and

but there is a mark more immobile than the salt, set in the grain of our minds. The distinctions of society have grown with our commercial wealth, and have multiplied grades and relations. A sense of independence too has sprung up in the lower classes, with commerce and the growth of intelligence. The great man might, indeed, condescend to call his tenants and dependents to his hall to a Christmas revel; but, if they went at all, they would go reluctantly, and feel ill at ease. They would feel it as a condescension, and not as springing out of the heartiness of old customs. They would feel that they were out of their element; for all classes know instinctively the broad differences of habits, manners, modes of thinking, that separate them from each other more effectually than any feudal institutions did their ancestors. The pride of the yeoman would be more in danger of suffering than the pride of the lord; the pride of the cottager than that of the farmer, if invited to his table. When the brick floor and the wooden bench gave way in the farm-house to the carpet and the mahogany chair, the feet of the laborer ceased to tread familiarly round the farmer's table. Harvest meals and harvest-home suppers bring them together in rustic districts; they are the remaining links of the old chain of society; but the Christmas custom is broken, and is therefore no longer observable with full content. This great difference between the past and present exists, and therefore the rejoicing of the poor at this time is short and small; would to Heaven that the kindly feeling of the community would make it greater!

"But, independent of this, to the rest of the community Christmas brings much of its ancient pleasure. Each class, within itself, enjoys it, perhaps more deeply, if less noisily than of old. It is, as I have before said, the festival of the fireside. Friends and families are brought together by many circumstances. Summer tourists and out-of-door pleasureseekers have all turned home at the frown of winter. As it was their delight in the early year to plan excursions, to make parties, and then to fly forth in all directions, to enjoy new scenes, new faces, summer skies, and sea-breezes; it is now their delight to assemble again round their familiar firesides, with the old familiar faces, to talk over all that they have seen, and said, and done. Parliament has adjourned, and weary senators and their families have fled from London, and are, once more, at their country-seats. Children are come home from school; business seems to pause, or to move less urgently in the dead season of the year, and releases

numbers from its tread-mill round to an interval of relaxation. All the branches of families meet with spirits eager for enjoyment; and storms, frosts, and darkness without, send them for that enjoyment to the fire-bright hearth.

"Christmas-eve approaches, and with it signs of observance, and feasting, and amusement. Holly, ivy, and mistletoe appear in vast quantities in the markets, and almost every housekeeper, except those of the Society of Friends, furnishes herself with a quantity to decorate her windows, if not always to sport a kissing-bush. Churches, halls, city houses and country cottages, are all seen with their windows stuck over with sprigs of green and scarlet-berried holly. Mistletoe is said never to be introduced into churches except by ignorance of the sextons, being held in abhorrence by the early Christians on account of its prominence in the Druidical ceremonies. And this is likely enough; but in the house it maintains its station, and well merits it, by the beauty of its divaricated branches of pale-green, and its pearly-white berries. But Christmas-eve brings not only evergreens into request, but abundance of more substantial things. The coaches to town are fairly loaded to the utmost with geese, turkeys, and game, as those downwards are with barrels of oysters. The grocers are busy selling currants, raisins, spices, and other good things, for the composition of mince-pies and Christmas sweetmeats. Pigs are killed, and pork-pies, sausages, and spareribs abound from the greatest hall to the lowest hut. Heaven be thanked that the blessing goes so far in this instance. It is a delight to think of all the little children in the poor man's house, that the year through have lived coarsely if not sparely, now watching the fat pig from their own sty cut up, and pies and spareribs, boiling pieces, black-puddings, and sausages, springing up as from a magical storehouse unlocked by the key of Old Christmas. it is a delicious time, when the father and the mother can sit down amongst their throng of eager little ones, that "feel their life in every limb," and feast them to their hearts' content; and live with them for a short time amid substantial things and savory smells, and, after all, hang in the chimney corner two noble flitches for the coming year.

O!

"These good things come with Christmas-eve, and with them come the WAITES. Except in some few very primitive districts, these do not go about for a week or more as they used to do, but merely on this night. And it is a fact singularly unfortunate for Mr. Bulwer's theory of the effect of Methodism noticed before, that wherever Methodists exist

they are sure to be amongst these waites, and are, in many places, the only ones. The strange, dreamy, yet delightful effect of the music and singing of these waites, as you hear them in a state rather of sleep than waking, who has not experienced? They are, as Fixlein expresses it, to our conscious senses, but half dormant understandings, 'sounds out of heaven, singing voices of angels in the air.' I shall never forget the delicious impressions of this midnight music. on my childish spirit, and would fain hear such strains on every returning Christmas-eve till I cease to hear any mortal sounds.

