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.
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.
