present but those whom the delightful Elia, alias Charles Lamb, calleth the "old familiar faces;" something in all features, and all tones of voice, and all manners, betokening origin from one root,-relations all, happy, and with no reason either to be ashamed or proud of their neither high nor humble birth-their lot being cast within that pleasant realm, "the golden mean," where the dwellings are connecting links between the hut and hall, fair edifices resembling manse or mansion-house, according as the atmosphere expands or contracts their dimensions, in which competence is next-door neighbour to wealth, and both of them within the daily walk of contentment.

Merry Christmasses they were indeed-one lady always presiding, with a figure that once had been the stateliest among the stately, but then somewhat bent, without being bowed bown, beneath an easy weight of most venerable years. Sweet was her tremulous voice to all her grandchildren's ears! Nor did those solemn eyes, bedimmed into a pathetic beauty, in any degree restrain the glee that sparkled in orbs that had as yet shed not many tears, but tears of pity or of joy. Dearly she loved all those mortal creatures whom she was soon about to leave; but she sat in sunshine even within the shadow of death; and the "voice that called her home" had so long been whispering in her ear, that its accents had become dear to her, and consolatory every word that was heard in the silence, as from another world.

Whether we were indeed all so witty as we thought ourselves-uncles, aunts, nephews, cousins, and "the rest," it might be presumptuous in us, who were considered by ourselves and some few others the most amusing of the whole set, at this distance of time to decide-especially in the affirmative; but how the roof did ring with sally, pun, retort, and repartee! Ay, with pun-a species of impertinence for which we have therefore a kindness even to this day. Had incomparable Thomas Hood had the good fortune to have been born a cousin of ours, how with that fine fancy of his would he have shone at those Christmas festivals, eclipsing us all! Our family, through all its different branches, has ever been famous for bad voices, but good ears; and we think we hear ourselves

all those uncles and aunts, nephews, and nieces, and cousins--singing now! Easy is it to "warble melody" as to breathe air. But, oh! we hope harmony is the most difficult of all things to people in general, for to us it was impossible; and what attempts ours used to be at seconds! Yet the most woful failures were rapturously encored; and ere the night was done, we spoke with most extraordinary voices indeed, every one hoarser than another, till at last, walking home with a fair cousin, there was nothing left for it but a tender glance of the eye-a tender pressure of the hand-for cousins are not altogether sisters, and although partaking of that dearest character, possessing, it may be, some peculiar and appropriate charms of their own; as didst thou, Emily the "Wild-cap!"-That soubriquet all forgotten now--for now thou art a matron, gentle as a dove, and smiling on an only daughter, almost womangrown--fair and frolicsome in her innocence as thou thyself wert of yore, when the gravest and wisest withstood not the witchery of thy dancings, thy singings, and thy showering smiles!

On rolled suns and seasons-the old died-the elderly became old-and the young, one after another, were wafted joyously away on the wings of hope, like birds, almost as soon as they can fly, ungratefully forsaking their nests, and the groves in whose safe shadow they first essayed their pinions; or like pinnaces, that, after having for a few days trimmed their snow-white sails in the landlocked bay, close to whose shores of silvery sand had grown the trees that furnished timber both for hull and mast, slip their tiny cables on some summer day, and gathering every breeze that blows, go dancing over the waves in sunshine, and melt far off into the main! haply, some were like fair young trees, transplanted during no favourable season, and never to take root in another soil, but soon leaf and branch to wither beneath the tropic sun, and die almost unheeded by those who knew not how beautiful they were beneath the dews and mists of their own native clime. Vain images! and therefore chosen by fancy not too painfully to touch the heart! For some hearts grow cold and forbidding in selfish cares-some, warm as ever in their own generous glow, were touched by

Or,

the chill of Fortune's frowns, that are ever worst to bear when suddenly succeeding her smiles-some, to rid themselves of painful regrets, took refuge in forgetfulness, and closed their eyes to the past-duty banished some abroad, and duty imprisoned others at home-estrangements there were, at first unconscious and unintended, yet ere long, though causeless, complete-changes were wrought insensibly, invisibly, even in the innermost nature of those, who being friends knew no guile, yet came thereby at last to be friends no more-unrequited love broke some bonds-requited love relaxed others-the death of one altered the conditions of many-and so-year after year-the Christmas meeting was interrupted-deferred-till finally it ceased, with one accord, unrenewed and unrenewable. For when some things cease-for a time-that time turns out to be for ever. Survivors of those happy circles! wherever ye be-should these imperfect remembrances of days of old chance, in some thoughtful pause of life's busy turmoil, for a moment to meet your eyes, let there be towards the inditer a few throbs of revived affection in your hearts-for his, though "absent long and distant far," has never been utterly forgetful of the loves and friendships that charmed his youth. To be parted in body is not to be estranged in soul-and many a dream— and many a vision, sacred to memory's best affections, may pass before the mind of one whose lips are silent. "Out of sight out of mind," is rather the expression of a doubt-of a fear-than of a belief or conviction. soul surely has eyes that can see the object it loves, through all intervening darkness—and of those more especially dear it keeps within itself almost undimmed images, on which, when they know it not, think it not, believe it not, it often loves to gaze, as on a relic imperishable as it is hallowed.

