron armed his pupil, Achilles, was of ash. In its character of a martial tree we will accompany it with a real soldier- song, sung by German troops in the former wars, commemorating the military renown of Strasburg. But in translating from the original we have thought that by the alteration of the name of Strasburg the ballad became peculiarly applicable to the all-engrossing siege of the present day.

SEBASTOPOL.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

("O Strasburg! au Strasburg!
Du wunderschöne stadt. u.s.w.")

Sebastopol! Sebastopol !

City of wondrous pride! Before thy walls, thou scene of dole, Hath many a soldier died.

The noblest Britain e'er hath sent
Across the ocean-foam-

Ah me! what young and loved ones went
Forth from their father's home.

They're gone for so 'twas need-"yet more!

More for Sebastopol !" That cry sounds through the cannon's roar, The drums' incessant roll.

The mother pleads and weeps full sore,
Pleads for her stripling son:
"Kind Captain! for Heaven's love, restore
My boy, my only one."

"Alas! nor gold nor gems could buy

Thy son from out our band;
For he must march and, haply, die
In far Crimean land.

"Thy prayers avail not, nor the woe
That fills his true love's soul;
For he must go to face the foe
Before Sebastopol."

She weeps, she cries, "My child farewell! A long farewell to thee:

From that dread scene, where thousands fell, Thou'lt ne'er return to me."

As the oak has been termed the Forest-Jupiter, so has the MOUNTAIN ASH (Sorbus aucuparia) been styled the Venus of the Woods. With its

graceful stem, flexile branches, light foliage, and bright red berries, it looks like some foreign beauty in an assembly of our native sylvans. From its preference of elevated sites, and from the resemblance its leaves bear to those of the ash, it has been erroneously called "mountain ash," having no affinity with the genus fraxinus.

The mountain ash was revered by the Druids, and was held by Celtic races as powerful against malevolent spells of sorcery. In some places it is called quicken (a corruption of witchen tree), and in Scotland, rowan, which is said to be derived from rune, the alphabet of the Scandinavians applied by their priests, with some modifications, to magical purposes. The peasantry in Scotland, the north of England, and parts of Wales, used (and, perhaps, in remote parts still do) to carry a bit of this tree sewed up in their clothes to avert baneful spells; and to hang a branch in the dairy to foil the butter witch. A bough of mountain ash that had been carried round the Beltane fire was fixed over houses, and left until the following summer, to neutralise the effects of "the evil eye."

A curious story of the anti-necromantic qualities of this tree was related by old Irish Shannachies, and recorded in Keating's "Ireland." The Tuatha de Dannans, having emigrated from Ireland, dwelt in Attica, which was invaded by a fleet and army from Syria. The Tuatha de Dannans, who were always adepts in magic, gave a powerful aid to the Athenians, by causing demons to enter into the bodies of their soldiers slain in battle, and bringing the re-animated dead into the field again next day. The Syrians, greatly perplexed at finding themselves repeatedly opposed by their slain antagonists, consulted one of their most learned priests, who recommended them to set a guard over the next battle-field, and to drive a stake of mountain ash through the body of each man they slew. They followed the advice, and each corpse, thus treated, at once decomposed and became incapable of resuscitation. The Syrians then gained the advantage; and the Tuatha de Dannans fled to Lochlin. This wild legend reminds us of the wellknown story of the Hungarian vampires, whose malpractices were checked by driving a stake through the corpses which, on being exhumed, had

betrayed tokens of vampirism. From superstitions such as these must have originated the barbarous, and now obsolete, custom of putting a stake through the corpse of a suicide, as one whom it might be feared would not rest within an unhallowed grave.

Here are the handsome leaves of that fine tree, the PLANE (platanus Orientalis). The true Oriental plane is, we believe, becoming scarce in Great Britain, being in great measure supplanted by the American plane.

The true plane grows to an enormous size in southern countries. Pliny mentions one, in Lycia, so large that the hollow in its trunk formed a kind of cave, eighty feet in circumference, in which Lucinius Mutianus, governor of the province, entertained eighteen guests, who sat commodiously on benches placed all round.

The same author says, that the plane was first brought over the Ionian Sea into the Island of Diomede (now Pelagosta) as a monument of that hero; thence it passed into Sicily and Italy, where it was so much valued for the shade it afforded, that it was even irrigated with wine.

The Greeks planted it round the Portico at Athens, and consecrated it to Genius and intellectual pleasures. Theocritus, in his 2nd Idyl, celebrates it as the favourite tree of the beautiful Helen.