"But Christmas morning comes; and ere daylight dawns, you are awoke by the rejoicing music of all the village or the city bells, as it may be ; and cannot help feeling, spite of all that puritans and grave denouncers of times and seasons have said, that there is something holy in the remembrance of the time which does your spirit good. Who can read these verses of Wordsworth's, addressed to his brother, without feeling the truth of this?

"TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH.

"THE minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage eaves;
While, smitten by the lofty moon,

The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

"Through hill and valley every breeze

Had sunk to rest with folded wings;
Keen was the air, but could not freeze
Nor check the music of their strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.
"And who but listened?-till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim;
The greeting given, the music played,
In honor of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "merry Christmas" wished to all!

"O Brother! I revere the choice

That took thee from thy native hills;
And it is given thee to rejoice;
Though public care full often tills
(Heaven only witness of the toil)
À barren and ungrateful soil.

"Yet would that thou, with me and mine,
Hadst heard this never-failing rite;

Which Nature and these rustic Powers,
In simple childhood, spread on ours!
"For pleasure hath not ceased to wait

On these expected, annual rounds,
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate
Call forth the unelaborate sounds,
Or they are offered at the door
That guards the dwelling of the poor.
"How touching, when at midnight sweep
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,
To hear, and sink again to sleep!
Or, at an earlier call, to mark,
By blazing fire, the still suspense
Of self-complacent innocence.

"The mutual nod, the grave disguise

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er;

And some unbidden tears that rise

For names once heard, and heard no more:
Tears, brightened by the serenade,

For infant in the cradle laid!

"Ah! not for emerald fields alone,

With ambient streams more pure and bright
Than fabled Cytherea's zone

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,
Is to my heart of hearts endeared

The ground where we were born and reared!

"Hail! ancient Manners! sure defence,

Where they survive, of wholesome laws;
Remnants of love whose modest sense
Thus into narrow room withdraws;
Hail, Usages of pristine mould,

And ye, that guard them, Mountains old!'

"Christmas-day then is come! and with it begins a heartfelt season of social delight, and interchanges of kindred enjoyments. In large houses are large parties, music, and feasting, dancing and cards. Beautiful faces and noble forms, the most fair and accomplished of England's sons and daughters, beautify the ample fire-sides of aristocratic halls. Senators and judges, lawyers and clergymen, poets and philosophers, there meet in cheerful and even sportive ease, amid the elegancies of polished life. In more old fashioned, but substantial country abodes, old fashioned hilarity prevails. In the farm-house hearty spirits are met. Here are dancing and feasting too; and often blindman's buff, turn-trencher, and some of the simple games of the last age remain. In all families, except the families of the poor, who seem too much forgotten at this, as at other times in this refined age, there are visits paid and received; parties going out, or coming in; and everywhere abound, as indispensable to the

season, mince-pies, and wishes for a merry Christmas and a happy New-year.'"- Vol. 11. pp. 205-211.

We have only to repeat, that these volumes are among the most entertaining that have lately been published. They present a picture of England, such as cannot readily elsewhere be found; a picture drawn by one who adds to a hearty love of his country, the eye of the poet, and the hand of the artist; one who has a heart open to all good impressions and humane sympathies; one whose mind is richly adorned with the elegant letters of the present, and an antiquarian knowledge of the past. If the author, while visiting and describing his favorite spots, enjoyed, as he seems to intimate, ten times as much as his reader can from his recital, we can only say, that he must have been for the time the most enviable of mortals.

ART. X.-Airs of Palestine, and other Poems. By JOHN PIERPONT. Boston. James Munroe & Co. 16mo. pp. 334.

THE" Airs of Palestine" have been favorably known to the literary community for many years. On a subject, the effects of music,- often enough handled by the poets, from Pindar down to Gray, Mr. Pierpont, nothing daunted by the mighty names who have preceded him, has certainly given us one of the most pleasing poems, which yet adorn our literaThe beauty of the language, the finish of the versification, the harmony of the numbers, secure it an undisputed place among the few American classical works. Many fine descriptive passages show the poetical eye, as well as the musical ear. We welcome, therefore, this republication, which comes to us in a form well worthy of a poet's taste; and we read its polished couplets with the more pleasure, because their equable flow contrasts pleasantly with the forced and spasmodic inspiration of the greater portion of recent English poetry, and reminds us of a more vigorous and healthy style, unhappily somewhat out of date. We are confident that the public will share our feeling, and will hail with plaudits. the re-appearance of an ancient favorite in such a becoming garb.