Old Christmas | Page 5

evergreens distributed about
houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness; all these have the

most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling
benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be
their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with
the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that
still and solemn hour, "when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have
listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting them with the sacred
and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial
choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind.
How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral
influences, turns everything to melody and beauty: The very crowing of
the cock, who is sometimes heard in the profound repose of the country,
"telling the night-watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the
common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival:
"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's
birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long: And
then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are
wholesome--then no planets strike, No fairy takes, no witch hath power
to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time."
Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of
the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain
insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling--the season
for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial
flame of charity in the heart.
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile
waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of
home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit,-- as the Arabian
breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the
weary pilgrim of the desert.
Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land,--though for me no social
hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the
warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold,--yet I feel the
influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of
those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven;

and every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent
enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and
ever shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from
contemplating the felicity of his fellow beings, and sit down darkling
and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his
moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants
the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry
Christmas.

The Stage-coach
Omne bene Sine poena Tempus est ludendi; Venit hora, Absque mora
Libros deponendi.
--Old Holiday School Song.
In the preceding paper I have made some general observations on the
Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by
some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusing
which, I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the
austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is
tolerant of folly, and anxious only for amusement.
In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long
distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas.
The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by
their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or
friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of
game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies; and hares hung dangling
their long ears about the coachman's box,--presents from distant friends
for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for
my fellow passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit
which I have observed in the children of this country. They were
returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves
a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of
pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to

perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred
thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of
anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, down to the
very cat and dog; and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by
the presents with which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting
to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was
with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk,
possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus.
How he could trot! how he