In Georgia and Persia the plane was held sacred, and votive offerings were hung upon it.

Elian relates, that Xerxes happened, when on a march, to meet with a magnificent plane. He looked upon it with admiring eyes, ordered his men to halt and pitch his tent beneath its shade, and passed whole days, and a great part of many nights, in gazing fondly upon it, and indulging in silent reveries. He even suspended costly ornaments, as gifts of love, upon its branches. It was with the greatest reluctance that he at length tore himself from the spot to proceed on his way, and even then he left behind him one of his attendants to watch

over the beloved tree. This strongly

marked affection could have been neither the admiration of a naturalist nor the superstition of an idolater, but a feeling more pathetic, which touched the heart of the proud Persian king. There was something in the appearance of that plane that revived

[Aug.

some tender remembrance of former days, some affecting incident of his youth. How profound it must have been, when the association could so forcibly agitate a despot so selfish and so ambitious as Xerxes!

As a tribute to those mighty but gentle genii, the powers of reminiscence, who seldom visit us without bringing some tearful regrets in their train, we will dedicate to the plane tree a strain of

RETROSPECT.

M. E. M.

Scenes were bright around me
In my summer's prime ;
Hope's glad wreaths had crown'd me
In that sunny time.
Skies were blue above me,

Earth with flowers was gay;
There were hearts to love me,
Lips kind words to say.

Oh! my happy leisure,

In those days of old, When Time's glass could measure Hours with sands of gold. Hours-I spent them straying

E'en as zephyrs free, With the cowslips playing On the verdant lea;

Loitering on the mountains,

Mid the purple heath; Seeking hidden fountains Mossy stones beneath; Gazing on a ruin

Grand, though rent and gray, Where wild flowers were strewing Beauties o'er decay;

On a rough root seated

Deep in forest-nook, Poring, fancy-cheated,

O'er a favourite brook. List'ning to the whisper Of the twilight sea, When it breath'd, sweet Hesper! Welcomings to thee.

But I priz'd not duly

All that then was mine: Felt not warmly, truly,

Bliss as gift divine. Then half pleased, half doubting, Look'd I on my joys, Like a child that's pouting O'er his heap of toys.

While I own'd the splendour

I blam'd the heat of noon; I thought too cold the tender Light of crescent moon.

Flowers e'en while enchanting With their tints mine eye, Ah! I chid them, wanting Roses' fragrancy.

Larks I watch'd upspringing
Past each fleecy cloud,
And confess'd their singing

"Sweet-but oft too loud." Yea! how much of treasure Froward heart makes voidYea! how much pure pleasure Leaving un-enjoy'd.

Thou, my soul insensate !
Dost thou seek at last
Somewhat to compensate
For the wasted Past?
Give me back the dullest

Of sweet hours that were ;
Now of joy the fullest

Freight 'twould seem to bear.

Give me from the frailest

Of youth's fading bowers One-but one-the palest

Of those former flowers; Grateful on my bosom

I the boon would lay; Priz'd like richest blossom

Of the Rose's spray.

Echo! bring but near me

By-gone Music's strain; Faintest note would cheer me, Wafted here again. Slightest word once spoken By Love's gentle voice Give, to bid this broken Heart once more rejoice.

Had my wayward spirit

Known its former bliss, "Twould not now inherit

Grief so deep as thisGrief for hopes neglected,

Garlands flung to waste, Proffer'd good rejected, Fruits I scarce would taste.

Drooping flowers recover

In soft summer rainWinter's tears weep over Perish'd bloom in vain. Vainly comes Repentance,

When Time blots the date: O the bitter sentence

In these words, "Too late!"

This fine tree, the CHESTNUT (fagus castanea), admirable for its beautiful form, and estimable for its esculent fruit, was brought by Tiberius Cæsar from Sardis, in Lybia, to Italy; thence it passed into France and England. Its appellation castanea is from Cas

tanis, a city of Thessaly, round which it grew abundantly. The name is still preserved in various European languages-castagno in Italian, `chataigne in French, castanienbaum in German, &c.

Some of the largest trees in the world are of this species. There is one on Mount Etna whose circumference at the ground is eighteen feet; and within the hollow trunk is a hut It is for drying and storing the nuts. called Il Castagno de cento Cavelli (the chestnut of a hundred horse), on account of a tradition that a Queen of Spain, with a hundred mounted attendants, once found shelter beneath its branches from a storm.

Near the ruins of Bradgate Palace, once the residence of Lady Jane Grey's family, is a group of stately chestnuts, growing there since the time of Edward I. Their branches must have often given their shade to that lovely, wise, and pious young girl, the martyred Lady Jane.

