THE HOLLY-BUSH. 153 



Four years since, when the dumb boy was fast 

 sinking under the fatal disease that, in a few weeks, 

 was to terminate his mortal career, we went out, 

 on Christmas eve, by his desire, to bring him 

 some holly. One of our party, who to say truth, 

 was then still under the dominion of popery, car- 

 ried her zeal so far, that almost a forest was 

 brought into Jack's sitting-room ; and I was re- 

 monstrating, when he interrupted me with ' Good, 

 good !' An expression of the most divine sweet- 

 ness overspread his countenance, while, raising his 

 meek eyes to me, he took a small sprig of the hol- 

 ly, pricking the back of his hand with its pointed 

 leaf, and shewed me the little scars left by it* 

 Then, selecting a long shoot, he made a sign to 

 twist it about his head, described the pain that it 

 would give him to do so: and with starting tears 

 said, ' Jesus Christ.' Who could fail to read in 

 those eloquent looks and actions, his vivid recol- 

 lection of the crown of thorns ? He then pointed 

 to the berries, thinly scattered on the holly bough ; 

 and told me God put them there to remind him of 

 the drops of blood that stained his Saviour's brow, 

 when so crowned. I stood before the boy, filled 

 with conscious shame, for that I had never traced 

 the touching symbol : while the piteous expression 

 of his pale countenance bespoke that exquisite reali- 

 zation of the scene, to which I never could attain. 

 How cold and hard did I feel my own heart to be, 