The

Hail! rising beautiful, and magnificent, through the mists of morning-hail! hail! ye woods, groves, towers, and temples, overshadowing that famous stream beloved by all the Muses! Through this midnight hush—methinks I hear faint and far off a sacred music,

"Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise!"

How steeped in the beauty of moonlight are all those pale, pillared churches, courts and cloisters, shrines and altars, with here and there a statue standing in the shade, or monument sacred to the memory of the pious-the immortal dead! Some great clock is striking from one of many domes-from the majestic tower of St. Mary Magdalen— and in the deepened hush that follows the solemn sound, hark how the mingling waters of the Cherwell and the Isis soften the severe silence of the holy night!

Remote from kindred, and from all the friendships that were the native growth of the fair fields where our boyhood and our youth had roamed, and meditated, and dreamed, those were yet years of high and lofty mood, which held us in converse with the shades of great poets and sages of old in Rhedicyna's hallowed groves, still, serene, and solemn, as that Grecian Academe where divine Plato, with all Hybla on his lips, discoursed such excellent music, that this life seemed to the imagination spiritualised—a dim reminiscence of some former state of being. How sank then the Christmas service of that beautiful liturgy into our hearts! Not faithless we to the simple worship that our forefathers had loved; but conscience told us there was no apostacy in the feelings that rose within us when that deep organ 'gan to blow, that choir of youthful voices so sweetly to join the diapason,— our eyes fixed all the while on that divine picture over the altar, of our Saviour

Bearing his cross up rueful Calvary."

But "a change comes o'er the spirit of my dream.” How beautiful in the setting sunlight are these mountains of soft crimson snow! The sun hath set, and even more beautiful are the bright-starred nights of winter, than summer in all its glories beneath the broad moons of June! Through the woods of Windermere, from cottage to cottage, by coppice-pathways winding up to dwellings among the hill-rocks, where the birch-trees cease to grow,—

"Nodding their heads, before us go,
The merry minstrelsy."

They sing a salutation at every door, familiarly naming old and young by their Christian names; and the eyes that

look upward from the vales to the hanging huts among the plats and cliffs, see the shadows of the dancers ever and anon crossing the light of the starlike window; and the merry music is heard like an echo dwelling in the sky! across those humble thresholds often did we on Christmas nights of yore-wandering through our solitary sylvan haunts, under the branches of trees within whose hollow trunk the squirrel slept-venture in, unasked, perhaps, but not unwelcome; and in the kindly spirit of the season, did our best to merrify the festival by tale or song. And now that we behold them not, are all those woods, and cliffs, and rivers, and tarns, and lakes, as beautiful as when they softened and brightened beneath our living eyes half-creating, as they gazed, the very paradise that they worshipped! And are all those hearths as bright as of yore, without the shadow of our figure? And the roofs, do they ring as mirthfully, though our voice be forgotten?

But little cause have we to lament that that paradise is now to us but as remembered poetry-poetry got by heartdeeply engraven there-and to be read at any thoughtful hour we choose-charged deeper and deeper still with old memories and new inspirations. The soul's best happiness is independent of time and place. Such accidents touch it. not-they" offer not even any show of violence, it being a thing so majestical.' And lo! another new series of Christmas festivals has to us been born! For there are our own living flowers in our family garland! And as long as he, who gave them their bloom and their balm, averts not from them or us the sunshine of his countenance, content-oh! far beyond content-would we be with this, the most sacred of all religious festivals, were it even to be holden by us far apart from them in some dungeon's depth!

Ay-well may we say-in gratitude, not in pride— though, at such a sight, pride might be thought but a venial sin within a father's heart,-"There is our Christmas rose"—while a blush brightens the beauty of a face that we will call "fair, not pale," and brighter and softer than the leaves of any rose, the ringlets dance over her forèhead to the breeze of joy, and bliss and innocence give themselves vent in one of our own Scotia's pleasant but pathetic songs!