Whenever we see at a little distance a large HORSE CHESTNUT (@sculus hippo-castanea) in full beauty, decked with its erect, stately, fair flowerspikes, it looks to us as though thickly studded with wax candles for some floral festival. This tree was not known in England till the seventeenth century. It is a native of the northern parts of Asia. The Turks grind its bitter nuts into powder to give to horses whose wind is injured. Hence the popular name.

Here is a branch of the dignified ELM (ulmus campestris), with its furrowed and pointed leaves. Its green flowers have a pleasant smell, like violets, in warm seasons.

According to the poets, when Orpheus, on losing his beloved Euridyce, sang her loss to the accompaniment of his lyre, a wood of elms, called into being by the sweet sounds, sprang up all round him.

It was a funereal tree among the ancients, who planted it round tombs. In France, too, it was a custom, derived from antiquity, to plant it in churchyards.

Most of the elms in St. James's Park, London, were planted by Charles II. But there is one elm near the entrance of the passage leading to Spring Gardens, which is of older date, having been planted by the Duke of Glouces ter, brother of Charles I. When that

ill-fated monarch was proceeding to the scaffold, he recognised the tree, and pointed it out to Bishop Juxon. In that sad, nay, awful moment, what a remembrance of youth, happiness, and power, all humbled to the dust, must have flashed upon his mind; yet conquered by Christian resignation, for he spoke firmly and calmly of the familiar tree and its touching associations.

Near Gisors, in Normandy, was an old historic elm, which had been the scene of many royal conferences. Beneath its canopy Henry II. of England and Philip Augustus of France conferred together concerning the debated restoration of the dower of Margaret, sister of Philip, betrothed to Prince Henry of England, then lately deceased (1183). Again, in 1187, the two kings, who had been at variance, met beneath the old elm, and were reconciled. Afterwards they quarelled again, touching the personal interests of the Count de Toulouse, a relative of Philip, though the two kings had joined the Crusades, and were pledged not to bear arms against each other. They met, however, once more (in September, 1188), beneath the celebrated elm, but no agreement was effected.. Some insult was offered by the knights of Henry to those attendant on Philip; and the latter, in a rage, swore that the desecrated tree should never more witness the meeting of monarchs, and felled it to the ground.

In France, before the Revolution, the elm was an especial rural favourite. In every hamlet there was some old and beloved one, beneath whose shade the young danced and wooed, and the old conversed together; and on whose boughs were hung the votive tributes of the religious to the patron saint of the place. Gresset* has left some simple lines on the subject of such a time-honoured tree, which we essay to translate:

Upon thy bark the hamlet's race
Their grandsires' loves recorded trace.
O thou that through two centuries past
Didst o'er the swains thy shelter cast,
And still dost canopy to-day
Their lightsome dance, their featful play,
Tell, from thy tender youth till now,
In this thy green old age, hast thou
E'er seen their simple manners changed?
Seen their true soul's firm faith estrang'd?
No! Innocence with light divine,

And nature these pure hearts among
Unaltered still as brightly shine

As when thou wert a sapling young: And to preserve the memory

Of those long dead who planted thee,
Thou bidst us in their children view
Their faithful type, their record true.

"Live, ancient tree, and flourish long;

Flourish o'er time and tempests strong:
Live while these scenes endure, till spring
Shall yield its last sweet blossoming.
To stately oak and cedar yield
Their claim rich palaces to build.
Beneath a gilded roof to dwell
Proud self-styled wisdom loveth well;
But thy kind boughs with shelter bless
Meek worth and modest happiness."

The bark of the LIME TREE, or LINDEN (tilia Europea), furnished the Romans with tablets to write on. This was the bark called liber, whence a book, in Latin, is called liber. Strips of this bark also bound the garlands of the ancients. It now furnishes our gardens with their bass† matting.

A tale of classic fabulists relates that Philyra, a nymph beloved by Saturn, became the mother of Chiron, the Centaur. Shocked at the unnatural appearance of her offspring, she implored the pity of the gods, and they changed her into a lime - tree. This tree was, among the ancients, an emblem of conjugal fidelity, because Baucis, the loving wife of Philemon, was changed into one by Jupiter and Mercury, as we have before observed.

A lime of extraordinary size, which grew near the house of the ancestors of Linnæus, gave the family name of Linné (in Swedish the linden, or lime), Latinised into Linnæus. In England this tree was formerly called the line

tree.

In the market-place of Freyburg, in Switzerland, stands a venerable lime, a memorial of the famous battle of